Flipping My Wig

Two hours and forty minutes getting my hair cut and colored today. It always starts out ok. I exchange pleasant small talk with the young, pretty, impeccably dressed and, of course, beautifully coiffed stylist as she glops the reddish brown dye on my graying roots. We discuss how quickly my grays come in near my right temple. Two weeks later! She suggests I switch the side I part my hair on, thereby masking the gray a little longer. I agree to try it.

While I am processing, I read an article in Vogue by a woman who, at 70, has decided to stop the coloring madness. Her once rich brown hair is now all-white. Keeping up with the white roots is near impossible. So she decides to go through the process of having the blonde dye bleached out until her hair is a dazzling white. The results are fabulous, we learn. No picture of the writer is included, this being Vogue. Instead there is a large image of a 47-year-old model looking amazing with long gray hair.

Three fashion magazines later, my dye is rinsed, and toner and a color lock are applied. Then the blow drying. When it is done, my natural wave disappears and a glossy approximation of the color I was born with is revealed. My hair color was once my best feature. When I was a senior in high school, a college professor of my father described my thick blown out hair as "opulent." That was vaguely creepy, but when I got compliments on my hair color then, I barely noticed them. Now, when I get a compliment, I feel weird saying "thank you" because the color is fake, all fake. And it makes me realize that everyone else knows that it's bought and paid for.

My stylist starts cutting. By now I am starving for my lunch. I have a blood sugar thing. I can't tolerate being the slightest bit hungry. I long to be out of this chair and eating a grilled swiss on rye.

A woman I know, who had been coloring her white hair its original black, cut her hair super-short to rid herself of the monthly task. I thought she had never looked chicer or more beautiful with her short silvery style. My hair, however, is not all white, just tinged here and there with gray. I don't imagine I would look as lovely. And truly, I am lucky, since my grays only came in a few years ago, when I was in my late forties. So I have only been dealing with this time and money suck for a relatively short period.

The trim complete, I pay the exorbitant fee (but cheap compared to Manhattan), tip the talented, patient professionals, and head out the door looking much more polished, I guess, than when I came in. Part of me thinks my done hair looks a bit like a wig, or maybe doll's hair. In a way, it's aging, the contrast between the perfect hair and the slightly lined face. Someday, I will have to stop this. I'll accept that I'm not young anymore, and embrace my hair they way it grows out of my head. Not yet, though. Last month, not even a migraine stopped me from keeping my appointment.

At home, I look in the mirror and notice a glop of hair dye sitting near my hairline. I scrub away at it, but the evidence remains.

book envy shame spiral

another ex-assistant
has written a book
I update my status

My New Year's Resolution Fail

For the past several years my New Year's resolution has been: Be nicer. Strive to become a more patient, kinder, gentler woman.

It's not going so well.

Last night, Day One of the sweet new me, I went into my son's room to put something away and was greeted by an explosion of toys and books and Christmas presents past. The electric keyboard we bought him for Christmas sat atop a minefield of Lego projects in various states of completion, a broken electric card shuffler, his book bag spewing books and papers, two pairs of inside-out jeans, stuffed animals. His desk was hidden beneath a mountain of books. A box for his light saber had come crashing off the shelf onto his closet floor.

I exploded. "I don't know how you can take this!" Reader, I was not speaking in modulated or calm tones. I think I may have been perspiring. Threatening to commence Operation Leave it On the Curb: Toy Edition, I picked up a Star Wars toy the size of a labrador retriever. My daughter retreated to her bedroom, where she lay clutching her unicorn. My husband appeared and spirited away the light saber to a storage closet.

I attempted to collect myself, remembering, too late, my hours-old resolution. After some deep breaths, I returned to my son's room and began giving him saner instructions. "It's...good...that...you...are...a little...calmer," he said, super slowly. I started laughing.

"I'm glad you like my comedy, Mommy," he said.

Costco. No go.

I had never set foot in a Costco. Buying in bulk freaks me out. I love a sale as much as the next person, but that doesn't mean I want to stock up on 12 boxes of mac and cheese or 4 bottles of ketchup. Such excessive frugality makes me feel like I am suffocating. As if I have no options. Like, what if a delicious new brand of ketchup comes along, but now I can't get it because I have enough Heinz to last until Violet enters middle school? I've already committed to a man, a suburban house, these two kids and their bottomless needs, endless laundry--I need to feel like there are some choices left in my life. Even if they are at the market. Goddamn it.

My husband (immoderate buyer of the sale items pictured) heard good things about the reality show Extreme Couponing, and insisted I watch it whenever it debuted a few months ago. Why? I don't know. I detest reality tv; I detest bulk shopping. Four minutes into this poisonous mix, I felt claustrophobic. The premiere extreme couponer showed off a room in her home filled with shelves and shelves of neatly organized rows of detergent and hand sanitizer and what have you. She had insanely overbought with coupons. She said looking at all these purchases gave her "joy."

I thought of this ecstatic couponer when my husband got a bee in his bonnet about checking out Costco, and we had a family trip there one sweltering Sunday. My daughter clung to my hand as we entered the huge warehouse. People were exiting pushing carts filled with gigantic flats of paper towels, 900-pound bags of rice and towers of soda. I was mildly intrigued by the discounted wine and liquor and the thimble-sized free wine tastes. An area roughly the size of a city block was filled with some off-price men's dress shirts. I don't want to buy my husband's shirts where I get my spaghetti sauce. Gross. Soul crushing. I would go to a separate store for each item if possible. Wine at the wine shop, shoes at the shoe store, cake at the bakery, cheese at the cheese shop, etc.

I found the place post-apocalyptic. It felt like the world had ended and the only thing that survived is Costco, and everyone is grabbing what they can to survive.

"I'm scared, mommy," said my daughter.

Smart girl.

Lament of the Stay-at-Home Mom

I didn't post yesterday or today because, chronologically: my husband left to spend a week in Nicaragua; I was informed that half of our four-year-old wood picket fence is rotting and has to be replaced; a pregnant woman and her toddler fell down my new back stairs; my mother came to visit and I cooked her a birthday dinner; my son, with no regard for my sanity, scaled a story-high stone wall; I spent three hours touring lovely gardens; I escorted two children to swim practice; and a babysitter skipped town without telling me, causing me to miss two non-refundable events.

On the plus side, I pitched a story to an actual magazine and was given an assignment which is due in two weeks.

Also, Gavin and Stacey, in 15.