Mother's Day Arrived A Week Early

I treated myself to a haircut yesterday--a nice one, at a salon where they offered me freshly brewed French roast coffee and white chocolate Macadamia nut cookies as I devoured celebrity gossip magazines on the plush, oversized ottoman lounge chair in the lobby.

I realized it had been about 14 months since my last cut--I was about seven months' pregnant with Shea at the time, who managed to kick my insides through most of the appointment, making it hard to STAY STILL to make sure the cut turned out straight--and my hair was looking a bit scraggly, to say the least.

Funny thing about having kids: most of your attention gets focused on making sure they're fed, cleaned, clothed, color coordinated, etc. I, however, find myself most days in a black or (mostly) white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and my Rainbow sandals. It's my standard uniform--not one that I love, but one that works.

And my hair? Although I take a sliver of pride in the fact that it gets washed every single day, that's where the love stops. It usually gets thrown up into a ponytail or clip, up and out of the way of grabby baby hands. More than once I've taken it out of the clip at bedtime to find that it's even still a little wet, since I didn't ever get around to drying it. But BY GOD, it's clean. (The 16-year-old me just rolled her eyes and took a step back out of embarrassment.)

How some women manage to look great while mothering small children just eludes me. I feel like there's a reason doctors wear scrubs, not Prada, during surgery: it's a messy job, one filled with exposure to random bodily fluids, and casual, loose-fitting clothing (which, when it gets inevitably stained, can be easily washed, thrown away or even burned in a HazMat incinerator) seems to fit the bill best.

Ferragamo heels? Seven Jeans? Juicy Couture? Really?

(Quick aside: I ran into Pete Sampras and his model/actress wife, Bridgette, and their son at Legoland a couple years ago. And the thing that struck me most from the encounter wasn't that one of the greatest athletes to play the game of tennis and I were chasing our toddler sons around the playground together, but rather just how put together--well rested, well sculpted, well dressed, and well coifed--Mommy Sampras looked. I noticed her waaaaaaaayyyyy before I noticed Pete and his urgent need for a pedicure. And, although she kind of grunted at me when I apologized for accidentally stepping on her toe while I was trying to take Finn's picture as he played on a toy next to their son, I tipped my wrinkled and erratically stained hat to her. Yes, she probably had plenty of hired help to take care of her son so she could take care of herself, but she was still a mom of a young boy. A somewhat humorless one, granted, but still a mom. And she was lookin' good.)

Anyway, it was high time to make a hair appointment. I ended up getting about four inches taken off, as I'm still not ready to fully commit to the "Mom haircut" just yet. (The 16-year-old me just sighed with a little relief before bailing on my boring litany of maternal pablum to go buy another bottle of peroxide and some frosty pink lipstick.) It was nice to get pampered. To discuss local events and town history with a fun stylist. To wear a skirt and some kitten-heeled sandals just for the occasion. And, for a few hours at least, to wear my hair down and feel like a grownup.

Almost within minutes of being back home, though, I found myself instinctually piling my hair back up into my fail-safe clip--up and out of the way--in order to prepare dinner, unload the washer and dryer, and comfort a cranky Shea as she emerged from her afternoon nap. But before I did, I snapped a few shots for posterity. Who knows when the next visit to the salon will be.

Below are the results, which really don't look that much different than my hair a year ago, but make me feel much lighter. Don't you love my adorable lap accessory? I couldn't think of a cuter way of showing off the new 'do.