Hair, Part 1: A Fluffy Puppy
The other morning, I styled my hair with a weapon commonly referred to as a hair dryer. This is an event for me. I proceed downstairs to the next event of the morning: assembling lunches. It is at this point that my son walks through the kitchen, looks up at me and announces,
Mom, your hair looks like a fluffy puppy.
Then he walks away and starts his morning task of stacking his Hot Wheels collection into the highest pile-up he can.
My daughter, inspired by the image of her mom as fluffy puppy, sprints upstairs to get her stuffed poodle. It’s pink.
My husband is laughing. He nearly spews rice milk and Special K onto the morning paper.
My mind swirls: a compilation video of 80s hair bands plays in my head, with Jon Bon Jovi and Simon Le Bon headlining.
It’s not fair. My stylist creates a flat cat look, but I manufacture a fluffy puppy.
The next morning, my husband asks William what my hair looks like. William walks by, looks up at me, and announces, “It looks Jurassic.”
Excellent. What I’ve lost in volume, I’ve gained in age. This morning’s frontal lobe rock video is brought to you by Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, in their comeback geriatric tour. Evidently I’m the poster child for their aging fan base.
Hair, Part 2: The Homeless Look
If styling my own hair is an event, then combing my daughter’s hair is operatic in its emotional intensity. Rare is the morning where we escape without tears and shouts and chasing, from either her or me. And no matter what I seem to do, ten minutes later her hair’s stringy. Somehow it manages to be both slippery (guaranteeing no accessories can stay in it) and knotty (guaranteeing more tears in the next comb-a-thon).
By the end of the day, she looks homeless.
But this might not be so bad.
Because by the end of the day, Fluffy Puppy looks (and feels) like road kill.
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Any hair-raising stories out there?