Monthly Archives: June 2011

Going Gray

I’m going gray. I can no longer keep up with the plucking that turns me into a cross-eyed mad woman every night. I’m afraid if I continue plucking this amount of gray, my eyes will seriously stick that way. It’s like a spore explodes on my scalp and dozens of kinky grays crop up overnight, growing in at zigzagged angles like worn fishing line.

It’s time to think about coloring, a task I had hoped to hold off until my 40s. The maintenance and cost do not excite me. Having to keep up with getting my roots done, deciding on a color. None of this thrills me. I like the color of my own hair—minus the current silver pinstripes. The thought of a different hair color, unfortunately, thrills my hub. I like dark; he likes blonde.

Changing my hair color scares me. Some people do it with abandon. I really don’t want to stand out. I don’t want change. I don’t want people to notice. But before long this bride-of-Frankenstein look will get more attention than I desire.

I’m the kind of person who picks out a paint color and then I go one brighter because I really want people to see the color. I don’t just want a hint of it. Then my husband paints away, whistling while he works. I see it smeared all over the walls and immediately despise it. I quietly live with it for a while because I know change takes time for me. I usually grow to like it. But what if I hate my hair color this way? What if I can’t look at myself in the mirror? What if I don’t want anyone else to see me either? I am too cheap to get it colored again, but walking around with pumpkin orange locks, even for a day, frightens me.

It would be nice if hair salons had a color-matching system like they do at home improvement stores. I could pluck some of the good hairs out, the really pretty golden brown ones, and they could mix up a batch of hair color to match. That I think I could handle.



Filed under Everyday Life


On vacation a couple of weeks ago, I was reminded of a big difference between my husband and me. It involves an 8-year-old boy, a first encounter with a whoopee cushion, a crowded beach store, and lots of giggles.

While shopping in one of the many tourist stores, my son came upon a self-inflating whoopee cushion. I knew he had never seen one, so I sat back to take in his reaction. Another first in his life I didn’t want to miss. In a corner at the back of the store, he repeatedly plopped his bottom onto the cushion and laughed at the resounding flatulence. He, his cousin, and sister took turns trying to get the best noise. I was the adult overseeing this nonsense and got a few giggles out of it myself, remembering my own fun with one many years ago. It wasn’t a big scene, just some innocent laughter and then I broke it up.

My son took the cushion and said he wanted to show it to his dad. I wondered how this would turn out, but I didn’t make it through the crowd in time to see my husband’s reaction.

My husband recalled the scene later: “Our son came up to the front of the store where everyone was standing in a long line at the register. He put the whoopee cushion on the floor and said, ‘Dad, you’ve got to see this!’ and plopped down on it. Pffffttttt! I just walked away and pretended he wasn’t my son.”

I sometimes feel our roles are reversed, when a whoopee cushion disturbs my husband more than me. What would I have told my son at the register in front of all those people? I know I would have told him to put it back…after I stopped laughing.


Filed under Mom vs. Dad

Mommy’s Nap

The kids played quietly upstairs yesterday and I had some time to kill before I needed to figure out dinner. My body and my brain desperately needed a power catnap to refresh the systems. I also needed a cookie. I shoved one in my mouth and plopped on the couch without a moment to spare. The radar had gone off and the kids came in search of me. It never fails. They know when I’m trying to relax. But I closed my eyes and hoped they would get the hint.

My son draped himself in the chair and started gabbing about his Pokemon cards, spouting off names and stats that had no interest to me. “Mmm-hmm,” I moaned sleepily. Thump, thump, thud. My daughter arrived and rolled next to me on the couch. Like the good sleuth she is, she tapped in to a familiar scent and started sniffing. “What smells so good?” Her nose was awfully close to my mouth. “I-don-nnoo,” I managed. Sniff, sniff. Sniff, sniff. She smelled my arm, my face, my mouth again. I opened my eyes. Her big blue eyes almost touched mine. “I think it’s your mouth,” she concluded. I was quite afraid she was going to lick me.

“Can I trade my cards, Mom?” my son asked.

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Boop, boop, boop, boop, boop.” One of the kids started beeping.

“Hey, Mom,” my son said, “look at all my cards!”

“In case you can’t tell, I’m trying to take a nap,” I finally said. Can’t they take a hint?

“Ha, ha! Mommy still takes na-aps!” my son sang.

“Mommy is a two-year-old!” my daughter chimed in.

“Evidently this is not going to happen,” I said. I got up and out of there, exasperated. Dinner would get an early start after all. Where did they go when I got up? Back upstairs to play.


Filed under Can't Get a Break