Hairy Matters

This was the week of haircuts.

I finally took my five-year-old daughter for her first real salon haircut experience. I went to the salon before preschool and made an appointment for her. When I picked her up, I talked it up pretty good saying “You are going to love this!” and all that.

In we went and the stylist took her over, washed her hair and began trying to comb out the knots that resemble little villages that had taken over my daughter’s hair. I was chastised for using the kid’s 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner on her beautiful hair when I should be using real shampoo and real conditioner. Funnily enough my daughter didn’t scream bloody murder when the stylist tried to detangle. I think she saves that drama for me.

My daughter wanted a short haircut and bangs. Since she is due to perform in an upcoming ballet recital, I thought it safer to keep the hair long enough for a ponytail. She rolled her eyes and said “Fine.” (My daughter, not the stylist.)

And I told her I am drawing the line at bangs. She has the same crazy cowlick and wavy hair I do and bangs are a nightmare without a blow dryer and flat-iron. My own stylist can’t even settle my cowlick down. And I pay her big bucks. So I told her no bangs on my watch. Thankfully, the stylist concurred.

So the stylist rounded out the front, kind of angled it a bit and gave my girlie the most beautiful haircut I could imagine. While she was getting the blow dry, my daughter peeked out from under her hair with little smiles and an occasionally she’d stick out her tongue at me. I think she meant this endearing telling me that yes, she enjoyed this experience.

After we were done and I turned over the 12 bucks (which is a STEAL) we headed home. All the way home, she moved her head around, shaking her newly coiffed hair and seemed to me that she was feeling like a million bucks. Amazing that even in a little girl, a new hair cut gives you a whole new outlook.

The next morning she woke up a little concerned.

“Is my hair still cut Mommy?” she worriedly asked.

After I reassured her, she went off to school excited to show off her new do.

Round 2: Sonny boy.

Feel free to think I am little nuts here. But I am pretty sure that the length of my son’s hair has a direct correlation to his freshness.

Oh I don’t mean his clean factor. I am talking about his new-found friend, S-A-S-S. That’s right.

Perhaps it’s just me projecting, but I don’t know. The longer my son’s hair gets, the more attitude he displays. Since he’s tall and looks a lot more like a 12-year-old than the nine years he is, I suppose with longer hair it’s easy for me to see him morph into that sassy tween.

I know I am judging and if you have an attitudeless tween boy with longer hair, please take no offense.

But I have to say the same for the buzz cut. I never liked them. They are cute on other people’s little boys. I just didn’t think my son should have one, but he REALLY wanted one when he was six. So I went with a heavy heart to the barber and said Go ahead. I starting getting really nervous when his hair was hitting the floor.

And then, there he was, peach fuzz head.

He loved it. I hated it.

And maybe it’s me projecting again, but with the hair that was lopped off went his good sense and nice manners. Yes, it could have been the age, but I think the buzz cut had something to do with it. He was a holy terror. So no more buzz cuts for this boy.

So back to the present.

We were very past due. The barber used to have a schedule where he was closed two days during the week. Never could understand it. That might have been the reason that up until yesterday, I wasn’t sure if it was Ringo Starr circa 1965 asking me for another bowl of cereal. My son looked like he could have fit right in the with Fab Four with side burns and a shag that was beginning to touch his collar.

He was wiping hair off his forehead and kept whining about wanting his hair cut off. And he was being fresh. Not anything to really get concerned over, but enough that I noticed it, then noticed his long hair and said Oh, yeah it’s time.

So off it came, 13 bucks later. But it was worth it so I could see the face of my little sunny outlook boy once again. He has a nice boy cut, short on the sides and back. A little longer in the front. More like Joe Jonas’s recent cut. Less Justin Bieber.

I even treated myself to a salon experience this week. Got the grays colored over, a highlight here and there, a nice warm glaze to go over and Voila. A new-ish me.

So, yes, it’s just hair. Nothing earth shattering about it. But an important part of life nonetheless. Happy Hump Day.


Fleece Is Not Fancy

Since I was dressed in my usual fleece zip up coat and jeans, I should not have been at all surprised when my daughter, in all her princessy glory asked me why I wasn’t “fancier.” She sat in front of me, my pint-sized little fashion-plate, smeared in blue eye shadow, way too much blush (and clearly the wrong color) and she was about to roll on the fifth coat of my lipstick carefully applied on every inch of skin from her nose to her chin.

She stopped what she was doing, adjusted her crown, and asked me why I wasn’t like my friend Mrs. G. because Mrs. G, my daughter informed me, has pretty earrings and ruffly sweaters and is just fancier than me.

My answer was simple: I like being comfortable. (Code for I don’t give a crap?)

Now if this isn’t a call for help, I don’t know what it. Stacy and Clinton, where are you??

I know I have a problem. I think there just might be something addictive in fleece. It’s warm, cozy, fuzzy, comes in lots of colors, it’s easy. What’s not to like?

I am not blaming the fleece. It’s me. I can’t take it off.

Every picture of me is the same. Jeans and a lilac fleece, clearly beaten death. Dog hair, stains, burn holes. But I still wear it. Throw it on every day. Over my jeans to the bus stop and preschool. Over my tennis top. With sweat pants. You name it.

Can't you just feel the love here?

I did attempt to ditch it once. I left it at home and drove my brave self to the mall.

I browsed sweaters and other clothing items without zippers or that comfortable softness I am used to. But then before I knew what was happening, I found myself at Old Navy, looking around, secretly and out-of-the-way of the sales clerks, staring longingly at a new display of fleece.

I yanked myself out of the store, mentally scolded myself a few times and then went home.

I tried. I was eager to admit to my friends and my husband that I tried.

It was chilly when I got home. Well, I know you know what happened next. 

So as you can deduce, I have tried to deal with this problem myself. And I did actually ask my friends to burn it.

They didn’t.

My husband came right out one day and said “I HATE that,” as he pointed to my cozy coverup. I did too, but I couldn’t stop.

Just this year though, I found the most beautiful deep sapphire-purple replacement. OK, it is fleece, but it’s NEW. And it was just 15 bucks.

I proudly wore it. And people noticed.

“Hey, new fleece?”
“Yeah! You like it?” I asked and spun around.
“Well. um, it’s better than that old purple thing. You finally threw it away did you?”

 Sadly, I had to tell them. I didn’t throw it away. Just tossed it in the back of my closet.

For safekeeping.

I know it’s ugly. I know there are so many nicer articles of clothing out there.

There are some days when I do stop and quickly turn around just to see if anyone is secretly videotaping me. Sadly Stacy and Clinton are not there snarkily whisking me off for a fashion intervention in NYC with a $5,000 life changing wardrobe make over.

Well, if not my dear WNTW friends above, perhaps I can try to apply some of the 12 Steps for this kind of thing.

Here goes:

  1. Admitting that one can not control this addiction or compulsion — OK then. I admit it. I am powerless. I choose comfort over style.
  2. Recognizing a higher power can give you strength — Nordstrom? The Loft?
  3. Examining past errors with the help of a sponsor — Perhaps me and my fashionista daughter can go into my closet and just look. I guess I would have to admit to having more than one purple fleece jacket. (3 actually, plus a brown fleece turtleneck, blue quarter-zip and green roll neck.)
  4. Making amends for these errors — I guess this the part where I throw them ALL out? Can’t I keep just one?
  5. Helping others who suffer from the same addictions or compulsions — Fleece Lovers Anonymous. I will start a group. You know you are out there.
  6. Learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior — I might need some time on this one. Life without fleece would be hard. Very hard.


My friend was just telling me she thought there should be a certain time of day in which one should remove one’s workout clothes. Say around 10:30 a.m. That gives you plenty of time to work out if you are so inclined. It also gives you an excuse to bum around in comfy clothes after losing the desire to do so.

I suppose the same goes with my fleece jacket.

But think I need baby steps. I could just put it on in the morning and make sure it comes off sometime before bed. Then I could slowly work my way down to taking it off before dinner. Before lunch, and then gradually not putting it on at all.


Or maybe I can start next year.

Or maybe I will leave being fancy to my girlie girl. Clearly she doesn’t need her mother as a role model for this. In five years, she has created a style all her own.

Perhaps she’ll teach me a thing or two.