Since I had kids, certain things have fallen to the wayside. Things like trips to the doctor and dentist and shopping for a pair of warm boots for the fall. Of course I’m talking about appointments for me. Don’t worry, my kids are set in the appropriate-shoe department.
I’m the cookie-cutter, stereotypical mom you see in sitcoms and Facebook memes — the one who’s been meaning to see the doctor for six months and whose nails and hair aren’t even overdue anymore because it’s never getting done.
Admittedly, I’ve never been known as someone who’s well-coiffed. I don’t think anyone, ever, has asked me where I get my hair done. But since having kids it’s even worse. I think I got my hair cut over a year ago, maybe? And every time I go, I promise I’ll be back sooner. And every time that’s a lie.
And then, very recently, Mary Virginia opened a salon. She asks me if she can fix my hair, drapes a towel over my shoulders. We have a spray bottle that I use on her hair, and she uses it to spray, and then gently brushes my hair.
This is one of those instances that I cannot recommend having children enough. Does it get better than this? I mean, it’d be nice if she supplied the most recent People magazine with all the details on the Brangelina split, but I’m not picky.
It’s wonderful, soothing, and almost therapeutic. Thomas crawls on my lap, David gets some uninterrupted David time, all while Mary Virginia does what I can best describe as toddler pampering.
While we chat, she sprays the same spot on my hair over and over until it’s dripping. And she recently discovered that she can tuck my hair into my shirt, as seen below, and if you use your imagination it actually looks like it’s shorter.
Then she asks, “How about that? Is that good?”
And I always tell her I want it just a bit shorter.
Recently, Mary Virginia discovered noticed an errant chip clip, and decided it would work well as imaginary scissors. One moment she was brushing and the next she was saying, “I’m just going to cut a little…” and I felt a sharp tug on big chunk of my hair.
She had clipped a few strands of my hair, then slowly dragged the clip down, because in her mind that most accurately mimicked the haircut experience.
Though having my hair pulled by a chip clip wasn’t what I bargained for when I sat down to play beauty salon, the pain of the chip clip was nothing compared to panic I felt in the seconds when I thought she was using actual scissors.
“OW!” I shouted, “OW!” and Mary Virginia asked delicately, “Did that hurt?”
“YES! Yes it hurt! Don’t do that again!”
And she immediately did it again.
“MARY VIRGINIA! OW!”
Still calm and focused on her task, Mary Virginia sweetly asks, “Does this hurt?” and pulls another chunk of my hair.
“MARY VIRGINIA STOP DOING THAT RIGHT NOW YOU ARE HURTING MOMMY!” I said.
And she asks again, with one hand on my shoulder, “Mommy was I hurting you?”
“Yes, Mary, I replied. That hurt Mommy.”
Still standing behind me, she swung her head around to face me and said, “Well, Mommy. That’s what it feels like when you fix my hair.”