In another installment of everything-we-do-as-an-adult can be traced back to a life-scarring via express mail from our parents:
Mom and I had hair wars.
No. That’s not it.
Mom told me what to do with my hair and I smiled.
All the while standing for hours at the mirror channeling my face onto Laurie Partridge’s head.
One thing I was sure to make all my hair dreams come true was this.
A bottle filled with Laurie Partridge, heck even Marcia Brady possibilities.
I can’t remember what mom brought home to wash our hair, but this certainly wasn’t it. And I had to live with my mousy brown, slightly Florida-humidified, bumpy, low-sheen hair.
* * *
My daughter is twelve.
And tweens are all about hair. Their hair to be specific.
For her 12th birthday a few weeks ago, she wanted a belly-button piercing. An upper ear-cartilage piercing. Or highlights.
I thought the highlights the most reasonable. Sure that was extravagant. I didn’t have my hair professionally highlighted till my 40s. (We won’t talk about my own attempts with the plastic cap and pulling through hair with a prong. Or how my husband still refers to his pet name for me when we first met: skunk hair.)
All I thought about was not becoming a mom engaged in mother/daughter hair wars.
“Sure,” I said to the highlights
“It has to be a color,” she replied.
Brown, light brown, dark brown, amber, amber with mahogany tones. Of course it has to be a color.
Well, seems a tween’s definition of color reasonable for highlights can be found in nature such as . . .
b. Zac Efron’s eyes
c. Snow cones.
She went with blue.
Now turning virgin brown hair blue isn’t as easy as saying “Katy Perry” three times while clicking your black Converse low-slungs.
Pam started to work.
Turning my daughter’s hair blue.
For her birthday.
This is a process people.
First, the hair has to be bleached — have the dark pigment removed so the blue can attach.
Great. I’m paying a very nice person to maim my daughter’s hair.
Every time my brain would indulge in such a silly mom thought I squished it deep down into a little box marked future therapist fodder and remembered — no hair wars.
At least she got some good reading.
And at the end of two and a half hours, we ended up with . . .
I’d seen more blue hair during lunch time at Madison House.
Undaunted, the consummate hair-stylist, Pam would not sleep or eat (all the while staying properly hydrated) till my daughter had blue hair.
So a few days later, I dropped tween off and returned two and a half hours later to . . .
Yes. This time we’ve definitely got some blue hair.
As I wiped away tears of joy — I knew that even the Jerseylicious gals at Gatsby’s Salon couldn’t have done bet’ta.
I took my happy little Jersey tween home.
And started cleaning house for my born-and-raised South Georgialicious mom’s visit in a few weeks.
Wonder how long this stuff lasts?
Or better yet – check the levels on the therapist fund.