You know how you’re just going along with your day and POW! Something happens and it just totally FUCKS WITH YOUR MIND to the point where all you can do is sit, cry, and wish you had a McRib? Something like that happened today. I needn’t go into details, but let’s just say that A. It was my own fault and B. I will figure out a way to blame it on my husband.
Just kidding. I can’t pin this one on him. I mean, well, I could. But to set him up, I’d have to go back to a time before we even met, and I just don’t have that kind of energy anymore. So this thing happened because I acquired Temporary Moron Syndrome. But then this OTHER thing happened and it kind of made the stupid thing I did when struck dumbass with TMS okay. I mean, it pretty well solved it.
My point is that Jesus did not solve my problem, but my haircut did.
I do not care how idiotic, anti-feminist, and/or vapid it sounds to say that had I not gotten my hair did today, I would right now be putting a straw straight into a bottle of Lambrusco and watching every episode of West Wing. In my pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that is older than any person who can tell me the set list for a Taylor Swift concert. My hair looks SMOKIN’. So I have now convinced myself that, by extension, I do as well. I have this new cut that’s not much different than what I had before except it’s like rocker girl meets soccer mom.
I KNOW! Shut up.
Right now I’ve got it sort of messed from standing in front of the mirror and running my hands through it like in a hairspray ad. Strong hold with a soft touch! So I’m kind of Chrissie Hynde. Then I can brush it, tuck it behind my ears and be all you’re not leaving this table until you eat every last one of those peas.
It’s awesome. It’s like wearing really slutty underwear under a business suit. I guess. I never really did that because I’ve found the thing about slutty underwear is that it creeps and there’s like a 100% chance you will not get that big promotion you’re hoping to get after giving this kick ass presentation if you spend the whole presentation doing these sort of calisthenics that make you look like the Minister of Silly Walks to try to get your silky drawers out of your nooks and crannies like you’re an English muffin and your unmentionables are orange marmalade.
Woman, do NOT act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Has there ever been a time when you’ve put on pantyhose that you did not do some John Cleese-like move to get those bastards all the way up to your waist? And tap pants may seem like a great idea, but they are never good for anything except making you regret you spent $52 on a pair of silk bloomers that are ALWAYS too short in the stride.
It’s a good cut for me because I cannot think of myself as a grown up. When you’re paying me for something, I’m on it. I’m your adult. Otherwise? I’d rather be the wacky neighbor. With awesome highlights. So this cut lets me go either way.
So…how did my hair solve my problem? I was gazing at myself, trying to calmly think through whether or not I needed to get full-on panicky or not. I was trying to be mindful. Is there something I can do now that will help? Do I need to let it rest for a while? Should I, perhaps, punch something? And the answer was, unfortunately, no. There was nothing that I could do immediately to help my TMS, but my lustrous locks were helping to calm me down. And then this other thing happened to solve my TMS and at that point I was so calmed by the shiny object in the mirror, I was all yay!
So I guess also I’m part cat.