“Umm…mom…your hair…uh…it looks like a bad 80’s movie,” said she-who-speak-painful-truth. The words were no sooner out of her mouth before her eyes widened in panic. Yeah, we’ve talked about her brutal honesty before.
This time I busted out laughing. She went from looking panicked to just looking horrified. Not at her statement but at my hair. “I know…it’s awful…” I sputtered breathlessly in between bouts of laughter. I tried running my fingers thru the mess but there was none of that…which just made her grow paler and me laugh harder. I could feel my hair grown with every attempt I made to finger brush it.
2 words. Sponge. Rollers.
I am not exactly sure what possessed me to roll and sleep on the 1980’s styling tool. I hope I don’t get possessed by the urge again.
It ain’t pretty.
First of all I am about 12–weeks over-due for my ‘color specialist’. My hair has more color swatches then an opps paint rack right now. And I know oops paint racks. I’ve got several inches of a lovely (NOT) silver followed by an inch or two of a used-to-be-pretty brown followed by a few centimeters of the pretty brown. Intertwined are remnants of what was pretty- blondish- highlights. There might even be a strand or two of natural color in there…not that anyone—including me—would know which one was the ‘truth’. It’s a hot mess. It’s a hot mess when it’s clean, dried, curled and sprayed. The magnitude of ‘hot mess’ intensifies when sponge rollers are involved.
After 2 rousing games of MEMORY in our 80degree house I wash my hair. Sassy pants catches up on GLEE. Homeslice sneaks off to play X-box and I send little miss follows him I so he in no way enjoys his video games. I am bored. Bored but lazy. I could have mopped the floor or folded the laundry. Nope. I grab the finger nail polish. The sponge rollers topple out of the cabinet when I un-earth the polish. Could have…no SHOULD have taken the time to re-organize that cabinet. Instead I picked up the rollers and the polish and toddled off to the den. Those 3 steps didn’t give me much chance to change my mind.
Middle aged women who already have insomnia should never, ever roll their hair on sponge rollers. What a ridiculous statement. Middled-aged woman should THROW WAY THEIR SPONGE ROLLERS. Period.
Every time I rolled over—which was quite often I’d get poked in the head. Did I do the reasonable thing and put myself out of my own misery by taking out the offensive rollers? Of course not.
This morning I took one look in the mirror and busted out laughing. There was no way this was going to end well. I took out the first roller BAM! That curl snapped back with the unbridled power of an industrial strength spring straight back to my scalp. My head moved under the force. TWACK! TWACK! TWACK! 12 curls.
Thank goodness I had to foresight NOT to grab the brush. I picked a curl and tried to get my fingers thru it. No go. I tried again. And again. Every attempt made the curl grow—in circumference. After a minute I strongly resembled a chia pet. An ugly chia pet.
No worries. I’d had a bad perm before. I always knew it wasn’t good when my beautician, Aunt Kathy,pulled up the sides of my hair away from my face and secured with combs. “It will be cute,” was code for it’s bad-bad-bad but if you wear it up for 3 months you can survive it. Pony tails solve everything.
Problem. The mass was so thick and cumbersome that a rubber band would go around it. Now I started to panic a bit. A few frantic riffling of the bathroom drawers finally yielded a barrette. Great. Now I am a middle aged woman fixing her sponge roller drama with a barrette. Things were going from bad to worse. The fact that it was a rhinestone encrusted barrette didn’t really help matters much. Luckily the parts I was able to pull back were so GRAY that it blended right in with the silver faux diamonds. Stylin’!
There is no more time to waste. I grab everyone up and me and my sponge roll hair head out the door. To the humid, damp morning. Niiiiiiccccceeeeee. As if this couldn’t get any worse. Humidity and dampness are dangerous on a normal day. On a sponge-rolled day…lawsy. Where is a good soaking rain when you need one.
I make it to work where thankfully a largwr barrette is there to save the day. I twist the catastrophe up and secure it to my head. Later I catch a glimpse in the mirror and an alarmed to see that I look like I made a bad hair piece purchase. Ever see those stands at the mall where older (uh-hmm) woman go and by faux-curls for their up-do’s for Sunday mornings. I look like I borrowed my younger sisters.
This will not go down as one of my finest days. Not that I have a lot of those.