Bad Hair Day

Lately I have been quite self conscious about my appearance! I know that everyone is staring at me, wondering why I would allow myself to walk around looking this way. It's not completely my fault, and I am doing something about it. I have an appointment at the end of the week that will fix everything, but that's days away. So, I must, we all must deal with it until then. In the mean time, please, don't stare at the hair on my upper lip.

Because of my short locks I have a haircut every 5 weeks or so. I have a routine. Sheena (Hi Sheena!) cuts it a bit shorter than I actually want it cut. So for the first week after the cut I curse her a little bit for listening to me when I told her to take more off (I ALWAYS tell her to take more off). But the next week my hair is perfect. The perfect-ness lasts for about two or three weeks. Eventually I start noticing little things, like it won't lay right or there's a random chunk that points in the wrong direction. It's at this point that I start thinking about contacting Sheena for my next appointment. However, I don't actually do that until the day that I can no longer stand it. So, I send her frantic text messages asking if she can fit me in, or if she'll be home that afternoon for me to stop by with all three of my children to rampage her house while she does my cut and color. That's my very strict routine.

Unfortunately, the hair on my upper lip is on a different schedule. It needs "tending to" more often. Every three to four weeks, maybe. The tricky thing is that by that point I figure I might as well wait until I'm going to see Sheena for my hair. But that leaves a week, now for instance, when I feel like I'm walking around with a handle bar mustache.

But in one visit Sheena will make me feel beautiful. For over six years she has been cutting, coloring and waxing my hair. It started when I walked into Regis Salon in Southdale looking for someone new to cut my hair. Short hair is tricky and not just anyone can cut it. I don't want my dad's haircut (Love you, Dad!) but I do like it short. Very short. The stylist I had been going to previously was moving to California. I seriously considered following her out there so she could continue cutting my hair. Enter Sheena (after I entered Regis, that is). I was pregnant with Sophie and wearing a horrid pink shirt. I don't remember what Sheena was wearing, but I do remember that I liked and trusted her right away. I followed her when she moved to Total Image of Edina (this was a much easier decision then deciding if I should pack up and move to CA). And now I usually just go to her house where she has a salon and our kids can play and stay out of our hair (well, my hair. Ha.).

I see Sheena about once a month, so of course we are more then stylist/client now. I consider her a good friend. We started as young marrieds and now, between us, we have five kids. As a matter of fact, both times Sheena told me she was pregnant, it was while she was leaning over me waxing my lip! She knew I was pregnant with Max before Wade did. We talk about our husbands, houses, jobs and kids. Other than Wade, Sheena was the only person who knew I planned to get a tattoo on my last trip to New York City.

Sheena gives me a fantastic deal. I won't tell you what it is because you would be angry and jealous and I don't want to foster those emotions. But I do have a bit of a dilemma. Obviously, when I started having Sheena cut my hair, I tipped her. Generously, I hope. Like I said, it's difficult for me to find someone who does a good job (tried Great Clips once and literally left in tears) so I'm happy to pay well when I find someone who cuts it the way I like. But over the years, as our friendship has formed, tipping has started to feel strange. It's not about the money, I'm happy to pay. But I feel like tipping has become patronizing. Especially now that I'm usually at her house. On the other hand, I would hate (HATE) for her to think that I don't appreciate her time, effort and talent. We've come to an agreement (although I don't think we've ever actually talked about it) where I write the check out for the amount she tells me. But I still feel a little badly every time.

I am excited to see Sheena at the end of this week. My kids love seeing her boys and we always have lots to talk about. I'm not looking forward to the waxing, but it'll be an easy 5 pounds, gone. And of course, my hair is in desperate need of a trim. In all honestly if Sheena ever moves to California, the decision would be easy. We'd pack up and move in a heartbeat!

Inked

I always wanted a tattoo. I think there's something sexy about them. When I see someone with a tattoo I wish to be like that: to be that bold. Do something that permanent. I want to be the kind of person who doesn't care what other people think about me, or about my choices. I thought I could be that kind of person. So, I got a tattoo. And as soon as the last drip of ink was in place, I realized I'm not that kind of person!

This wasn't a drunken, blurred decision. I had put months of thought into what I wanted and where I wanted it. I knew I wanted it to be my kids' initials, something that would mean something to me forever. And I figured if I'm going to get a tattoo, why put it someplace hidden like my back or my navel? My sister had mentioned my wrist and, at the time, that seemed like the perfect place: delicate and visible, like a bracelet. So, last October, while visiting my sister in New York City, we went to a tattoo parlor and suddenly I was going through with it!

It didn't hurt nearly as badly as I was expecting and all while he was working on it I kept thinking this is so cool! I can't believe I'm doing this! I had this feeling of exhilaration, like I was free and finally doing something for me, just for me. And when he was done, and it was all shiny and new, I took my first look at it and froze. What had a I done?

Unfortunately, I spent the rest of that visit with my sister lost in my own head. I was paralyzed with fear that I had made a drastic (and very permanent) mistake. Molly kept assuring me that it was beautiful, and that I just needed to give myself some time to get used to it. Walking through the airport for my flight home I challenged myself by pulling up the sleeve of my sweater. I was sure everyone was looking at me, at it...and judging.

For a while, through the winter, I was better. With sweaters and coats whole days would go by where I never saw it. But then, at night, there it was. Nights were hard. I could see it and then just lie there, thinking, worrying, what-if-ing. And now, with spring here and summer right around the corner, the idea of short sleeves all day, every day sends me into a full panic.

Every once in a while I see someone noticing it. Until recently, though, no one, no stranger, had every said anything about it. And friends have only ever given me positive feedback. But, they are my friends and are supposed to say nice things, to try to make me feel better. I was sure that everyone was walking around thinking about it. About what I mistake I had made. Wondering how, at my age, I could have done such a stupid thing. But the other day a random person asked about it. She asked to get a closer look and then said, in a off-handed way as if the world didn't depend upon it, "That's really pretty." It caught me off guard. Is that what people really think? Is it that simple?

I'm not writing this hoping for a rush of comments trying to convince me how great my tattoo is. I'm getting there on my own, slowly. And really, for me, that's what this whole tattoo thing was about, right? Not worrying about what other people think. That being said, I think I'll get the next one on my back. (Just kidding, Mom!)