Mental note: Keep me away from styling my own hair. It just leads to chaos.
Lenore Moritz: Sometimes we get signs from the universe that we're not in sync with our lives. For instance, the other day I left the house with my phone in hand ... my landline. (Yeah, I still have one of those.) Another time, my friend got out of her car while it was still running. But let's give credit where it's due: It was in park. And one recent morning, I accidentally poured orange juice instead of milk on my son's cereal. (Maybe I was thinking he was my mother, who purposely puts orange juice on her cereal -- which I think is a sacrilege, but she's from a foreign country, so I forgive.)
What I'm about to reveal, though, is another story altogether.
It all started on a normal Monday morning. My husband and the boys were already out of the house en route to the pediatrician, because the little one was a mess of hives and redness from an allergic reaction to penicillin.
I had a whole 10 minutes before I had to leave the house for a meeting ... plenty of time to dry my hair. It should be noted that in the past several months, I've been valiantly, but fruitlessly, experimenting with trying to get my hair looking "salon perfect." Sadly, I'm laughably ungraceful with a hairbrush -- and worse with Velcro rollers, which I'm certain even 6-year-old beauty-pageant girls can operate. One sorry day when I ran out of time at home, I even attempted the rollers while sitting in the passenger seat of our car, much to the amusement of my husband and other drivers alongside us. It's a good thing I'm too busy to be vain ... or is it?!
Anyway, back to that Monday morning. For reasons unknown, I was feeling so hair-invincible that I broke a cardinal coiffing rule: I used a small, metal brush as you would use a Velcro roller. (I thought I'd cheat the roller system and save time this way.) I turned a section of my hair around and around until, probably seven revolutions later, the brush sat at the crown of my head.
As I went to unroll the brush, I realized the trouble I was in: The brush wouldn't budge. It was stuck in my hair! I thought this only happened in the movies. Or to 3-year-olds.
Suddenly, the quiet of the house was broken by my curses and screeches. I panicked. First, I tried gingerly to coax the brush out. Then I tried forcefully. Nothing. I looked at the situation in a different mirror, hoping to see a new reality. I called my hairstylist friend for a tip. Not home. I started pulling. Really hard. I got a budge, as well as the sound of hairs breaking. I called the person I was meeting to advise them that I'd be late ... and wondered what I'd look like when I arrived.
After pulling even harder and realizing that was only tightening the hair around the brush, I was left with only one option: scissors. Goodbye, long hair. After my tangled mane gained freedom from that bristle bully, I was terrified to assess the damage. Mercifully, somehow the shorter hair seemed to have blended in with the longer hair. I have yet to see my hairstylist, though: After this fiasco, she may confiscate all my styling tools. Whatever. At my hand, they're all useless items. Maybe next time I'll play it off as intentional ... after all, it's possible that Snooki has a hairbrush stuck under her pouf.
|Lenore Moritz is the curator/editor of Mom Culture, a culture fix for your inner grownup. Each Friday, a new artist interview and their art will inspire and energize you. High culture, pop culture and everything in between is covered.|