Friday, March 23, 2012

No Maintenance

I have a confession. 
Self-respecting fashionistas and readers who take any sort of pride in appearance, stop reading now, because this isn’t going to be pretty.
I haven’t had my hair cut in almost a year. This isn’t a religious choice. It’s certainly not a choice based on aesthetics or beauty. In fact, it could hardly be called a choice at all. Truth is I’m just lazy. 
Taking the time out of my schedule of writing, working, and spending time with my family to get a haircut just isn’t high on my priority list. And for me, haircuts aren’t just a quick trip to the salon. No, a salon visit can take hours. Hours to cut. Hours to color. Hours I could spend doing something useful like spot welding or fixing the drip in our bathroom faucet.
I’ve been blessed with thick hair. I know it’s a blessing, believe me, I know that. But it’s also a curse. Every stylist I’ve ever encountered has marveled at my thick locks, eyeing the brunette mess on top of my head with a combination of admiration and horror… probably because they know they are about to have to deal with it. And dealing with it takes hours, y’all. Hours out of my precious life. Hours I’ll never get back.
Low maintenance is putting it mildly with me. I’m practically no maintenance. I’ve always been the kind of woman who’d rather play in the dirt than play with makeup, who’d rather throw my hair in a ponytail than spend anytime styling it. I’m a tom boy, the furthest thing from a frilly, pretty female that you’ve encountered.
I don't tan. 
I only wear makeup 'cause I'm scary if I don't.
I don't bother with perfume or pretty-smelling lotions.
My fingernails are never painted. Nor are my lips.
And I like it that way. Mostly. But there comes a time in every tom boy's life that a little TLC is necessary. A time when your split ends have their own split ends. A time when your eye brows must part ways and become two once again. A time when your gray hairs must take cover for something a little more civilized and a little less Bride of Frankenstein. 
So, my friends, I have decided to visit the dreaded salon. For the sake of those who have to look at me, I will brave having to sit in that uncomfortable chair for hours. I will make awkward small talk with the stylist and valiantly pretend like I'm a real girl. 
And to my Mama, my sister, and all others who beg me to get my hair done every once in a blue moon: enjoy this while it lasts, 'cause it'll probably be another year before it happens again.

How about you? Are you high maintenance? Low maintenance? Or, like me, no maintenance? All tom boys, raise your hands! 
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