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! 

How An Up-Do Nearly Sabotaged My Savannah Wedding

Savannah, Georgia. 
Oglethorpe Mall, JCPenney Salon.
October 13, 2007. 

10:30 am. 

My wedding will begin in three and a half hours. I will marry my best friend. I will begin the rest of my life, and I will by the happiest woman on the planet.

But first I have to get my hair did.

My mom and sister are with me; from my perch in the salon chair, I can see them through the mirror, flipping through magazines, feet bouncing to the beat of the bad 90s soundtrack piped in through the store speakers. My eyes travel back to my own reflection. What's-Her-Name is carefully curling tiny sections of my long brown hair; her brow is furrowed in concentration.

It's worth noting here that my hair is ridiculously thick. It's been compared to a horse's tale, and yes, that was probably meant as an insult. Every stylist I go to always has to remark on the thickness of my hair. Apparently, no one has hair thicker than mine.

Which is exactly why we made my appointment for my elaborate up-do three and a half hours before the wedding. Should be plenty of time.

11:30 am

What's-Her-Name is yanking at my hair with her pick thingy. It doesn't feel great. Despite my thick hair, my scalp is relatively sensitive. Her less-than-gentle ministrations have brought tears to my eyes, but I'm still feeling super positive and not even a smidgen nervous about my upcoming wedding. She's probably a third of the way through.

Through the mirror, I see my mom and sister, still flipping through magazines, still bouncing their feet. My eyes meet my mom's; she mouths, "are you okay?" And even though What's-Her-Name is trying to kill me my yanking my hair out one torturous strand at a time, I nod.

12:30pm


What's-Her-Name is taking a break. One of her regular clients needed emergency hair-color advice. I can't really blame What's-Her-Name; her client is local, someone who will actually return and use her services again in the future. I'm just an out-of-town bride with annoyingly thick hair.

Who is supposed to get married in an hour and a half and hasn't even started doing her makeup or gotten dressed or anything.

My hair is only half up.

I spin my chair around to face my mom. She's not a happy camper.

"We've gotta go."

This I know. She slaps down her magazine, marches off to find What's-Her-Name, and within fifteen minutes, we're outta there. My mom doesn't mess around.

Savannah, Georgia.
Courtyard by Marriott.
October 13, 2007.

1:00pm

Well, I don't have the up-do I had envisioned, but at least we've made it back to the hotel so I can get dressed and actually make it to my own wedding without being late.

Thirty minutes of make-up and scrambling into my J. Crew dress pass. In thirty more minutes, I'll marry my best friend.

Savannah, Georgia.
Whitefield Square.
October 13, 2007.


2:00pm


I'm pretty sure Daddy broke several traffic laws, but he gets me to my Savannah square in one piece. Savannah has 21 squares in total, each unique and rich in history. But Whitefield Square is our's. For the time it will take us to get married, it belongs solely to us and the ghosts of its past.

Jeremy and members of our family are already standing in the gazebo in the center of the square when I arrive. I feel like a princess at the ball. As I approach, I see the man that I will marry, and I fall in love again.

It's a warm October day. I'm in the most beautiful city in the South. And I'm getting married to my best friend. Sure, my hair is only half-up, but it's perfect. Everything's just perfect.

This post was written in response to the Flicker of Inspiration Prompt: I Wanna Marry You. Come join us over at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug for fun writing prompts and fellowship!