Note: If this story looks familiar, it’s because I posted a version of it today on my Facebook author page–and then realized that it’s a conversation that needs to stay in my memory for about forever. Or at least until this color fades.
I saw my hairdresser last week after a long summer of sun-bleached hair torture, and, while she was fixing said mop of chorine-soaked frizz, she unintentionally turned me “bronde” (I much prefer my normal shade of “blrown”). I was feeling a bit down (I mean, it’s just hair, but when that hair is attached to one’s head, one tends to become attached) until I walked in the door to my house. Saoirse saw me, and her face lit up.
“Mom!” she said, and touched it. “I really love your hair! It looks so PRETTY.”
I knew she liked it because my hair now more closely resembled hers, but I still held on to that last shred of hope that was my self-esteem. “It does?” I said. She was smiling in that kid-approved way that makes the world seem brighter, so I started to feel a bit better. Okay, I thought. Maybe it’s really not that bad.
“Yes!” she said. “You look like a mom now.”
“A mom?” I asked. “What did I look like before?”
“Oh,” SK said, and shook her head. “I did not like the blond before. You looked like a singer. Or a SUPERSTAR. This is MUCH better.”
Well, then. I suppose that settles that. Bronde is the new blrown, anyway–at least that’s what I heard around these circles. Those seven-year-olds better know what they’re talking about.
You guys. My kids: they’re so sweet and kind and loving–but…
We were looking at photos of celebrity haircuts. “How about this one?” I…