I had all these ideas for what style I wanted. Did I want to keep it really long, get a fringe happening? Go short again? Go even shorter than last time? Be a real daredevil and get it short with a funky undercut? Yes, I am at the point in my life where an undercut is being a daredevil, don’t go there.
I went through every idea, imagining trying to style it each morning. It all went something like this: lock myself and A into the bathroom and shut the door to the toilet from the ensuite, hand A some sort of brush, tube, makeup brush (anything he can’t choke on or smash really), plug in the straightener, hiss “no, don’t touch the cord” at A, lean one knee against one cupboard door whilst leaning and stopping A from opening the other whispering “no, don’t open that, look at this brush” and wave the brush at him, separate the first layer of hair, straighten one piece, repeat the steps above, straighten another piece, whisper “I know you want it but you can’t have it, it’s hot,” while A cries because he wants what I have, separate some more, then repeat everything above until it is all done. Scoop A up and sneak out of the bathroom and apologise to C on the way past the bed (he works nights). Not really fun every morning. So I got a mum chop.
You know the one. The one that I imagine every mother has got at one stage or another (usually after a long break between cuts), all the split ends have been chopped off, it is short enough that if you have to style it, you can do it rather quickly, but it is still long enough to throw into a ponytail for the day to day; doing the housework, cooking dinner, dodging the projectile vomit of a spewy baby. The usual.
Walking out of the salon I was ecstatic, new ‘do, new me. Or something like that. Then it hit me: I was one of those mums. The kind of mum that makes decisions about their own personal style (hair or otherwise) based on what is more practical with a toddler. No more hair styles that require the wash-blow dry-style routine every morning, no more awkward length that gets in your eyes yet it’s not long enough to tie back, no really short hair cuts that need to be maintained every 5 weeks.
I am now the once a year, need to be able to tie it up mum, and there is something profoundly freeing and saddening about that. Saddening because I love getting a haircut, getting pampered, getting looked after, a moment where what I want is what is important. But freeing because, well, I am a little less attached to my hair now, bad hair day? Toss it into a ponytail and forget about it, A doesn’t care, hell, bad hair day and he will (try to) brush it and tie it up for me and tell me it is “wow, pretty,” before giving me the kind of cuddle only a toddler can give.
So I guess, it really is much ado about nothing after all.