So today I had the day off, and I decided it was finally time to get some advice about Roo’s hair. It’s getting harder for us to manage, and I just do NOT want to be those parents.
I prepared my “I am really trying to learn how to do black hair and would love any advice you can give me” speech, did his hair as well as I could, and walked into a black hair salon on the corner.
The woman was nice as could be, but really didn’t know what I meant. She asked if I wanted to cut his hair, and when I said no, ran her hand through his hair, complimented his curls, and told me to bring him back for a haircut in another year. I asked for styling tips, and she said “well, he has baby hair!”
Okay. All the women in the salon were nodding vigorously, and I didn’t want to stand there insisting that I needed help when she was telling me all was well, so I thanked her and left.
Then I went into another place a few doors down to ask the same question. We had an almost identical conversation, down to the part where she complimented his hair and I stuttered like a fool, except she recommended a shampoo and a moisturizer.
So… fruitful? A failure? I’m pleased that both women said he had beautiful hair – even beautiful hair could look awful if I was messing it up that much. And I’ll get the products the second woman recommended. But I’m still not sure how to keep his hair from getting all frizzy and wild starting about 30 minutes after I style it. Maybe that was the problem – should I try another place when I haven’t done his hair?
Huh. I expected a half dozen different reactions to a white mom with a biracial child walking into a salon and asking for help. A friendly response but no help wasn’t one of the responses I had anticipated.
So do I let it lie? Try again somewhere else? Take it as a compliment?
Right now he’s been in his bed for 40 minutes refusing to nap. Amazing that he has incredible bed-head but no rest for the weary (mama).
NSG is my hero.
After lots of cognitive behavioral therapy, 8 weeks of fear-of-flying classes, and a nice little cocktail of anti-anxiety medication, rescue remedy, and relaxation techniques, she got on a plane today for the first time in almost SEVENTEEN YEARS.
Can I just say that again?
She flew! She flew! She flew!
And she rocked! She called me from LaGuardia to crow, and I crowed with her, and then Roo and I did little dances all over the house and made up songs about Mama flying until it was time to go get her at the airport.
Tonight we cancel our reservations for an insane Amtrak trip to Crazy State next month and buy plane tickets instead, which means travelling about 6 hours (round trip) instead of 48.
I don’t know that I could have done this if I were in her shoes, but it’s one of the things I love about her. She doesn’t care so much about travelling, and did this mostly for me (how did I get this lucky?), but I think it never occured to her to think about some of the places we might go together if we could just get there. Now we’re talking about going to Banff, to San Francisco to see our friends whose son we’ve never met, to Hawaii (we even have a place to stay) – where else?
[Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance]
How much of a cheeseball does this make me?
When my co-worker asked me if we had started planning Roo’s birthday part (for a birthday still 6 weeks away), I competely choked up.
Oh, that beautiful boy. He kills me.
Eating pickles, despite the old wives tales, is not a surefire sign that someone is pregnant.
I love pickles. I eat them whenever I get the chance. I am not pregnant.
Please stop making that joke. It was funny the first 31 times.