I’ll never be happy with my hair. And not in the sense that my stylist fails me which, don’t get mince my words, has totally happened. Cue the time my mom failed to talk me out of an awkward pixie cut my Freshman year of high school: I had the body of an eighth grade boy because I danced more than I slept and my dad’s form of discipline included doing push-ups until my arms felt like overcooked noodles. Combine that and my affinity for donning Tommy Hilfiger overalls and I could’ve been mistaken for a prepubescent dude. She obviously felt pangs of guilt because she immediately took me to buy mascara and blush; so instead of resembling a mini-Arnold Schwarzenegger I could return to school the following day looking like a tiny confused lesbian. Was I vagetarian of the butch or lipstick variety?
I’ve had pixie cuts since but I have boobs now, kind of, and while I still wear overalls on occasion I pair them with a crop top and just hope no one thinks I’m pulling a Caitlyn Jenner and struggling with my identity. Regardless, my hair and I are frequently at war. Mostly I’m content with it being short and blonde but then I’ll some wild hair up my ass to dye it some shade of brown or make lame attempts to grow it out which usually results in a tame version of the Joe Dirt mullet. The back of my hair grows exponentially faster than the front: almost as if I’m genetically destined to own a camper and make yearly trips to Talladega.
Most recently I skipped the pain and suffering accompanied by hair growth, took the easy route, colored it brown and had extensions put in. For a time I enjoyed it; I could use a crimping iron and not totally look like I had been electrocuted and ponytails were rather fun but then I became annoyed when it got stuck in my armpit or I couldn’t properly roll over in my sleep without having to adjust the pile of what I assume to be some Asian woman’s hair on my pillow and everyone said how much I looked like my mom. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still got it as far as Grandma’s go and I considered it a compliment but I would much prefer to look like myself.
Mom would agree as confirmed when she asked me to find a better picture of Rinn and I to occupy a frame in her living room. In the existing photo I had long, dark hair and according to her “you just look so much better blonde, not that you’re not pretty all the time, but you just look like your best self when your hair is short and blonde.” You know how mothers do.
I had also been desperate to replace the bathroom wall art I haphazardly purchased at TJ Maxx and in a financially beneficial coincidence, I received a Groupon email for discounted “old time” photos. I’ve spent the last three years staging, taking and editing my own photoshoots and while I’ve always been satisfied with my homegrown photography skills I couldn’t resist the allure of skipping out on finding a location, constructing a scene and enlisting the help of my mother who struggles with technology to the point that she fails to understand that Google isn’t actually THE internet. You simply push the button Laurie, and no I don’t want pictures of your fingerprints. Also, Rinn would have the opportunity to dress up like a cowboy scoring me major parenting points.
Apparently I do a solid job of cooking an attractive human being, always giving credit to my pregnancy diet of root beer and donuts; the 70 plus pounds I packed on during his gestation paid off. That’s what I jokingly told the old time photographer when she raved about how photogenic Rinn is and asked for my consent in using some of the shots they captured in an annual photography contest. Sure, give him a cowboy hat and a set of six shooters and he’s happier than a pig in poop but try talking to him before breakfast and he’s all “DON’T LOOK AT ME” and If you take the camera out before 10am, proceed with caution.
“He should be a model!”
She was hardly the first person to make that proclamation; like I said, attractive human-being cooker over here and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was intrigued by the thought of Rinn earning his own keep. He’s always seriously eager to help his Papa unload bricks for landscaping and can’t wait to get his hands on the Shop-Vac to vacuum out my car but clean upholstery doesn’t exactly pay for preschool. And let’s not forget that I myself once had a successful career as a child model, gracing the pages of Kohl’s circulars donning Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls until the agency forced me into a lime green leotard. I don’t know the specifics of the altercation that ensued but I like to imagine it echoed Naomi Campbell vs. any-one-of-her-assistants; you know, if Naomi Campbell were a toddler (judging by the number of times she’s assaulted someone with her cellphone, she might be.)
My modeling career was short-lived; either my mom decided my behavior was too embarrassing to return or I was blacklisted from the world of child modeling. Let’s hope Rinn has a better attitude because we are waiting to hear back from a handful of agencies and mommy needs some new shoes.