Datebook: Thursday, July 19th ~ 2007

Getting my hair cut and highlighted is a bit like Cinderella time for me. I have an allotted 24 hours before I crash back into a pumpkin again when I do my own wash and restyle.

I am not one of those people who have “good” hair and my skills in this area would have me riding the shorter bus to hair school.

I am always amazed when I go to a skating competition and look across at the judges, who have probably been sitting on one panel or another all day,--they always look so fresh, comfortable, and warm. Yes, I have to admit it, in addition to wondering what levels Holly Cole and Jenny Mast are plugging into that judging computer, I am speculating on what shampoo they use and questioning if they secretly have a stylist waiting in the Judge’s lounge.



I want to believe they do.

I need to believe they do.

Oh, I have tried all of the tricks of adding body to my hair. I have flipped my head upside down and blown my hair out from the roots. (This is really difficult if you are sitting on the toilet in a hotel room because the mirrors are steamed up—from lack of oxygen you get dizzy and wind up sliding off on to the pile of used towels stashed by the tub). Even if successful, I merely wind up with bigger hair that is sticking out in all the wrong directions. Once I bought a five inch-round brush and wound up cutting my hair out of it because I had it so tangled behind my head the only other option would have been to wear the brush like an odd barrette to work that day.

I have accepted I am not good with hair. I am not resentful because I have other skills that I like to think counterbalance this deficit. For example, I still remember all of my multiplication tables, I have good toes, and I can identify all the symbolism in “MacBeth”.

So I am content with my seven good hair days each year and make plans to have events like my work photo, my driver’s license renewal, and running into my husband’s ex-wife occur on these days.

Skating competitions, however, bring out my feelings of hair despair.

Oh, it’s more than just the fact that those judges appear to have Jose Eber in the Top-Five on their speed-dial.

It has to do with my daughter’s hair.

Okay, so all mothers know their daughter’s have beautiful hair. It’s a fact. My daughter could seriously do a Pantene commercial. She has always had hair that cried out to be braided, and bunned, and French-twisted. And it was.

By her.

Women used to stop us when she was eight or so and compliment her hair and nod at me, “The Good Mother” who seemingly styled those French braids and buns of steel.

It was a lie my daughter allowed me to live.

Secretly I tried to take classes. I was allowed to go to a few cosmetology classes and try to learn beside some of the students. I daydreamed about seemingly brushing a strand of hair off of my daughter’s face and then whipping it into a French knot in a matter of seconds and thus astounding her with skill and sense of uncanny style. The dream died hard when the school owner told me I might want to take art classes instead.

This year, the hair stakes are a bit higher.

The OD calls for actual “Costuming” which means appropriate ethnic hairstyle.

“We should start practicing some hair styles in the next few weeks so we can find one that works best with your costume,” I tell my daughter, hoping that maybe I will be permitted to at least make a part on her head.

She looks at me, nods slightly, and then offers, “It’s going to be a bit tricky this year.”

“Really,” I say imagining this to be more of an understatement than saying going over Niagara Falls in a kayak might be a little rough.

“Well, I have to braid the sides, pull them partially back, and then twist them together while keeping the crown of my head full and free. And I have to glue things in it.”

I feel faint and it is obvious we have to meet this head on.

“Can you do that?” I quiver.

“I just have to experiment a bit because if anything falls off it is a deduction.”

“Oh. So, if it stays on there is no deduction—just a base score of zero. What if it stays on really well—can you get a plus one or two on that.”

She sighs and then so do I.

So much of the pre-competition is about getting costumes, designing hairstyles, and finding accessories yet none of these things brings any points to the scoreboard.

“Just remember what I told you to do when you skate by the judges.”

“I know, smile and look confident.”

“Well, that too, but don’t forget to check out their hair in the arena lights. I think they have low-lights AND highlights. No one gets that kind of shine from Redken alone.

Mombo