Datebook: Monday, April 21st ~ 2008

It should not come as any surprise that I discovered a large silver spike sprouting from my center hairline this week. Although some may have embraced the Unicornian symbolism, I quickly plucked it and called for an appointment with Sheila, my colorist. She “squeezed” me in her tight Saturday book neglecting to tell me however that it was the first of eight “Prom” days. So there I sat, the only person in the shop who was alive when the Beatles came to America the first time. The only person in the shop to have worn bell bottoms on their maiden voyage in the fashion world. The only person in the shop who has eaten at a McDonalds before they had inside seating.

Most people would have probably been a bit daunted by being in the center of the up-dos, sprayed curls, and easy bake tans. But, as one who has endured skating drama and competitions for years, I sat there, front and center, in the midst of those star-gazers with my head plastered in what looked like Bill Cosby Milk Chocolate Jell-O for thirty-five minutes, reading the latest issue of Cosmo with a smile on my face. As an added bonus, I now know What Really Turns Him On and The 10 Things Women Don’t Even Tell Their BFFs.

Skating moms have to be tough. We face our toughest gauntlets in the form of our smaller offspring.

For example. My daughter has started to give me fashion tips. This is probably because she is “almost twenty” and truthfully would probably look great in bib overalls and a flea market t-shirt (we will however, never be able to confirm this since she seems to have an allergic reaction to anything that does not have a “Must Be Dry-Cleaned” label and like car warranties, all items must be used by the original owner.

She becomes then the Stella McCartney to my Ellen DeGeneres wardrobe. This isn’t so bad when it is done in person. It is a bit hard to take over the phone.

“Why are you getting your hair cut, you need to let it grow”?

“I’m just getting a trim and a little color.”

“You always say that but then you get an inch cut off and your hair never grows. You just need to let it grow a bit more so it doesn’t stop at your chin—that isn’t your best look.”

“Oh,” I continue, mollified that I have the potential of having a good look, “I’m just happy that it is finally 8o degrees and I can wear sandals.”

“What are you wearing?” She asks inquisitively.

I know, I know. Many women have written stories about having those same four words whispered into the phone—in fact Cosmo had an article I was just starting when the timer went off about the adventures of phone sex—trust me, the few times anyone has ever asked me what I was wearing over the phone were very much asexual and more in line with did I have a raincoat handy to run to the shed to check the quantity of gas in the lawn mower can.
So, I naively plunged where no woman should go.

“I have on my Treks, my college ethics t-shirt and my athletic pants.” I knew immediately I should have reversed the order.

“You mean your sweat pants.”

“Well…I think the modern term is “Athletic Wear”.”

“The gray ones….the capris?”

“Yes!”

“Why would you wear those to get your hair done?”

I hesitate—feeling a little Robert Frostish—a road divides into the wood and I am about to take the one less traveled by….

“They are comfortable…I am going to have work done on my body.”

“You shouldn’t go to any salon looking like you have seemingly low expectations. You should dress up more, what accessories can you wear with sweat pants—and if they have a draw string they are sweat pants. If you don’t look like you care, they won’t care.”

For a moment, I am stunned. This has the echoes of things I have told my daughter in the past, mutated a bit, but surely formatted in some earlier words of advice for competitions. “Even if you mess up, fall ten times, forget twenty seconds of your program—you have to keep a real smile on your face and look confident as if that was what you intended to do.”

I suddenly feel a bit light-headed and dizzy—like I often feel when I realize I missed one of those major “Hints from Heloise” that everyone else seems to have mastered. This one seems to fall into the same category as the one where my friends clean their houses a bit before the cleaning service comes so they won’t think they are slobs.

“I guess that makes sense.” I reply slowly.

“Exactly. Why don’t you put on a pair of Ann Taylor pants but don’t wear that striped top—it cuts you off too much—you need to wear something that elongates your torso.”

I frown at my vintage T-shirt image in the mirror. I realize to pull this off I will now have to take the butterfly clip from my tresses and wash my hair and style it before I go to the salon.

I sigh into the phone.

“I’m going to a Seder tonight—what do you think I should wear?”

There is a long pause, and I ask the classic Verizon line.

“Yes, I can hear you…I just can’t think of anything. You’re going to have to go buy something.”

“I have plenty of things that look like they’ve been to the desert.”

“Exactly…trust me on this, they won’t work. You need a casual yet elegant look…go look for something by Ella Moss but make sure it doesn’t look too young. Call me from the store and send a picture .”

No problem. Before I even get to the salon I have lathered and blow-dried my old hair to make way for the new. I have read the instructions for my camera phone for the first time and I have left my comfy clothes refolded in the dresser drawer.

A gaggle of young prom girls is nothing compared to my next hurdle.

Sometime today my daughter is going to ask what shoes I will be wearing—all those young bunioned skating feet that should be seeking comfort and cushioning—well, they have no use for Clarks and Born.

It’s going to be a long day.

Mombo