The haircut
I am pretty sure that I wrote a column about self-care at some point during the pandemic. There was a whole movement on the importance of taking care of yourself before addressing the needs of others. Like how, if the plane you are on is going down, you should put the oxygen mask on yourself before putting it on your child or anyone else. How can you help those around you if you can’t breathe?
The pandemic certainly was a time for self-care, basically because all we had was time. Time to worry about getting sick. Time to worry about what really does happen when you run out of toilet paper. Time to figure out how to prevent your young children from getting you addicted to valium. (Fortunately, I am not speaking about my personal experience in that last example, since my kids are now considered full-blown adults.) But I think you all get the point. Everyone needs a little me time every now and again.
I am not a fan of self-care, unless I can translate self-care to mean, “watches too much content on the computer.” I get the heebie-jeebies when my friends talk about their love of massages, manicures, and pedicures — oh my! Give me a pint of ice cream and a comfortable chair any day of the week. But ask me if I want a massage and I will actually shudder and then politely decline. The only self-care that I am a fan of is the hair blow out. I actually do enjoy that. But since I haven’t gone anywhere this year, I haven’t had a reason to go to the “beauty parlor,” as my grandmother would call it. She LOVED her weekly beauty parlor appointments.
Those who know me, and even those who don’t, know that my physical appearance is not as important to me as it should be. I have written before about how I basically look like a homeless person. And since turning 50, I look like an old, wrinkled homeless person (not that there is anything wrong with that). I love when I have Strudel, because then, even though I still look homeless, having a baby with you gives you a little more credibility. Who has time to look their best when they are taking care of a 20-month-old? There actually is an answer to that — lots of people, just not me. This past weekend, I was in Far Faraway with Son #1, Dil #1, and everyone’s favorite, Strudel. For the most part, the women there dress to the nines. Does anyone know where that expression comes from? Should it be, “the women dress to the perfect 10s?” What’s with the nines business? Total side point, but if you know the answer, please give me a call, or text, email, or carrier pigeon. It’s all good.
Anyway, back to my self-care. As you all know, I love Husband #1. I really do. Ok, sometimes I want to kill him, but for the most part, thank God, we get along pretty well. But, let’s face it, he is not a fan of me spending money. You need money to get your hair colored. Now since I am such a low-maintenance, good-natured soul, I have decided to wait to color my hair until I leave to meet Danish. Last time it was colored was the end of November. So, in order to make my husband happy, I will be waiting a full four months to give my hair some self-care. Needless to say, I currently look like the old homeless person with the crazy gray and other assorted colored hair. It is really bad. I try that root touch-up spray, but it gives my hair the consistency of a dirty carpet. It is really classy.
The other night, when I was stone cold sober (I mention this fact because after I continue with my extremely compelling tale, you will begin to think that, perhaps, I was inebriated. But, alas, I was not), I looked in the mirror and was so not happy with my reflection that I took a scissors and cut off about five inches of my way-too-long-for-my-age hair. Five inches. That takes almost six months to grow, and I just chopped it off. And now, I am pleased to say that my version of self-care is responsible for making me look like an old homeless woman with a really bad haircut.
And do you know why I really love Husband #1? Because he doesn’t even notice or care. Which is a good thing because it’s really not a good look for me (or anyone else for that matter).
Heed my warning, ladies and gentleman. Choose your self-care wisely!
Banji Ganchrow of Teaneck is looking forward to meeting Danish in five weeks, God willing. And is even more excited for Strudel to meet Danish a week after that!
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