“So I kept thinking, How much longer am I going to think about my hair
more often than about things that really matter?”

-Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

At last! Deliverance!

I’m not only the Hair Club President—
I’m also a client.

I have finally figured out why a woman’s hair grows thicker and more lustrous during pregnancy. It’s to make up for all the hair she will lose after the baby is born. Not from stress, mind you, but by force. At the moment I am convinced that Jude, my sweet little peanut, is systematically trying to pull out every last strand of my hair. More often than not, you will find him resting comfortably on my shoulder—one hand in his mouth, the other clutching my ponytail. OWWWW.

With Noah, I made the easy choice. I cut my hair short (relatively short, for me). It was a traumatic event, and I barely made it to the car before bursting into the hysterical tears of the insecure and sleep-deprived. This was shortly after Jenny McCarthy debuted her angular bob on the Oprah show, and I thought I could pull it off. (Note to self: I couldn’t.)

Since then, I have yet to darken the door of any salon that features leopard carpets and an array of tattooed hair professionals. Just an annual trim at the Hair Cuttery and I am good to go. But now… now, the temptation to chop the mop is ever so alluring. I would not be the first to sacrifice her strands to escape the slow torture of having them plucked out by the handful. Didn’t you ever wonder why Kate Gosselin went with the reverse-mullet hairdo—long strands in front, short in the back? The media has yet to catch on. It was to keep her long hair from the chubby little clutches of six infants! Genius!

Now, if only we can offer an alternative hairstyle beyond the “Momhawk” of Gosselin fame. The Hair Club for Moms is committed to researching the most functional, fashionable hairstyles for mothers that require only one shampoo a week, no hair dryer, no “product,” and no risk of premature baldness at the hands of small children. A hairstyle that does not require you to have a face like Natalie Portman to pull it off.

We may be working on this for a while.

*      *      *

(Lauren’s makeover compliments of Virtual Hairstyles)

Really, I just want skin like his.

This is the e-mail every woman, particularly a sleep-deprived mommy, wants to get in her inbox:

“I would love to come to you during a nap time or, if you want to get out of your house, I would love to have you over for a little break and pampering session to hopefully make you feel re-energized and beautiful.”

Ummm… yes. SIGN ME UP.

Yesterday the very lovely Krista, who sent me the message above, arrived at my house toting a Starbucks coffee in one hand and a magic bag of Mary Kay cosmetics in the other. With her movie star sunglasses and elegant black dress, I felt like Audrey Hepburn had just descended on my doorstep. This is exactly what you want in a Beauty Consultant.

For the next hour I learned how to treat my skin like something besides an all-weather tarpaulin, which is my usual modus operandi. After cleansing, exfoliating, moisturizing, and makeup-ing my poor neglected pores, I almost felt worthy of the somewhat disturbing “I Love Hot Moms” T-shirt that my teenage neighbor insists on wearing. It turns out that underneath those layers of dead, dry skin, there is a human!

So thank you, Krista, for injecting a bit of pampering into my day. And to any of you out there whose skin (or spirit) could use a little TLC, trust me—she’s the person to call!

TO MY UGLY BLUE SHIRT:

I hereby bestow upon you this

for your faithful service as a highly decorated* member of my wardrobe

(*Decorated with ketchup and ice cream stains, among other things)

Recognizing and celebrating your willingness

to be worn one, two — even three times a week—

Because of your comfy, breathable cotton blend.

You stuck with (and to) me on good days and bad,

Through thick and thin —

(Exhibit A: Thick)

(Exhibit B: Thin)

For richer, for poorer,

For better, for worse —

And on very bad hair days.

(Exhibit C: Very bad hair day)

You are worth every cent of the $3.00 I paid for you at Goodwill.

And now, after our long journey together —

YOU ARE GOING IN THE TRASH.

Requiescat in pace.

(May you rest in peace.)

Presented this 2nd day of September 2009.

As in, You are sooooooooo cute!

Please. I need to hear it.

Because there is very little I find cute about myself at the moment.

But you can make me a believer.

Here are my current obstacles to cuteness:

1. My general size and unwieldiness. I am about as graceful as the Incredible Hulk at a ballet recital.

2. The hack job I performed on my toenails this weekend, which still wear the polish from my April pedicure with Beki. I am lucky I still have toes. (They were very difficult to reach.)

3. My wardrobe, which generally consists of three shirts which I rotate in succession. Most have splotches on the belly, since it juts out like a coffee table and catches all spills. And I am too cheap to buy more shirts with only one month to go.

4. My hair. Coming soon to a ponytail holder near you. When is the air-dried ‘do going to come back in style? Or the bun with a scrunchie around it?

On second thought, scratch that. I never want to revisit the scrunchie days. (Shudder.)

5. My huffing and puffing and constant breathlessness. Pete observed that I am always sighing or grunting. Apparently I sound like a cross between a caveman and the Incredible Hulk at a ballet recital.

So please…

Call me cute. Be it truth, flattery, or outright lying, I don’t care. I accept all compliments indiscriminately. Tell me that my spaghetti-stained T-shirt really enhances my figure. That toenails were meant to look like they were cut with pinking shears. That my shower-cap head just screams sophistication.

And I will love you forever.

Yes, I am that vain.

And desperate.

And hopeful that my vain desperation somehow also classifies me as “adorable.”

But that might be pushing it.

Yeah. Let’s just stick with “cute.”

It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

An hour of quiet in front of America’s Next Top Model, a bowl of frozen yogurt, a cozy fleece blanket, and a comfy couch.

I guess if I want to make the show, I’ll have to work on my posing.

Not Noah, though. This boy is ready to rock the fashion world.

(As seen this evening, as I did the dishes.)

My dad sent me these pics last week, and I am still laughing. If you have yet to visit yearbookyourself.com, you are in for a hilarious treat.


I personally think 1954 was my year, baby.

Thanks, Dad!

(Circa 1952)

Watching three hours of American Idol a week will do three things to you:

1. Inspire you to sing off-key renditions of various 60’s tunes and 80’s power ballads at the most inopportune times (”Price check, Aisle 7… Would Security please escort Cher from the cookie aisle?”).

2. Prompt you to engage in heated debates over the musical skills and hairstyles of people you’ve never met. (Not to mention the dancing. Would Paula please help these poor people?)

3. Embolden you to purchase dinner-plate size earrings to dangle, rock-star style, from your liberated earlobes. (You know you love the makeovers. You know you do.)

So it’s time for a little voting, American-Idol style. In light of the fact that I, Lauren, rarely place so much as a toenail anywhere near the cutting edge of fashion (I skipped the whole “skinny jeans” trend entirely as a conscientious objector), I rely on you to help direct my fledgling fashion sensibilities. Using the voting options in the upper right-hand corner of my blog, tell me your honest opinion of my super-fabulous new rock star earrings.

The results will be revealed in a one-hour special packed with commercials, gratuitous endorsements, and a special performance by Kellie Pickler. Standard text messaging rates apply.

*Update 3/28/08: Thanks for your votes—it appears that I do, in fact, rock the fashion world. Just the vote of confidence I needed.

Sometimes a picture says it all.

Author’s Note: These pictures are for illustrative purposes only. Any resemblance to actual persons, showered or unshowered, is entirely coincidental. Because I’ve, uh, never met that lady in the top photo. We just happen to bear a striking resemblance in the wee hours of the morning.