Tag Archives: urban outfitters

The “Mom Haircut” & other parental sacrifices

I fought it for as long as I could. Because I was the cool mom. The edgy mom. The mom with the perfectly messy Botticelli-esque curls cascading halfway down my back like one of those vacant-eyed models randomly jumping in a field of wildflowers in an Urban Outfitters catalog.

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Except in reality, my long, wavy hair was always tied up in a school marm bun because my 8-month-old son has made it his personal mission to pull out each and every strand of it. And those few times when it wasn’t tied up, it tangled so quickly that one would think it would take more effort than a slight breeze (such as making out with a weedwhacker) to get that unique Bride of Frankenstein look I so often sported. Seriously, if I stepped outside, neighborhood birds started nesting there (although you can hardly blame them, what with the nice buffet of pureed peas, scrambled eggs and pancake crumbs my son had thoughtfully left for them between the strands and all).

mom hair 2

But then came the last straw (a straw very much like the texture of my tortured hair): A windy Halloween day, me outside for most of it with my hair down and getting whipped around relentlessly while I toted my costumed baby around to run errands. A last stop to get coffee before heading home and then THIS conversation:

Barista: “What a cute baby chicken costume! And what are you supposed to be, mom?”

(Note to reader: I wasn’t wearing a costume.)

Me: “Tired Mom Whose Clothes Don’t Match.”

Barista: …(confused look)…

Me: (looking at my reflection in the baked goods glass and taking stock of my combat boots, stained cargo pants, hastily applied black eyeliner, dark rings under my eyes and tangled hair that had grown to three times its original size) “Amy Winehouse. …(sigh)…I’m Amy Winehouse.”

Barista: …(flicker of recognition)… “Oh! I love it.”

And so it was with a heavy heart that I walked into the hair salon yesterday. We had had a good five-year run, my long hair and me. But the party was over. It was time to grow up. Time to look like I didn’t spend my weekends going to music festivals and eating maple bacon kimchi cupcakes from a food truck.

Time to tell the world that what I really did was watch “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix while pulling my newly mobile baby out from under the coffee table every three minutes.

On the plus side, my hair stylist was a veteran mom herself and understood my plight.

Stylist: “So, what are we wanting to do today?”

Me: “Chop it off. Chop it all off.”

Stylist: “Um…OK. Into any particular style?”

Me: “I have a baby. But I want a hairstyle that says I don’t.”

Stylist: “So no ‘Mom Bob’ then?”

Me: “Exactly. I love my baby almost more than anything. And that one anything is a mom haircut.”

So how did it turn out, you ask? Great! I think. I mean, it’s shorter now. And stuff.

Truth be told, as soon as I left the salon, I walked home in the rain and wind, ruining the gorgeous professional styling, and then immediately tied what was left of my hair back into a teensy ponytail so I could relieve my husband of baby duty. And then I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with my son and his creepy bear that creepily says “Peek-a-boo! I see you!” when you hug it. And then this morning I immediately threw on a hat over my unwashed/unbrushed hair to walk to a coffeehouse to spend the very few free moments I have to write this.

And I realized that any hairstyle I get from now on will be a mom cut. Because I’m a mom now. A mom who, just like generations of moms before her, will choose function over style almost every time when it comes down it. Because vanity is a luxury we can no longer afford. Or even really want to afford anymore. Not when what has taken the place of that vanity is a tiny drooling person who giggles every time Mommy tickles him with her hair, no matter the length or style.

Yes, as it turns out, I do love that little stinker more than anything. Period.




BREAKING NEWS: White girls love fall

I don’t know who the first white girl was to publicly declare how much she loves fall, but if I ever find that idiot, I’m going to strangle her with the string from my totally comfy Urban Outfitters’ hoodie. She’s ruined everything for the rest of us.


Because now, thanks to her and all her idiot friends, the new national pastime is making fun of white girls who love fall.

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Oh sure, you could argue (and you would, in fact, be correct in arguing this) that us white girls brought it on ourselves. What with our “first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season!” selfies and our daily “Finally time for boots and leggings! Squeeeee!” Facebook posts. Our mid-June tweets of “Is it fall yet? #ugh #readyforsnuggleweather”. Our arty Instagram of a lone red leaf held up against one of our eyes while we coyly look up and to the left with the other eye.

So yes. Yes, on some level we deserve this ridicule.

But ultimately, making fun of ALL the white girls who love fall is not OK. Because, one, us white girls have feelings. Lots and lots of feelings. That we have to tell you about. All the time.

So, please, don’t make us have more feelings.

And two, we’re not all like that. For instance, I love fall. I also happen to be a white girl. But I am not a white girl who loves fall.

And yes, it is an important distinction.

Do you think this Aprill spelled with two L’s wants to be lumped in with all the Britanni’s spelled with an “i” and Megyn’s spelled with a “y”? That I want to wear vintage T-shirts featuring books I’ve never read or bands I’ve never listened to underneath my infinity scarf (an infinity scarf that is just one of the 67 in my collection)?

Do you think I want to race to my closet as soon as September 1st arrives and pull out my favorite vintage sweater while wrapping both of my hands around a mug of green tea and sighing contentedly while I look out a window? Or that I want to curl up with a good book and read all day as soon as the temperature drops below 70?

Do you think I want to spend hours scouring Pinterest for fall-themed craft ideas; ideas that I will never, ever do but nonetheless share on social media like I totally did do them? Or that I want to eat only gourd-flavored baked goods for every meal for the next three months?

No. No, I don’t. I don’t want to do any of this. I don’t want to be a part of this cliché.

But I do. And I am.

I wasn’t raised this way. I was raised in a home where hoodies were merely something you threw on when it got cold, where coffee was something you drank black, where fall was simply just another season. My mom didn’t own Ugg boots or oversized, non-prescription, black frame glasses. No one in my family drank beer that was any flavor other than beer. The only candles that burned inside our house were birthday candles.

Do you think when I was a little girl growing up in the 90’s, wearing my torn flannel shirt and my purple lipstick with my Nirvana CD blasting from my gigantic boombox, that I dreamed of someday becoming that white woman who lights 43 pumpkin candles on chilly nights and asks her husband to cuddle on the couch in their “jammies” while they watch a “Girls” marathon on HBO?

No. Hell no. That little girl would kick my ass with her Dr. Marten boots if she knew what she became.

But I just can’t help myself. I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture. If I was brainwashed by the powerful pumpkin farmer lobby in Washington or if Eve herself made an apple scented candle with the forbidden fruit before she took a bite and then knitted a cozy sweater out of fig leaves.

All I know is that, as much as I try to fight it, I love all this fall crap. And now, courtesy of Brittani and Megyn and Jyssycah, I am the butt of several thousand Internet jokes.

So thanks a lot, ladies. You just couldn’t keep quiet, could you? Couldn’t just let us white girls continue to worship this time of year secretly in the privacy of our own homes. Had to blast it out all over the Interwebs, complete with winky faces and penguin emoticons (even though PENGUINS have absolutely NOTHING to do WITH FALL!).

I swear to God, I’d throw this Starbucks’ Pumpkin Spice Latte in your faces…

…if only it didn’t taste so good.