On Sunday I was returning a book to the library – A Mind Unraveled, if you’re interested – and I noticed the sign on the door stating that, as usual, the library will be closed on Sundays from Victoria Day weekend to Labour Day weekend. Victoria Day, I thought, They are really giving a lot of notice for that. Then I realized that the long weekend is, in fact, less than two weeks away.
I seem to have trouble processing that it is May, let alone the second week of May. Perhaps it’s because on Sunday morning I woke up to this:
Well, it is certainly not unusual to get snow in May, but this, coupled with the completely dull grey sky, was a bit much. My husband took me to the garden centre for some Mother’s Day shopping – I got three large planters and a whole lot of dirt – and I thought the place would be empty due to the wretched weather. I was surprised to see it fairly bustling; I suppose we are all an optimistic bunch. In any case, the snow has now melted and things are greening up, so our optimism was not misplaced.
It seems springlike now, but last week was wretchedly cold; I was beginning to despair that I would ever put away my winter coat. My mom and I went for our annual Mother’s Day pedicures last week, and of course I wore sandals so as not to smudge the polish. I felt like I was making a real fashion statement, in my sandals and capri-length jeans paired with my winter coat, gloves, and a long sweater.
We had dinner guests on Saturday and in talking about pedicures, my friend (HI DENISE) expressed astonishment that I have had red, and only red, nail polish on my toes ever since I was sixteen. I mean, it’s not the same exact shade of red; when I was sixteen I was really into Revlon’s Love That Red on both my toes and my lips, but it’s always been a variation of a true red. Why would you choose red when they have literally two hundred other colours at the salon? she asked. This is an excellent question and one I do not have an answer for other than I like red. Even my husband, who does not generally have an opinion on my nail polish, or any other feminine beauty products, asked why I didn’t switch it up a little. It’s just nail polish, can’t you just take it off? Well, I guess. But why would I, when I really like red?
This reminded me of a conversation I had several years ago with my friend Dan, who just happens to be a makeup guru. He told me I should be switching out my lip colours with the seasons.
Dan: You need to switch it up! It’s like your shoes; it’s not like you have only one colour of footwear.
Me: Well, actually, I do. All my shoes are black.
Speaking of shoes, all of my boots seem to be wearing out at once. My much-loved lined rain boots have developed a crack along the top of the foot, much to my despair. I did purchase them when the boys were in preschool, so I suppose I got my money’s worth out of them, but still. I am in mourning. They are currently patched up with a piece of black Gorilla tape while I search for a suitable replacement. At around the same time as I purchased the boots, I also purchased a spring-weight coat which I wear at this time of year; at least when I’m not wearing my winter coat. My husband informed me yesterday morning that I MIGHT want to consider buying another coat, it’s starting to show its age. But then a random lady in the Superstore parking lot told me, only a few hours after that sad conversation, that she absolutely loved my coat, it’s gorgeous, and it looks so great with my hair. Well, random kind lady, I shall keep that coat based entirely on our lovely exchange. Also, I still like it.
Another thing I really like lately is my hair. As you know, in December, after many months of careful deliberation and the kind of thought process that usually accompanies any major life decision, I made the leap to growing out my layers. One thing you may not know about me is that I have never really liked my hair. It is in my bottom five percent of favourite body parts. I’m not even sure it is a body part, but nevertheless. Nevertheless, over my lifetime I’ve oscillated between actively disliking my hair and thinking it was satisfactory, a good solid C+. Not failing, but certainly not setting the world on fire.
Well, all that has changed. My hair therapist, god bless her, quietly snipped off quite a bit of length to facilitate the Layer Growing Out Process. It is not something I would have asked for, but there is a reason I have been her loyal client since 2002; she has vision. I am enjoying my bouncy, shorter hair so much. Let me show you the before and after.
This is me the morning of my hair appointment. Note roots, shredded-looking layers, basic Hair Sadness.
I don’t leave the house like that; here is me on the way to the salon, making the best of things:
Here’s the after – two days, one week, and two weeks later:
I am very pleased! Obviously things will change by the end of my colour cycle, but for now, all is glorious. The only issue is that with the shorter length – it doesn’t touch my shoulders – it is a bit tricky to put up into a bun. It’s nothing a sleeve of bobby pins won’t solve, but it takes a bit of time.
Time is something I don’t have at 4:45 in the morning, when I’m heading off to yoga practice. Therefore – and this is what I really wanted to talk to you about – I made a purchase I swore that I never would. It’s something that I lived through once and never, ever thought I would again. That chapter of my life, I had confidently thought, was closed forever. As of this week, though, a new era has begun and it is one that incorporates my new purchase.
People, I bought a scrunchie.
I know what you’re thinking: what’s next? Will I start embracing acid wash again, not having worn acid wash since the late Eighties? Will I swan into a party wearing denim overalls with one strap hanging down? Will I walk Barkley clad only in high-waisted jean short-shorts and a crop top, with gladiator sandals on my feet? God, I hope not.
Although I cannot believe that I, a grown woman, chose to spend $8 for a hair scrunchie, and I have gone out in public wearing one for the first time since 1993, I will tell you this: it works really well. Behold!
That little piece of material held my bun in for a very vigourous, sweaty practice that included drop-backs and a headstand, and so it is the real hero of this story. I guess the moral of the story is to never say never, although I really do think I can safely say NEVER AGAIN to acid wash, denim overalls, short-shorts and crop tops.