Anne L. Francis

Time: Evening
Date: Spring, 2006
Location: Living room, San Francisco, CA

"What are you doing?" My husband asked.

It was an innocent enough question. And not surprising, really. I was sitting cross-legged on the couch, staring intently at the screen of my laptop, brow furrowed in concentration. It was 11 p.m., an unusual time for me to geek out on the computer, or, for that matter, to do anything at all. After a long, action-packed day with our fun and free-spirited two year old daughter, my capacity for thought -- let alone actual action -- usually amounted to, 'Me tired. Bed good. Ugh.'

"Thinking about hair," I replied, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor taunting me from the top of my unabashedly blank screen. My fingers tapped lightly back-and-forth across the middle keys -- a-s-d-f ;-l-k-j -- waiting for inspiration.

"Oh..." my husband said, "okay." He sat down next to me, turned on the television and started reviewing the 'Now Playing' list on Tivo.

'H-a-i-r,' I typed finally, just to have something written on the page. And then, just for kicks, 'M-o-m'.

"Mom Hair, hmm..." There, off to a great start. I prayed to the hair gods to inspire at least a paragraph or two before fatigue completely overwhelmed my brain. Perhaps staring at the subject itself would offer up some assistance.

I grabbed the hand mirror I had taken from the bathroom -- where it sits on a shelf, sadly neglected these days -- and stared at my hair. The horror! The cute red pixie I had sported a few months ago had devolved into a two-toned, mad-scientist mullet.

An unruly off-center part revealed almost two inches of natural hair, mostly brunette with a smattering of silver strands. The rest was a faded, orange-red, what remained of the once intensely brilliant Redken color aptly named, 'Bonfire'. Uneven bits of this chocolate-orange mess flowed away from the part, some curling, some waving, still others saluting straight and stiff. Front bits curled and poked over my forehead, while chunky sides feathered away from my cheeks, each flying in a slightly different direction, up, down, in, out. A bottom layer completed the bargain basement look by appearing to grow from the sides of my ears.

Good grief -- I wasn't the mad scientist, I was Her creation.

I groaned grumpily at the Momenstein in the mirror. No amount of mousse or gel would save this mop. It was too far gone, too thick, too wavy, too curly, too frizzy, just too too much.

The husband-unit glanced at me questioningly, thumb poised on the Tivo controller's pause button. "Bad hair day," I said.

He wisely returned to his Tivo viewing without reply.

I prayed to the hair gods again, this time for an onslaught of sunny days so I could hide my embarrassment under a wide-brimmed hat.

I sighed and put down the mirror. Where was that perfectly coiffed 30-something I used to be? That perky, style-conscious City Girl who frequented the salon every eight weeks without fail? Apparently hiding under a disheveled cap of thick, coarse, Mom hair, the kind of hair-helmet only another hard-working, sleep-deprived new Mom could possibly understand.

About every three months, if I'm lucky, or longer if I'm not, I find the time for a hair cut. That translates to stylish, hip-momma/sexy-momma hair about two or three weeks out of every twelve. That's about four times a year, if you're counting, which I am. And my daughter is two years old, so that means -- gasp -- I've had 'Mom Helmet Head' more than eighty weeks over the past two years.

Well, gee, that certainly put things in perspective. In that Larger Picture that is My Life, '24/7 perfect hairdo' had fallen off of the 'Really Important Things To Do While I'm Alive and Still-Dancing' list, bumped out by, well, life, life's stuff. Park play with my daughter, dates with the husband, holidays with parents and siblings, outings with friends, writing, and yes, even exercising -- all these I can accomplish with scruffy or styled hair. Right? Right?

Yes. Every day, I will get up, write some words, feed and entertain my daughter, tend to my marriage, get to the gym, and, every 12+ weeks, I'll still experience a bad hair day or two or three and on one of those days I will actually pick up the phone and make that elusive hair appointment.

That's when I'll be a Cool Hair Momma.

And in between the good hair days, I will continue to rifle through my shelf of hair care products -- mousse, gel, oil, pomade, wax, gum -- these saviors purported to tame even the frizziest and thickest of manes, both of which mine happens to be, and I will slather on one or two depending on my mood -- and the weather -- and they might actually work... for about five minutes. And then my natural waves will burst free and run amok in every direction but the one in which I want them to go.

And for now, that Mom Hair is okay.