Good Hair

This is how I can tell I am a mom. I walk into work with my hair straightened and down, with the comments I get you would think I look like a gremlin on a regular basis.

“Hey, superstar” My boss.

“Hey, girly! Look at you!” Cindalicous.

“You’re hair looks nice.” That kitchen girl.

“I don’t know when I last saw you with your hair down. It looks good!” some random co-work from another store.

What a boot of confidence, but do I really look that bad on all the other days?  Don’t answer that.

The hubby is always telling me “you need to get your hair done.” (sad right?)

Well here’s the skinny everyone, I am going to be taking the biggest hair adventure over the next year. Are you ready? I am going NATURAL!

I know a big question mark may be forming your heads, so let me explain. From now until I decide I am through with this phase of my life, I am not going to chemically straighten my hair. Do you the crap can melt a pop can? Just watch Chris Rock’s Good Hair. It will change your life. It will change your hair’s life too; even if you’re not black.

Supposedly, I have that ‘good hair.’ You could have fooled me, but I am trying to become a believer. 

Darren on the other hand, that boy has some GOOD hair. His hair is so good he’s a local celebrity. I technically should be carrying hair sanitizer for how many people touch his hair. I take him up town and they’re not even fazed by the fact we’re the only black people who live in a ten mile radius. They just want to cop a feel and the little stinker just soaks it up. He’s a lady’s man in the making. Part of me is proud; the other sensible side is trembling about the reality of that statement.

There are downsides to this hair thing. Like the fact he pulls it when he mad. No joke, he hooks on with both hands on each side of his head and yanks. Which makes him more upset because it hurts, which makes him pull harder; it’s quite the comical vicious cycle. 

He also has started pulling my hair (big surprise right?). His death grip has been perfected too. This pared with the fact he thinks it’s a toy to put in his mouth it’s quite the comical vicious cycle.

“Darren, you are going to have to let go.”

“Eeeeeeeehhhhhhh.” He holds on tighter.

“Seriously Darren.” (I do talk to him like his squeals are understandable adult conversation.)

“Ok you’re done. Let’s find your walker,” I am untangling one hand at this point. His other hand still has his prize in it.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Translation: GGGGGGGIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEE.

This also means I am successful. He is a safe distance away in his walker, look peeved and raising his arms up to me.

“AAH HAHAHAHA.” He’s about to break out in tears. 

“You’re ok.” 

“AHHHHHHHHHH  HAHAHAHA EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.”

“Ok, let’s cuddle.” I am such a push over.  I pick him up and bury my nose in his curls. I mean, could you resist a face like this?