Yep, She's Slipping

B.C. = Before Children.

I adore my angelic little Baby Belles and I wouldn’t trade them for the world, but I admit to looking back at my life before the arrival of my sweet pumpkins and marveling at the things I set stock in.  I’ve already told you about my pre-pregnancy shoes and clothes versus the togs I sport now.  Sigh...

B.C....If I wanted to plop down on the couch and spend the entire day reading a book, I could.  If I wanted to spend the day puttering around in my garden (I had a lovely garden), I could.  Sleep...well I had no concept of how little I could sleep and still function and I had no desire to find out.  Manicures.  Pedicures.  Facials.  Trips to New York, Los Angeles, Vegas, the Caribbean, Europe...wow.

Haircuts.

B.C....I had hairstylist appointments at least every six weeks.  I alternated from blonde, to brunette to redhead on a whim to the point where I completely forgot the natural color of my hair.  As you know from my blog entry about a Southern Belle’s kevlar, you are well aware of how critical a hairstyle is to a lady’s appearance.  One time, I even kept my driver’s license two years past the expiration date because my hair looked so damn good in the picture that I wanted to keep using it.  The police officer who cited me for an expired license wasn’t able to follow my reasoning.

After I had Baby Belle 1...well...I counted any day that I was actually able to wash my hair as a success.  It was about three months into motherhood that I actually stopped and looked into a mirror and thought, “Oh crap!”  I looked like the mutant offspring between a rabid squirrel and a porcupine and I’m not even going to go into detail about the decorative spit up and bits of food here and there. 

I made an appointment. 

B.C.: I waltzed into a salon like I owned the joint.  A.C.: I snuck in all covered up like Quasimodo.  When I took the bedraggled mess out of my scrunchie, the lady bit her lip, but managed to suppress the horror that I’m sure she was feeling.  The stylist was instructing some students from the cosmetology school that day and I served as the cautionary tale for the afternoon.

So...then came Baby Belle 2.  I vowed before I even gave birth to not descend to “that dark place” again.  Ha.

When my mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday last year, I said a haircut.  My mother didn’t even bother to ask what I wanted for my birthday this year:  She told me that I was getting an appointment at the salon and I took the not-so-subtle hint. 

Well, I went to the salon yesterday.  The same brave lady as before actually gasped and recoiled when I let my hair down that time.  I felt the love.

Now I am a Belle with blond highlights and zero split ends.  In an attempt to get myself out of the rut, I went really blond (I’m sure that some smartass will now make the comment that I’ve been really blond for a long time—go on and get it over with).  Surely the roots will look so bad in a few months that even I won’t be able to live with the zebra look.

Yes, I’ve let my Southern Belle sisters down and I am most heartily sorry.  If it makes ya’ll feel any better, I’ve written several thank-you notes about various things today, I’ve answered “ma’am” and “sir” to all questions asked and I told a new bride “best wishes” instead of “congratulations.”  (Ya’ll feel free to look that last one up.)