Nutella Hair

At the cusp of every first long weekend, where we anticipate the return of living in the wilds of British Columbia, where the lake has not yet warmed up to a comfortable swim, yet enough for a ride on the speedboat and children full of jiggy for white wash.

For my family it means hair appointments. Daniel gets the usual plastic cap coverage, turning what is left of his scalp into a spikey blonde bimbo, accompanied with the 10 minute tan sessions.

Then there's Sabrina, with her long, thick mass, pulled and stretched and streaked, and streaked until I can't recognize her anymore.

Brandon...nada...zip....he wants to be a rockstar, so his hair hangs like the Vancouver Canucks flag, down...limp, straight, and careless.

My hair has gone through many changes. Recently, my new hairdresser wants to impress me by making my thick, full hair, thin and dead. It takes her about 4 hours, but she eventually gets it to go thin. $260.00 later.....
This took two days to achieve. The first night was to only cover up my grey roots, after already been streaked two months previous. But I had to come back the next day to have those roots re-streaked, to match the rest of my hair. Instead, the hairdresser re-streaked, and re-streaked to achieve "the blonde look" which I suppose hairdresses do now, to make a 40'ish old fatty feel younger. Geez, the assumptions....I don't want to look younger, I want to feel younger. There's a big difference. And there's no way in Hell I'm gonna' stand at a mirror and flat-iron and prim and priss....my shoulder joints won't allow it.

Anyways, when I got home, Brandon immediately noted that my new hair looks like Nutella, the chocolate/vanilla mix.

Kids, eh....what do they know. But then, he sent home some class work that asked "who is your favorite person...(who turned out to be me this time, instead of Daddy, Daddy, Daddy)...is she thin, medium, or fat? Brandon checked the "thin" box. Now, he's either really stupid, or really, really smart.


Anyways, on my road to transforming myself, I decided to get my eyebrows waxed...not plucked, waxed. I've never had that done before, maybe because I feared the pain.I feared the thin tramp look, you know the one, where it's mistakenly over-plucked and pencilled in later. It's hard to see in this picture, but my brows have been waxed! It wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. This picture is the first day at the hairdressers, with root touch-up only.

But then my hairdresser asked if I wanted to wax "down there"....you know, "down there". So there I am, lying down on some cot, in the dark, like I'm at the Dentist or getting X-rays, and I suddenly feel nervous about "down there", since my stomach hasn't allowed me to see it for several years now.
OMG, I get this on-rush of realization that my hair-stylist is from Brazil!

I tell her maybe next time.

In the end, I feel rejuvenated by my new transformation and anxiously await our first long weekend at the lake, the enivitable problems we will encounter with poop overloads and come-along friends, the eventual rain that historically ruins every long weekend. But, at least, we will all look fantastic in our misery.

God help me if I become the movie......