I pulled off my navy cardigan as I turned the corner from the elevator and walked past the TV with CNBC blaring advice and ticker symbols. I deposited myself before Raymond. He looked up with a curious expression as I turned my back to him.
“I haven’t gotten all the way dressed this morning and I kinda think it would be weird to ask my daughter’s teachers to zip me up. Help a girl out? Single girl problems.”
“What is going on back here?” Raymond stood as he examined the area where my cardigan was stuck in the mouth of the zipper which I’m quite certain also held several strands of my hair.
“I don’t know. My zipper is tiny and I can’t get it up by myself so after a few minutes I just threw a cardigan over it and figured some kind soul would eventually zip me up today.”
He started laughing as he also noticed my zipper was broken. Out popped a tool kit that I didn’t even know existed. In less than thirty seconds you would have no idea I started my morning off sweating in my bathroom while trying to hook the end of a hanger into a zipper as I pulled and chased my own self around in a circle.
Our admin smiled her sweet grandmotherly smile as she watched me get dressed in front of a bunch of filing cabinets, “Honey, you look beautiful today. What did you do to your hair?”
I smiled conspiratorially, “I washed it.”
She laughed as if my response was adorable. It has been my response every time she asks me about my hair and I am never kidding.
My most OCD co-worker thinks it is “gross” that I don’t wash my hair every morning and five or so years ago I would’ve agreed. I also would have nixed the outfit so that I would actually feel dressed before leaving the house, but when you have a child under your feet with demands you start to just roll with the small things. Yes, I could’ve easily found a dress with a working zipper, but then I would have to change my shoes and when someone is asking you seventy five questions you don’t think clearly, I just have to get out of the house, why can’t we get out of the house? Strapped into a car seat, yes, you need to get in your car seat. Then I won’t trip on you anymore and we won’t have to argue about how your shirt is itchy or your sock is weird or how today your Batgirl panties look like four year old panties and you are three or how your nose is your boogie’s home, why won’t they stay in their home?
The moment I hear the buckle click my shoulders fall away from my ears in personal congratulations.
I started using dry shampoo the day after Olivia was born. It was a gift from a girlfriend who came to see me in the hospital. I don’t recall the impetus behind the present, but I was hooked.
You meant to wash your hair, but then someone wakes up and announces her belly, her foot and her nose hurts? She tells you she has too many coughs to go to school? Get to parting your hair, woman. Sprinkle, soak up the grease and get that child in her car seat.
You have a big event, but the babysitter is late and you are running behind? Back comb the hell out of your newly dry shampooed hair and your punk rock pony will look effortless and chic and not smell like peanut butter at all.
I have received the most compliments on my hair and makeup when I have had the least amount of time to get ready. I believe this is because my medicine cabinet with the dry shampoo is to my left and the drawer that holds a fine-toothed comb, bobby pins and hair elastics is to my right. My arms fling in opposite directions, deciding on their own to just get me out the door, no one will know. It is instantaneous, like a reflex. I hear the sound of whining or angry clock glaring at me announcing my tardiness?
Dirty hair, y’all.
Try it. Own it.
Clean hair is for twenty-somethings.