“Mom, why are you making your hair handsome?” my three-year-old asks as he walks into the room to the sight of me with a curling wand held up to my head. He leaves before I can answer.
I chuckle to myself as I think about his question. Making something handsome is code for “getting ready.” He uses this word when I actually take the time to comb his hair and throw a little product in it. The other 90% of the time it goes unseen, smashed underneath a ball cap.
On the rare occasion that I attempt to “ready him,” my son usually tells me he doesn’t want to be handsome. The scenario always plays out the same way with him trying to thwart my efforts to transfer the sticky pomade from my fingers to his head while I remind him he’s handsome no matter what—even if his hair isn’t combed or styled.
I set the wand down on the dresser and run my fingers through the waves to loosen them a bit. Picking up the pink aerosol can, I spray a cloud of finishing mist before I unclip the next layer of hair and begin the process all over again.
It’s Wednesday, which means my husband is home, which means I have a long list of things to accomplish while I’m able to do so sans kids. Today it’s two appointments and a Target run. I laugh to myself again, this time thinking about how I’m curling my hair for an outing that includes a trip to the dentist and a physical.
It wasn’t that long ago that I had actual places to go, and I don’t just mean pre-pandemic. Rewind less than four years, and “making myself handsome” was an everyday occurrence that constituted jewelry, full-face make-up, blouses, and either wedges or heels. My hair was always straightened or curled (as opposed to slept-on or air-dried), casual dresses were in regular rotation, and my lip gloss was never far from reach. This was when I left the house for work each day, put together and hot coffee in hand. This was also when we had no kids, and when date nights were ample, as was the energy to primp for them.
These days, a lot of my somewheres involve grocery-getting and schlepping kids around in strollers, and the only gowns I’m donning are ones meant for the doctor’s office, not fancy New Year’s Eve parties. Although I’ve grown accustomed to my messy bun and momiform, I do still like to put forth a little extra effort on the days I’m going to be outside the four walls of my home and perimeter of my yard. It makes me feel… like an adult? An actual woman?
It all starts to feel like an exercise in vanity, however, when I realize I’m not even going to carry these curls over into tomorrow. I’ll wash all of my efforts away in the shower tonight because, COVID or not, I’m a bit of a germaphobe. Taking the time to actually do my hair usually means dry shampoo the next day for the sake of preservation. But not when said hair has visited dentist’s chairs and exam beds.
With my curls complete, I slip on some denim and a semi-new Madewell top and make my way downstairs where my husband and two boys are engaged in what I can only describe as half pillow fight, half wrestling match. I walk by my oldest, the same toddler who questioned my hair decisions just 30 minutes prior.
“Wow, Mom. You look perfect!” he says quickly before body-slamming both himself and a pillow onto his dad’s back.
I smile, amused by the irony of him uttering such a sweet comment while at the same time carrying out a violent assault against his father.
I stand in front of the water dispenser and top off my Yeti as my eyes scan for keys, aware of how buoyed I feel by my son’s comment. I of course know I don’t look perfect, but I do feel a little more myself, and that’s something. I also know that beauty is so much more than curling my hair or putting on mascara, but today I did both, and it feels good.
Even if I don’t have anywhere to go, I still have someone to be. And any effort that makes that someone feel like the best version of herself is always worth it, in my opinion.
This is true even when the curls won’t make it to tomorrow.
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