Like most moms, I crave some “me” time. I even used to daydream about going potty by myself. Y’know, to do some private things in privacy. But I’ve gotten so used to having a companion visit me on the porcelain throne that I’m not sure I want to tinkle alone anymore.
Besides, it’s like I have a butler who tends to all my requests: “Pass me the toilet paper, daaaarling. May I have a magazine, love? Could you kindly grab Mother the wet wipes? Her hiney is horrendously on fire from the inflamed nuisance that started playing peek-a-boo since pregnancy. No, it’s not fun. Yes, it’s your fault. Now grab me the wipes, dear, and don’t forget the courtesy flush.”
While I certainly enjoy all the perks of a potty partner, there is one place I want to go solo: the hair salon.
So listen up my little sidekick and let me explain why:
I want to be Cinderella for a day and have my fairy glam-mother magically transform me into a princess, so I can go dancing before turning back to a hot mess at midnight (no need to be accompanied by the butler, TP assistant, hemorrhoid helper and toilet flusher — I got this).
I want that incredible scalp massage during an erotic shampoo that’s secretly as arousing as a chapter right out of Fifty Shades of Grey. I don’t want my steamy session interrupted with a freezing “cool rinse” running down the back of my shirt from a 2-year-old doing Pilates on my chest.
I want to relax all by myself before, during, and after my overdue color and cut. I can’t handle a 32-inch cowgirl on my lap arching her back and waving her arm like she’s riding a mechanical bull with a half-sucked, sticky lollipop that keeps getting caught in my blowout. (Keep adding more split ends to my locks, and someone’s getting bucked off my body.)
I want to hear the ultra-dope, techno music blaring from the speakers as I subtly twerk under my cape like I’m in my 20s and at a hot dance club. I don’t freakin’ want to hear “D-D-D-D-Dora” on my iPhone so a little Nick Jr. groupie can entertain herself with a faux rap song for children. The only thing I want to hear outta Dora’s mouth right now is: “Adios Amigos! Time to vamanos without your Mama.”
I want to gaze at my trendy ombre dye job and always fabulous Jennifer Aniston hairdo without a 30-pound Weeble Wobble shifting back and forth on my worn-out uterus. I don’t need a little narcissist vying for everyone’s attention. Mommy just wants to smile at her totally, gorgeous self in the mirror.
I want to drink glass after glass of free wine, so I can guzzle down some guilt from pissing away two-hundred bucks at a high-end hair salon and incessantly lying to my husband about our dwindling bank account. I don’t need an underage hooligan snatching the glass from my hand and announcing: “Mommy is only allowed one glass of appy juice!”
I want a day of pampering without apologizing for strange, loud noises, and inappropriate, nonsensical words slipping off the tongue of a foul-mouth, copycat who shouldn’t be imitating her mother in public places. I don’t want to continuously hush a person wearing her own pamper, making embarrassing outbursts and playing see-saw on my legs.
I want my tiny, tater-tot to go home — without me. Text Daddy. Call an Uber. Do something. No offense pooh-bear, I love you, but I want this afternoon with my stylist. It may be hard for you to comprehend right now, but I highly enjoy our hour-long hairstyle/mental health combo session. Believe it or not, she never cries, throws herself on the floor, or acts like everything is about her. As a matter of fact, she lets me know it’s all about me.
She doesn’t call me meanie or poopy-head. Instead, she turns my hair from looking poopy to downright amazeballs. And somehow she miraculously makes me look 10 years younger (which is worth way more than $200) without a single syringe of Botox.
Even better, she replaces my lackluster mom-bun with glamorous curls and five days of footloose and fancy-free happiness, allowing me to whip and nae nae my head around like a stripper with a Swiffer instead of a dance pole. (And Daddy thinks I look hot!)
She’s also my rent-a-BFF because I have little in common with my bedwetting, sippy-cup drinking acquaintances. My grown-up home-girl laughs at all my jokes, tells me I’m pretty, and says I’m an ah-mazing mom, which makes her my bestie for life. So what if she is lying; she is a damn good liar, and I commend her for it.
And get this, she pretends she genuinely gives a crap about this mama’s drama and lets me do a drive-by vent session of all the BS that no one else wants to hear about. Poor thing has to hear me complain about you again; and this time, it’s for not staying home.