Every time I see a mother getting a makeover on a show, the first thing the stylist wants to do to her is chop her hair off. And she always says the same thing: “I need it to be long enough so I can still pull it back.”
The hairstylist doesn’t listen and keeps trying to talk her into the cut, claiming she needs a “style.” But she already has a style — it’s called “I need to be able to pull this hair back when I want to get down and get shit done,” and she’s not kidding.
Moms feel the weight of their mane as soon as they are about to get serious. It’s itchy, scratchy, and just in our fucking way. We want it off our neck and shoulders, we need to be free and clear of strands falling in our face.
If you see a mom pull her hair up, you know shit is about to get serious. Moms invented the messy bun and made it a trend without even meaning to. It’s a hot look and we like taking credit for it, but what’s really happening is we are about to delve into a rage clean, get the kids ready for bed, or eat five fucking tacos. We could care less if we are on fleek. We need our hair out of the damn way.
I’ve seen every mom I know do it, even if they have short hair. You can totally rock a pony tail no matter how small, it just makes us feel like we can get more shit done when that hair is contained.
With an up-do, moms feel fearless and powerful, and you certainly don’t want to mess with them or get in their way. Don’t speak to her either; she won’t hear you because she’s thinking about knocking out her to-do list like the motherfucking boss she is.
And if you see her tighten her ponytail, don’t ask her what’s about to happen; just try to help without getting in her way.
In the morning when we are running late, it’s the messy bun for the win.
In the afternoon when we are hot and bothered by every little thing and know we still have the witching hour ahead of us, we grab for an elastic and pull that hair back and tackle the rest of the day.
In the evening, we love nothing more than to take off our bra, undo our pants, and throw our locks into a hair band. And once that happens, the only way we would pour ourself back into clothes and restyle our hair is if Jon Hamm showed up at our door bearing his gifts. Even then, I’d probably just throw on a bra and leave the rest as is.
Sure we love a good blowout: long, soft waves, fuck yeah, but nothing feels better than getting our hair up in an elastic and getting busy.
I work better when I have a ponytail or a bun. I am a better mother, a better cook. I am more patient, and I am efficient as fuck. With my hair up, I can scrub a tub like it’s my job (okay, it totally is one of my jobs), but when my hair is dangling in my face, it just makes me want to burn that motherfucker down.
I never leave the house without an elastic hair band on my wrist, or in my purse. Yes, it’s one more thing I have to remember but at some point while I’m out, my hair is going to need to be put in its place, because as much as I like to have my hair down every once a while, I’m never emotionally prepared to kept down all day.
Now where the hell is that damn elastic?
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