There’s a section in my Parents Magazine called, It Happened To Me, where parents write in and share some horrific thing they experienced so that we can all learn from their random mistake.
I read it in the bathroom.
It’s a section I usually use to convince myself how much better of a parent I am compared to the people who, oh, I don’t know, let their babies fall off changing tables or leave them in the dressing room at GAP Kids while they go get a soft pretzel in the food court.
Ok, so then, two days ago, I was sitting with the baby, watching Judge Mathis, when I felt something weird going on with her toe. I figured it was toe jam, and started ritually cleaning lint from between her tiny toes like some kind of monkey, because, when it comes to babies, even toe jam is adorable.
I may or may not have smelled it.
I had trouble pulling something fuzzy off of one of her toes, looked down, and saw that a strand of my hair had been wrapped, so super tightly, around her tiny, tiny toe…which was now purple…and swollen…and HOLY SHIT.
OMG I am one of those parents, the assholes from the magazine!
There was a lot of crying, running around with scissors, heart palpitations, swearing, and even some peeing, it doesn’t matter from who, just know there was pee and thongs had to be changed.
It was scary.
My hair has become a problem.
And not just for my sex life, because what is sexier than pulling a hamster size wad of hair from the shower drain?
Except for this weird long hair on my thigh that for some reason, I completely missed shaving for, like, 3 straight months, and now looks like I have a crazy rat tail on my left leg.
Anyways, the point is, I was going to have to cut my hair if I had any chance at not amputating one of my infant’s appendages, and also, prepare myself to never have sex again, because it would be like my husband having sex with my mom. Or that one lesbian neighbor from Married With Children.
So, I told my husband I needed a hair cut, and was like, hey, name someone who has a sexy haircut, and he’s like, do you mean on a girl or a dude, and I was like, a dude? And he’s like, ummm…so I was like, a girl…obviously. And he was all, I don’t know, I feel like this is a trick question, and I am like, man the fuck up and tell me how to cut my hair, so he’s like, well I like Jordan’s hair. And I am all, HOLD THE FUCK UP. Jordan? My best friend, Jordan? Who you are either, obviously, sleeping with or having sex dreams about?! Is that the Jordan you speak of, you ball sack of a husband?
And, he was all, you are a psycho, I’m going back to sleep.
Yeah…to dream about dudes…apparently.
Whatever, I am obviously on my own with this.
So, I went to my aunt’s salon with random celebrity pictures, made lots of hand gestures, explained to her how I almost killed my daughter, was all, please don’t make me look like a mom…
And then this happened.
And then this.
I don’t even know how I made it home. I remember getting in the car, but the next 8 hours were a blur of sobbing and running my fingers through the hair I didn’t have anymore. Like those soldiers who lose limbs in roadside attacks.
I was having phantom hair issues.
My husband came home from work and can’t keep his hands off me. Everyone who sees it tells me they adore it.
But, I can’t shake it.
I have mom hair.
So the question remains…will I still feel sexy at 6am when I wake my kids up to take them to school in my pajama nightie thing with dirty jeans and mis-matched flip flops?
No. No I won’t. But who the hell does, it’s 6am, ask me again when I have a bra on.