970. That Time My Wig Fell Off

My hair had never been what you would call “luxurious.”  Pantene shampoo marketers had never phoned and begged me to be in one of their commercials.  Even my beloved gayer-than-Liberace hairdresser of 20 years had frequently oh-so-subtlely hinted, “Hon, let’s consider going ultra-short!” 

But then I'd gaze in the mirror at my lackluster blond hair, and I'd see Alice in Wonderland.  Yes, a stringier, more split-endier version of my childhood idol, but Alice nonetheless. 

“I like it long,” I would say to Robert-the-hair-guru, and he would give me a weak Mona Lisa smile and reluctantly set down the scissors. 

So it should come as somewhat of a surprise that women (yes, that is plural) literally stopped me on the street one day to compliment me on my gorgeous hair.    

I did not have the heart to tell them it was a special hair clip made of (I hoped) horse hair but possibly (I tried not to think about it too much) even human hair.  Human hair that some altruistic soul had chopped off to donate to cancer victims who had lost their hair to chemotherapy and radiation, not exactly meant for narcissistic stringy-haired individuals like me who just wanted to look like Heidi Klum or Claudia Schiffer for once in her life. 

I had been shopping at Nordstrom with my mom (a rarity, since I favored Target and she preferred to not shop at all since “I will always see something I want to buy and then have to buy it”) when we innocently wandered into the hair accessories department.    

Sparkly barrettes and satin headbands had beckoned to us, like an all-you-can-eat buffet of Godiva chocolate at a Weight Watchers' meeting, when I saw it:  a fluffy blond hair clip that pretty much doubles the volume of your hair.  Not only that, but it was the EXACT color of my own hair, a golden blond with a touch of mousiness for reality’s sake.  (Now you can see these hair thingies at kiosks in malls everywhere, but this was 15 years ago, so they were a complete novelty at the time.) 

I tried it on, pulling the front sections of my own hair back into this blond wonder.  My new (fake) hair cascaded in a way that can only be described as “super model.”  I instantly looked 10 years younger, 10 pounds lighter, and 10 IQ points dumber.  I had to have it. 

My mom, who had been posing with brunette poufy pony-tail holders and I-Dream-of-Jeannie fake braids, glanced at me, grabbed her chest, and let out a loud gasp.  When she regained her composure, she began to ramble:     

“Oh, MOV, that wig is stunning!  You have to buy it.  Wow!  You look amazing.  How much is it?  You know what, I’ll buy it for you.  We used to call them ‘falls’ back in my day, but these new ones are such better quality.  Oh, MOV, look in the mirror.” 

She was right, there was no way we were walking out of Nordstrom without it.  My mom pulled out her Mastercard and chatted cheerfully with the salesgirl. 

“You must sell a lot of these, right?  What a great product.  I might have to come back and buy one for myself, too.” 

The salesgirl nodded encouragingly, and then turned to me and asked, “Do you want to wear it home right now?” 

Here is where I panicked.  Wear it?  Wear a wig?  I began to have second thoughts just as my mom was signing the credit card slip.  

“No, uh, it is for special occasions.  Can I just have a bag, please?” 

“And lots of tissue paper,” interjected my mom with a wink.  “And maybe a nice shiny box with your pretty Nordstrom logo.”  My mom liked the entire experience of high-end department stores, which is why she was wise to stay at home with her credit cards tucked safely away and try to get some gardening done instead.    

As we walked out of the silver mecca that is Nordstrom, I gave my mom a big hug.  The fake hair had been expensive, a real splurge.  It is not something I would normally have bought for myself. 

“When are you going to wear it?” she asked, still giddy from buying a frivolous present for her daughter. 

“Maybe out to dinner with The Husband?” I volunteered.  “That would be fun.” 

The opportunity arose faster than I thought.  A mere week later, The Husband told me his work was hosting a Christmas luncheon at a local restaurant and spouses were invited.  I put on my cutest black dress with a short red jacket and a colorful silk scarf tied around my neck like I was French, or an American pretending to be French.  Then, as the finishing touch, I put on the new blond hair clip, fastening it securely high on the top of my head for maximum impact. 

When I walked out of the bathroom from getting ready, The Husband actually swooned.  There was no other word for it. 

“MOV, you look so beautiful!  Did you just get your hair done today?  Did you buy those hair roller things that plug in?  WOW!  How did you get your hair to do that?  You should wear your hair like that every day.”

I basked in the glory of the undeserved attention, and momentarily considered telling him it was a just a fluffy hair clip.  A fake.  But then I reconsidered, because I did not want him to tease me about it, even in jest, nor accidentally slip and tell one of his co-workers.  Instead, I played it cool. 

“You like my hair?” I whispered, channeling Marilyn Monroe.  “Well, I tried a new conditioner.” 

“Whatever conditioner it was, we are buying stock in it.  Okay, let’s get going.”  He had a grin plastered to his face as if he had just found a $100 bill lying on the sidewalk. 

When we got to the restaurant and valet-parked the car, three random women standing on the curb waiting for their cars said, “Your hair is soooooooooooo pretty!”  They looked at me with pure admiration and perhaps a slight touch of envy. 

We walked into the private room and most of The Husband’s co-workers were already there.  They greeted me enthusiastically and smiled warmly at me and my hair. 

I ordered a club sandwich and a glass of Pinot Grigio (everyone else was ordering wine or liquor, and since it was the holiday season, I thought, Why not?).  I was suddenly very self-conscious and concerned that I might have a stray piece of bacon in my teeth.  Honestly, I shouldn’t have worried about that at all.  I should have been thinking about my hair.  Throughout lunch, The Husband, sitting right next to me and with his hand on my back, had been absent-mindedly petting my long flowing locks, like I was some exotic creature from the petting zoo.  Maybe a rare pink sheep. 

Now, The Husband is not one to pet my hair.  He never did that before, and I can safely say he has never done it since.  But in that one particular moment, he could not stop stroking my magnificent Brigitte Bardot hair. 

I started obsessing about the bacon potentially lodged in my teeth.  Lettuce could be stuck in there as well, and this combination (in my Pinot Grigio-addled brain) convinced me that The Husband could end up getting fired for being married to someone like me.  Someone who was … messy and a bad eater. 

I excused  myself to the ladies’ room and was shocked to see that not only had my new hair clip not stayed on the top of my head like it was supposed to, but the clippy portion was somehow defective and had loosened to the point that it was half-way down my back.  I was like some mutant “Growing Hair Barbie” experiment gone grossly awry.

I tried to unclip it and re-clip it, but then a few of the plastic teeth of the clips broke off in my fingers as I clumsily attempted to adjust it.  The bathroom was the kind that only one person can fit in and lock the door, so someone (The Husband’s co-worker?  his boss?  the owner of the restaurant?) started knocking. 

“Just a minute!” I screeched.    

I felt big tears well up in my eyes, but I knew a smeary mascara look would only make things worse.  As a last resort, I hastily untied my scarf from around my neck and somehow managed to loop it back around the hair piece to hold everything in place.  I looked very different than when I had gone into the ladies’ room originally. 

When I returned to the table, I leaned down and whispered to The Husband, “The crab cakes made me sick.  We have to leave right now.” 

Stunned, he volleyed back, “You had a club sandwich.” 

“We.  Have.  To.  Leave.”  I smiled through gritted teeth. 

The Husband turned to his co-workers and announced apologetically, “Sorry, guys, you know MOV is a flight attendant and she just got paged for a flight.  We have to go.  So sorry.” 

Several people stood up at the table to shake hands with me, and then The Husband’s boss leaned in for a hug.

I cringed inside.  Please don’t hug me, dear God, you’re going to pull my hair, no, no hugs! 

I decided to kiss him instead.  A kiss would throw him off guard and maybe make him forget all about the hug. 

I leaned in for a peck on his cheek, and he pulled away so as not to be kissed by me, but we inadvertently found ourselves kissing on the lips. 

The kiss was approximately half a second, maybe less, but we were both mortified.  His wife, still seated, took another swig of her wine, then glared at me and my silk scarf tied around my head.   

The Husband and I walked out to the car in icy silence.  He finally sneered, “What the hell was THAT all about?” right as the valet was bringing our car around.  He handed the valet a $5 bill, then got in the driver’s seat, leaving me to get in on my side by myself.    

Just when I thought things could not possibly get any worse, the valet helped me into my seat and shut the door.  On my hair. 

We started to drive away and the valet frantically chased after us, with my hair piece in his hand.  The Husband stopped the car, and rolled down the passenger window. 

“Miss, miss, you dropped this!” the valet said apologetically as he held out the fake hair. 

“No, that’s not mine,” I said without even looking at him, and then we drove away, me stringy-haired as ever.    

MOV

969. What My Days Look Like

She maneuvered a sharp metal object mere millimeters from my eyes.  I tried desperately not to flinch while silently begging Please don’t stab me.  I would have begged out loud, but she had both her hands in my mouth. 

Now she was rambling on about her son playing lacrosse.  “He’s really good,” she said, “he might qualify for a scholarship.” 

She scraped the edge of my tooth and I tried to move my tongue out of the way.   
“Do your sons play sports?” she inquired. 

Why do they always do this?  How am I supposed to answer with the little round mirror jammed inside my cheek and that silver gougey-thing bobbing about?   

“Uhhr-hrr,” I grunted. 

“They do?  That’s great.  Which sport?” 

I closed my eyes tight and pretended that I was a narcoleptic.  It’s not that I didn’t want to say “regional soccer,” it’s just that I would most likely swallow the suction tube if I attempted to answer.  Also, she kept spinning that steel pick around like she was in a dental baton twirling competition. 

Just then, Dr. Beyond Gorgeous walked in the room.  He is so dreamy.  Think George Clooney’s unknown and much better-looking younger brother.  Mmmmmmmmm. 

“How are you, MOV?” 

He grinned wide, like an ad for toothpaste.  His teeth glistened like the light of 32 flawless diamonds on a snowy peak at high noon.  I was temporarily blinded.  He waited for Kathy to finish, and then he started examining my mouth. 

“Okay, then, try to lay off the sugar.  I notice a few areas that could develop into cavities if we’re not careful.” 

I liked how he said “We,” like we were a team.  Team Anti-Decay.  Kathy winked at me, as if to say, And you will make my job a lot easier too if I don’t have to scrape so much. 

I made a quick stop on the way home.  As I purchased my treat, I thought, Well, at least Kathy gets to keep her job this way. 

 

MOV
****

trifecta writing challenge:  333 words, key word is "light"; I wrote this piece a few days ago and have made minor modifications to fit the challenge

968. War of the Elbows

I was scrunched in my middle seat, saying futile prayers to The Gods of Travel that nobody would sit in the aisle seat.   

The Window Person gets the window, they get all the power, right?  Shade up, shade down.  View, no view.  Blinding sunlight ruining the movie, or complete darkness combined with a burnt-out reading light when you have a brand-new book.  The Window People are a menace. 

And those damn Aisle People.  They jump up and go to the bathroom anytime.  Right after take-off, right before meal service, during the movie, whenever.  They have more power than the Window People.  They practically own the plane. 

This power goes to their heads.  They suddenly think they have rights to both armrests.  Theirs and mine.  Isn’t it enough that they have one armrest on the outside and that they can get up whenever they want?  And if the plane crashes, they are getting out to safety 15 seconds before me?  By laws of adverse possession, they claim the middle armrest.      

The Middle Loser (me) is clearly not a planner.  By the time the Middle Loser got around to buying a ticket, all the good seats were taken.  The Middle Loser deserves to sit folded over like a broken umbrella for five hours. 

I stage a coup.  When Aisle Person gets up to stretch, I pounce.  I adhere my elbow to the armrest like a very strong magnet.   

Now I notice Aisle Person is holding two full glasses of white wine.  He must be an alcoholic.  Drinking while flying, stretching his legs, hogging up armrests.  How did this freak get through security?  He has absolutely no consideration for—

“Excuse me, miss?  I brought you some wine.” 

He hands me a glass. 

“For … me?”

He nods.  “Middle seats suck.  You deserve a free glass of wine.” 

I smile and thank him.  I accidentally lift my elbow for a second when I take a sip.    

Just long enough for him to regain access of the armrest. 

MOV
*****


trifecta writing challenge/ I shortened and edited a piece I wrote a few days ago/ exactly 333 words/ required word is "freak"

964. Open Letter to a Loyal Shirt

Dear Loyal Shirt,

I remember when we first met, at the mall of all places.  You beckoned me over from a metal rack where you were hanging out with your colorful comrades. 

I noticed you right away—your basic black hue, your stunning embroidered neckline, and your flattering boxy cut. 

You were different somehow, longer.  You offered more coverage than is typical, obscuring not just the tumucular region, but even offering a respite from the viewing of the hips.     

I knew I had to have you, and when I found out you were on sale (!), well, that was just the proverbial cherry on the whipped cream of my shopping expedition sundae. 

I got you home and for years you behaved even better than expected.  You had no qualms about accompanying me to work, school functions, even doctors’ appointments.  You could be counted on for holidays, vacations, sporting events, or trips to the grocery store.  You unilaterally embraced every climate; every raindrop or snowflake or ray of blazing sunshine was your pal.  You were flexible and could be paired with virtually anything in my closet:  denim jeans, floral print skirts, cotton khakis, plaid shorts, striped capris, even a formal interview suit.  You made numerous appearances in several family photos.   

You were my silent workhorse, my prized clothing chameleon. 

Until. 

There’s always an “until,” isn’t there? 

You know what I am talking about.  Don't pretend you don't.  The Husband made the grave miscalculation to …

No.  It’s too painful.  I can’t talk about it yet. 

… he made the grave miscalculation to put you in … the washer … and then … the dryer. ON HIGH HEAT. 

Has he never had a wardrobe component like you, Loyal Shirt?  I always dry cleaned you.  In fact, I know for a fact, factually speaking, that The Husband had accompanied you to the dry cleaner (for drop off AND pick up) on several occasions.  I have witnesses!  Gray Skirt and Navy Linen Dress had seen you there.  Red Cashmere Sweater Made In England told me you two stopped and had lunch.  Even Black Work Jacket had cozied up to you in the very same plastic bag. 

So what is one tumble in the dryer between friends, hmm?  After all we have been through together?  Why would you insist on shrinking up like that?  Why?  I always did treat you well, before this one isolated incident, I swear.  And you know it was not my fault anyway!  So why punish me?  Isn’t that like blaming the victim? 

Tell The Husband you are mad, don’t take it out on me when I am getting ready to have a conference with my sons’ principal and need to match you up with Boat Print Skirt.  You know that White Rayon Sweater shows every bit of deodorant or cat fur, how dare you even mention such a substitution. 

What I am saying is:  It’s over.  It is.  I, for one, wish it could be different, we all do.  The kids do (who wants to see their mom with deodorant or cat fur at school conference day?).  I know that deep in my heart of hearts, even The Husband wishes things turned out differently. 

Why?  Because I took his credit card and I am headed to the mall. 

It won’t be easy to replace you, but I’ll try. 

Your Loving Friend,
MOV

958. My Kids Are Bionic

I never wore glasses.  I can usually hear when a bus is driving up behind me.  I am able to outrun elderly people any day of the week.

Sure, I consider myself gifted.      

But my children?  They’re bionic. 

PROOF:  They tell me when my cell phone rings.  We are in the living room.  I left the phone in the car.   

PROOF:  I go to get a step-stool to retrieve something on top of the refrigerator.  When I return, they have already scaled the refrigerator.  Like Spiderman. 

PROOF:  I sniff the milk to see if it has gone bad.  Short yells out, “Throw it away, Mommy!”  He is upstairs. 

PROOF:  I glance at a timeshare thing that just came in the mail.  My 3rd-grader, Tall, snatches it out of my hands and declares, “You don’t want to do this, Mom.  The fine print says 50K down and then an APR of 21%.  That’s highway robbery.”  Fine print?  Where?  That black squiggly design at the bottom of the postcard, is that what he’s referring to? 

It is humbling to be outdone by your peers, but more so your own children.

I used to watch Lindsay Wagner as the Bionic Woman, with various limbs made out of wires, and artificial eyeballs inserted into her head—eyeballs that could see 500 feet away.  I would watch the 6 Million Dollar Man and scoff at the audacity of those producers to give us such unrealistic garbage to watch.  He can run a mile in 2 minutes?  Yeah, right.

But now I know it was not fiction after all.  Someone in Hollywood was just writing about their kids. 

MOV

956. The "B" List

The first time I ever heard the concept of a “B” list was when I was planning my wedding.  My mom told me that we should keep the number of guests to a certain limit, but I was free to maintain a “B” list in case some people RSVP’d no.    

“Wait, what do you mean a ‘B’ list?” 

“You know, if the main people you are inviting can’t come, then you have extra people on a secondary list … people that you like, but not necessarily your first choice.” 

I was really puzzled by this, because in my mind, everyone I wanted to invite was my “A” list—there was no secondary list.  In fact, if pressed, the only people we didn’t really need at the wedding would be the guests my fiancé wanted to invite.  I guess those were the “B” list people. 

Not surprisingly, my fiancé was not real pleased to hear about that. 

“What do you mean, ‘B’ list?” 

Anyway, we somehow worked it all out without an “A” or “B” list after all.  We invited everyone we wanted, and did not worry too much about who could not attend.    

Fast forward 13 years and I find myself again in this conundrum with my own children.  But instead of me deciding who is on the “B” list, I learn that I am the one on the “B” list.  My kids have no desire to spend time with good ol’ mom if there exists someone born between 2001 and 2008 within a half mile radius.

Gone are the days when separation anxiety gripped my toddler like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed down the middle.  Goes are the days when my preschooler Velcro-ed himself to my leg every morning at drop-off.  Gone are the days when my kindergartner ran toward me with open arms after getting off the school bus, like a commercial for a cheesy Lifetime movie about a custody battle. 

I now fall squarely in the category of “people you like, but not necessarily your first choice.” 

The other day, I made the mistake of giving my sons the option of getting out of school early to take me to the airport or they could go to a full day of school and have a playdate with a neighbor friend. 

Guess which one they chose?

I, of course, was devastated.  I confided my situation to The Husband later that evening.    

“Sweetie, I am not longer on the ‘A’ list,” I lamented.    

He smiled and said something he thought might be reassuring, “Oh, MOV, don’t worry … you never were.” 

MOV

952. Z Is for Zoo with Zero Zebras

When my younger son, Short, was about three years old, he became obsessed with zebras.  He adored stuffed animal zebras, books about zebras, sticker of zebras … basically anything that had a picture of a zebra on it, he wanted.  How thrilled were we when we received an invitation in the mail to the local zoo for a free trial membership. 

It was summer, so I did not even have to pull my older son, Tall, out of school for the outing.  Both children were excited to see lions, tigers, and zebras—oh my! 

The day started out uneventfully:  a cheetah, a gorilla, a few snakes.  We progressed on to the elephants and then the giraffes.  I was saving the big highlight for right after lunch—the threat of no zebras would guarantee our mealtime would remain calm and orderly. 

Sure enough, something upset Short at lunch (the fact that his apple juice was lukewarm, if you must know) and he began to have a meltdown verging dangerously close to full-blown tantrum.  I took his favorite stuffed animal Zebra (nickname: “Zeebie”) out of his stroller and gave Short a stern lecture: 

“See this?  Zebra?  You love zebras, right?  We came to see zebras.  If you have gooooooood behavior, we can see the zebras.  If you don’t, then … no.  We will go home.” 

His dour expression changed instantly, and the crying and whining stopped.  He morphed into the Stepford child I had always dreamed of having:  quiet, obedient, and profoundly sorry for causing a problem. 

“I sorry, Mommy.”  (Sniff) “I want to see zebras.  I be good now.” 

He nodded his little head apologetically, forced a smile, and with that, I knew I had won. 

“Good, Short.  You made the right decision.  Because you are having good behavior, we will go see the zebras now.” 

I was going to keep this trick up my sleeve for future use as well.  We could come to the zoo every single week for the rest of eternity if it meant good behavior at mealtimes.  Heck, we could move in with the zebras.  I was ready to go to the zoo membership office right then and there, credit card in hand, to buy a lifetime membership for our entire family.  Why had other parents not thought of the Zebra Method of good parenting?  I was secretly considering patenting it. 

We threw away our lunch trash and excitedly headed over to the zebra pens.  There was some sort of wall or barricade with signs directing us through a detour.  As we approached, Tall started to read the sign out loud, clearly enunciating every syllable: 

“We apologize for the inconvenience, but the Zebra Habitat is temporarily closed for repairs and remodeling.  We will reopen in—” 

I could not react fast enough.  I was internally debating putting my hands over Tall’s mouth (and really, what kind of school teaches a 5 ½ year-old to read big words with that kind of accuracy?!) or putting my hands over Short’s ears.  My slow response caused me to do neither. 

“Milkshakes!” I screamed.  “Who wants milkshakes from the Milkshake Hut we just passed?  Ooh, I bet they have chocolate!”  Distract, distract, distract.    

“Zebras!” squawked Short, refusing to be distracted.  “I want to see zebras NOW!” 

I felt horrible.  Through my own stupidity, I had talked up the zebras.  I had used the zebras as a threat, and then, conversely, as a reward.  Now the damn zebras were beating me at my own game, a crazy game that I never really wanted to play in the first place.  How was I supposed to tell Short he could not see the zebras even after he had good behavior at lunch?  He would never trust me again.    

I did the only thing I could think of:  took Short to see the Mongolian wild horses that I knew from the zoo map were a mere two minute walk down the path.  The wild horses were not black and white striped, nor even black and white spotted; they were … brown.  Plain, boring, medium brown.  The color of dirt.    

“Look, Sweetie, look!  Zebras!  Brown zebras!”  I pointed at the Mongolian wild horses and began to jump up and down, like I was on crack.    

Just because Short was a three-years-old toddler did not mean he was dumb.  He shook his head emphatically no and said, “Mommy, those are horses.” 

Tall looked at me like I was insane.  He took a deep breath and began,

“Mom, the sign says—”

I grabbed Tall, pulled him close to me, and whispered in his ear:  “I will buy you a new Lego set if you go along with whatever I say next.” 

Tall’s eyes got wide; his mom had clearly lost any traces of sanity here at the zoo. 

I cleared my throat.  “Boys, the sign says, ‘Przewalski’s horses, or Dzungarian horses, are a rare and endangered subspecies of wild horse native to central Asia, specifically Mongolia.  Sometimes referred to as ‘International Plain Brown Zebras.’  International Plain Brown Zebras!  You are so lucky you get to see these!  They are so unbelievably rare!  WOW!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Tall reading the sign quietly to himself again.  It took every shred of self-restraint that he possessed to not contradict me, but he has always been the son who can focus on the bigger gain (new Lego set) and give up the instant gratification (calling mommy out).  He stayed silent. 

In this moment, I was praising Short’s preschool teachers for rejecting all my previous helpful suggestions of flashcards and daily quizzing to get him reading early.  In fact, I was almost wishing we had watched more TV all those mornings when we were drawing or reading instead. 

Short looked at me.  He looked at Tall.  He looked at the horses.  And then he burst into applause. 

“Inner-naznal Plain Brown Zebras!  Yay!  They almost look like horses!” 

“Yes, Sweetie, they are from the same family, you are so smart!  Yes, but they are not!  They are actually a special type of zebra!” 

By this time, I was attracting a small crowd of interested zoo-goers who were not familiar with the myriad variations in the zebra species.  Specifically, a few zoo employees. 

I was not about to stick around and wait to be corrected by these khaki-uniformed zealots, so I ushered my children quickly to the car.  I was worried that Tall might say something deleterious when we got there, but he didn’t. 

And that explains why, whenever we pass a farm and happen to see a certain type of exotic creature, Short inevitably squeals,

“Oh, look, Mommy!  Inner-naznal Plain Brown Zebras!” 

MOV