“What are you most looking forward to doing now that you’re off bed rest?” my doctor asked me on Monday while sticking a Q-tip up my baby maker for the routine Group B Strep test.
Many moms probably would have said “going out to eat with my family” or “spending quality time with my daughter” or “sitting somewhere…anywhere… besides the bed.” But not me. Oh no.
“GETTING MY HAIR DONE,” I blurted out, perhaps a bit too quickly.
“I totally get that,” my doctor nodded, having obviously noticed my four-inch roots and straggly ends.
When you’re on bed rest for two months, you find yourself doing crazy things that you may otherwise eschew. Like watching Khloe & Lamar. And obsessively poring over beauty sites for the “perfect” hair color — an insidious habit for a woman under the influence of pregnancy hormones. One day I longed for Isla Fisher’s red tresses, the next, Mila Kunis’ dark brown curls. It was my way of escaping the doldrums of bed rest, but it was not without its dangers. Mr. Candy would circle me with trepidation.
“Are you sure that coloring your hair right now is a good idea –?”
“YES. YES, I AM. I HATE MY HAIR.”
Disturbingly, another side effect of bed rest is talking in all-caps.
When I finally sat — okay, plopped — down in the salon chair on Tuesday, I showed my colorist a few pictures on my iPad (thanks for the early push gift, Mr. Candy!), including one of Vanessa Minnillo. Quite the drastic leap from my current blonde locks. I heard her inhale sharply.
“But… you’re pregnant. And that is dark, darker than your hair really is,” she said in her most steady and convincing I Need to Talk Some Sense into This Insane, Emotional Pregnant Client tone of voice.
“YES, I AM. AND YES, IT IS.”
“That’s not a good idea. How ’bout we just take baby steps for now and wait until you’re not pregnant anymore to see if you still want to go that dark?”
“Okay,” I said, pouting like my 21-month-old, but knowing deep down in my heart she was right and that I was, indeed, one too-dark hair shade away from entering the looney bin.
FAST FORWARD THREE HOURS, AS I BARGE INTO OUR HOUSE, AVOID ALL EYE CONTACT WITH MR. CANDY AND IMMEDIATELY LOCK MYSELF IN OUR BATHROOM.
“I HATE MY HAIR!” I declared, sitting on the toilet and crying uncontrollably — Mr. Candy’s peek into the future 13 years from now, when Skylar does the very same thing. A most frightening crystal ball that Mr. Candy would prefer to toss into the trash, I’m sure.
I had braced myself for “baby steps,” but the color — dark brown on top and lighter on the ends, in the ombre style that my colorist had made popular with famous clients such as Drew Barrymore and Hilary Duff — was not what I had expected. My tears fueled by raging pregnancy hormones and visions of meeting Baby Freedom for the first time, as he looks up and gasps, “What is UP with that two-tone hair, Mom? You’re not Drew Barrymore, you know.” Sure, there are children starving in Africa and people who are still without homes in New Orleans, but we are talking about MY HAIR here, people.
It was more than I could bear.
Thankfully, the colorist had offered to “tweak the color,” if I so decided — and I so did. For the first time in my life, I returned to a salon for a color correction, embarrassed out of my gourd.
“Could we make it a little lighter and more uniform?” I asked tentatively, biting my lip. “I’m so sorry –”
“I thought you might want to. That’s why I offered,” she smiled, patting my shoulder, clearly having vast experience with nutso pregnant ladies.
My hair now…? A lovely shade of light brown-slash-honey blonde that I think will please Baby Freedom and, happily for Mr. Candy, has soothed the pregnant beast.
Until I decide I must have Emma Watson’s pixie cut, that is. (What…? I’m sure ANYONE can pull that off. *Ahem* Yeah, you’re right, let’s hope this baby comes before I pull a Sinead O’Connor.)