I can’t seem to do my hair these days.

I don’t mean physically.  As far as I can tell,  I still maintain the dexterity to wrap my fingers around a blow dryer and click the heat setting.  (Does anyone ever use the cool setting?  Why is it there?  They say the cool setting is better for our hair, but when you have to be at a high-powered PTA meeting in fifteen minutes and you need to bring your A-game because today they’ll be handing out the Carnival Committee assignments, the last thing you need is to spend twenty-five minutes freezing in your bathrobe, not getting your hair dry with a blast of frigid air rushing down your dripping neck.)  At any rate.

Yes, physically, I am capable of washing, drying, and styling my hair.  But lately, I just can’t seem to invest myself emotionally in the process.  As with all major problems in my life, I’ve spent a great deal of time pondering the complexities of this issue.  I’ve come up with a few reasons why Doing My Hair just Cannot Be:

1.  As a dedicated wife, mother, and struggling human being, I am allotted only so much energy per day.  This amount varies depending on the intake of my favorite source of energy:  calories.  Personally, I think of calories as my best friends.  They’ve brought me such happiness over the years and have stuck with me–really stuck with me–through thick and thin.  They were my First Faithfuls before I had Faithfuls.  Thus, I see each of my physical exertions as merely forcing a departure from these loyal loves.  And when you only consume 3,000 calories per day (like I do) why would you spend  75 of them washing, combing and curling your hair?  Those 75 calories could be so much better spent yelling at my kids or imitating Joe Biden (when I’m on fire, I can do both at the same time.)  My moral compass will not allow me to waste good caloric energy to satisfy my own vanity.  I’m just too humble, friends.

2.  Though I know I have many of you believing that I’m living The Glamorous Life over here in Eastern Washington, the hard truth is that my daily endeavors play out within the parameters of Wal-Mart, Target, and the Regional Scout Office.  You tell me if any of these locations warrant a dollop of of Big Sexy Hair Root Pump Plus, followed by a hefty dose of Kenra Super Hold Volume Finishing Spray.  This stuff’s not cheap.  I figure each time I volumize and finishing-spray-ize my coiff, it’s running me a good buck-fifty.  Have you ever been to the Regional Scout Office?  You think I’m gonna pay to look good there?  They should pay me for showing up.  I mean, really.

3.  I turned thirty-nine this summer and in so doing became, for all intents and purposes, no longer attractive.  To anybody, at all, ever again.  No amount of Big Sexy Hair Root Pump Plus is gonna change that.

Regardless of the above reasons for Why I Can’t Do My Hair, there are certain occasions wherein I cannot escape the responsibility.  These include church and, let’s see…church.  Yes, church.  Which only means that every Sunday, I am forced to eat extra calories (see #1.)  I’ve resigned myself to it.  And I’ve resigned myself to Doing My Hair for church with as much panache as can be expected.  In fact, were you to survey the members of my ward I’m pretty sure the overwhelming consensus would be that I look smokin’ hot most Sundays.  And since I see more than two people I know on those days, I feel justified in the dollop and spray required to get that way.  The real problem comes during the week when I anticipate an outing beyond Wal-Mart and the Scout Office, like maybe helping in Ethan’s classroom or even–oh happy thought!–Costco.  On such days, I dollop and spritz and shine, I comb and crunch and coiff, I even use the three-way mirror we have in our Big Fancy Bathroom.  On such days, goshdarnit, I Do My Hair.  And on such days, what always seems to happen?  I get stood up.  By my friends.  By my mom.  By the Yummy Meats Salesboy.  By my empty checkbook which, upon being consulted, informs me that Costco and I will not meet that day.  (But if I scrounge up enough loose change, I can get there for the hot dog and soda, which is the real reason I go anyway, and the real reason you do, too.  Don’t fake immunity to the the Kirkland kitchen, faithfuls.)

I generally don’t waste things (except words and water, but that’s another post) so you can imagine the indignity I feel after spending an insane amount of calories and money on an insanely awesome hair day only to spend that awesome hair day cleaning the lint guard in my dryer and driving my kids around.  (No offense to my kids, but no one can really see my hair through the cracked windshield of my champagne minivan.)  Too often on these Non-Church Do My Hair Days, I end up all dressed up with no place to go.  And it cuts deep.

However, now that I’m a fully-fledged adult (see #3) I’ve decided to stop sulking at the injustice of it all and determine my own fate.  So here is my plan:  On days that I actually Do My Hair, I will now be texting/tweeting/facebooking/blogging/calling/emailing and megaphoning all within the sound of my famously loud voice and making my hair status known to my vast network of faithfuls across the world (i.e., ward.)  Those who receive such news are encouraged to stop whatever nonsense they are engaged in at present–like paying bills or nursing a baby–and flock immediately to my front door, where I will be waiting in all my splendor.  Admirers are to remain on the second and third porch steps, as I will require the full facilities of the upper level to rotate clockwise in thirty-second intervals, allowing said admirers an Imax-like view of the glorious bounce and shine.

Admission is free, but donations are encouraged.  Hair like this doesn’t come cheap.  (see #1.)