According to Mapquest, that's the distance between my front door and the salon I'll be going to today to get my hair done. Why? Because that's where the stylist I go to, and have followed around the county for about 10 years, works. Because once you find the person who can work magic with your hair, they own you. I'm nothing if not loyal.

I have always had a love hate relationship with my hair. When I was little, I loved having hair, hated getting it done. I wasn't "tender headed" but the tugging, pulling and hurt knuckles from those giant beads at the end of the elastic hair ties as well as  the occasional burn from the hot comb (heated on the stove) made me (and my mom) a little cranky.
   
Now, as an adult, I love getting my hair done but hate the expense and the time I have to spend on it. I love my highlights. I love the scalp massage (almost orgasmic!). I love the look of a fresh blowout. I love how shiny and bouncy my hair is when it's just been done. I love that my husband and son remember to compliment me when I get home.

I hate the three to three and half hours I spend in the salon (though with travel time there and back I get a nice amount of 'me time'). I hate the smell of the relaxer. I hate the occasional chemical burns on my scalp. But, ethnic hair is high maintenance hair so high it's ho, high ho down the freeway I go. I don't think there is anything else in my life that I will schedule 9 weeks in advance, secure a sitter and make sure the car has a full tank of gas for other than a night out with my husband which better end with sex.
   
So, if you happen to be at My Happy Place later this afternoon and see a woman who looks like me with shiny swinging hair, please stop and say and hello.  

(hot comb photo credit here)

A Conversation With My Younger Self

I came across a photo of myself from my college days. On a trip to Hawaii for a Journalism conference, my fellow writers dared me to enter a bikini contest at a bar in Oahu, so I did (!!!!!).

The photo I found is of me, in the red stripper suit I wore in the contest.

Looking at the picture, particularly at my pre-baby body, I thought, “why didn’t I appreciate that girl more?”

If I could go back in time and speak to that girl in the minuscule scrap of fabric bikini, first I’d say, “Damn girl, you look good!” and give her a catcall and a whistle or two.

Then, I’d say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not eating better. I’m sorry for drinking until you puked. Staying up all night when you needed sleep. Going to work or school when you were sick and needed rest.

For thinking that walking all over campus was enough exercise. For the brief time I smoked. For not wearing the glasses, not using sunscreen and the one time I had unprotected sex.

But mostly, I’m sorry I didn’t have more confidence and a better self image. Why did I spend so much time shaking my fist at your thighs and bemoaning your butt?

I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror back then, but looking at you now, with my stretch marks and mini muffin top, I’d give anything to have you back.

You with your tiny waist, flat stomach, curves in the right places and the girls up nice and high. That body was beautiful. That body was sexy. And I feel so badly for thinking it wasn't.

Please forgive me. And for the love of all that is holy PLEASE COME BACK!