If the economy winds up sucking our will to live, I’ll die with good hair

Everyone who knows me knows that I sweat the small stuff. And the big stuff. And all the stuff in between.

I basically walk around this planet with a 2 x 4 on my neck, hanging from which are two ginormous buckets which catch all my perspiration on a daily basis.

One of the things I sweat the most is money or, to be more precise, my perception of the lack thereof.

I wish I could say that I wasn’t always this way but the truth is, I entered this world tense and I blame that condition on my twin brother who hogged the womb and budged me so he could jump out first and forever be the older sibling, as well as the fact that I was left in the NICU to suck my thumb by myself and gain a few ounces so that I could leave the hospital a wide-eyed, suspicious, nervous little five pound bundle of joy a few days later. But not before demanding an itemized list of all expenditures and receipts. And my blankie.

Over the course of 42 years, I have honed my financial stressing skills to an art form. You have only to whisper “I want …” or “I need …” or “Let’s go …” before my brain will slam into high hear and start calculating the costs associated with such a request, computing the amount of time we have left before facing certain bankruptcy and relocatiion to a homeless shelter. It doesn’t matter if it’s a $7 shirt or a family vacation. In my mind, whatever it is, is just one step closer to complete and utter financial ruin.

I know that this is a reflection of the current economy and my own paranoia and I try to harness that paranoia, especially when it comes to the kids. Consequently, the kids want for nothing except Verizon phones with unlimited texting and Coach purses in which case I simply yell DREAM ON and ignore them. But when Helena breaks a cardinal rule and grows three inches in six months, I’d by lying if I said I didn’t at least entertain thoughts of decking her out in Zoe’s jeans and stapling a two foot hem on them. That, or hot gluing a cinder block on top of her head. And when Zoe complains of a stomach ache and questions the possibility of appendicitis, I admit to hollering something about opening wide and yanking out whatever ails her with a pair of barbecue tongs myself so as to save the cost of a yet another co-pay.

And while it doesn’t look like it when I’m hysterical and chasing Nate all over the living room, screaming something to the effect of OH MY GOD, ARE YOU ONLINE? IS THAT EBAY? GIVE ME THAT LAPTOP BEFORE I BEAT YOU OVER THE HEAD WITH IT, I do try to reign in my paranoia for my husband’s benefit as well. I fail miserably but at least I try.

Kind of.

But when it comes to buying something for me? Myself?

All bets are off.

Remember my post about buying a point and shoot camera? That is a manifestation of every single purchase I have ever made for myself. Doesn’t matter if what’s at stake is as extravagant as a camera, as trivial as a magazine or as fundamental as owning at least one shirt that actually fits over my boobs, did not experience the eighties and is not held together by holes.

I will question whether I really need the item, in which case it must meet the following criteria:

1. Will it enhance my life in some way?
2. Will it save me money in the long run?
3. Will it make my thighs stop rubbing against each other?

The only two exceptions to the above are donuts and my hair.

Donuts, because … well, they’re donuts. Enough said.

And my hair because, with the exception of an annual pedicure at the beginning of spring, having my hair done every six weeks is the only thing I ever do for myself, my only vice, my only indulgence and really, I think it’s more of an inalienable right than an indulgence when the alternative is to walk around with a skunk line atop my head the size of a lasagna noodle, all because God was distracted and birthed me with stubborn, obstinate, pig headed, prematurely gray hair out the wazoo.

You know I’m speaking figuratively, right? Because otherwise … ewww.

I’ll walk around in perfectly good maternity tops even though my youngest child is eight. I’ll carry the same purse year round because black goes with everything, including sweats. I’ll wear period underwear thirty days a month. But by God, I will have my hair cut and colored every six weeks because I do not feel like eating dinner out with my husband while enduring the stares of everyone around us who look at him with pity and silently wonder when he’s going to cut the umbilical cord and stop eating out with his mom already.

I just had my hair cut and colored two days ago and yesterday, I stopped in at Ulta and bought myself these:

I love Kenra products. When I use them, it’s entirely possible that I might not have a bad hair day. And I say this of my own free will and volition because unfortunately, no one pays me to talk. Or type. Or even exist. I am not a spokesperson for anything or anyone. Except my kids and only if they’re good. Because if they’re not, I never saw them before in my life.

The texturizing taffy makes my hair all piecey and even spikey if I’m so inclined and when I am so inclined and Nate asks why I’m spending $17 when I can look as if I just rolled out of bed for free, I can shout WHAT MAKES A GROWN MAN PAY $80 FOR A CHIA PET? with awesome looking hair. And it sounds even better after a few spritzes of the finishing spray. Who knew there was a direct link between shiny hair and your larynx? Not me, that’s who.

Kenra meets all of the above criteria:

1. Yes, it will enhance my life because not fighting with my hair saves me at least thirty minutes in the morning and one day, I may just decide to do a sit up in those thirty minutes and eventually earn one dented can out of a potential six pack of abs.
2. Yes, it saves me money because as it turns out, buying ten jars of cheaper product only to toss them after two weeks because they suck rocks is not economical, especially when I can buy Kenra in the first place, which while more expensive, works great and lasts me eight months to boot. This type of reasoning is called logic. I failed logic in high school. My garbage can overfloweth with proof.
3. Technically yes, because more than likely it will glue them together and thus, no more chaffing. However, this stuff is too expensive to waste on a part of my anatomy that no one will ever see unless their first name is “Doctor” and they’re holding a speculum in their hand and telling me to assume the position.

Now, seeing as how Helena kissed me goodbye this morning without so much as even trying to look as if she were standing on her tippy toes, I’m off to jackhammer a cinder block from our basement wall.

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