When one stays home with her children, one learns valuable lessons that one would never have learned out in the workplace. For instance, today I learned that spinach + ham + applesauce = shit that smells like a perm.

The smell of a perm arising from the poop of Gabby’s butt has brought back a flood of memories.
Permenant wave, memories.
I was only 12 years old the first time I was allowed the honor of having my hair wrapped up in rows of curlers and doused with horrific smelling chemicals with the promise of “permanently wavy” hair.
It took hours, but when it was finished, OH MY GOD, I looked so HOT. At least I thought I did. I remember that day in vivid detail. Lucky for you, I’ll spare you most of those details, but let’s just say, when my cousin was done administering The Perm, my shit no longer stank.
I left that mobile home park thinking I was the most beautiful girl that ever lived and I could not fucking WAIT to get home and show off my perm to the neighborhood gang (A.K.A Joe the mentally retarded boy, Brandy the girl with the mole on her lip, Rhonda the slut and Jimmy the boy who made me feel funny down there.)
The minute we arrived back home, I went running to find The Gang so I could brag about how hot I looked and brag.I.Did. I was a total bitch about it. “Look at my beautiful hair, Brandy! I bet you wish your hair looked this beautiful! Too bad it doesn’t!” And so on, and so forth.
This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy. All I remember is one minute I’m bragging to Brandy about my perm, the next minute… STRAWBERRY FUCKING MILK IS ALL UP IN MY FRESHLY PERMED HAIR!!
I started screaming and crying because, you’re not supposed to wash your hair for 48 hours! I ran home to my mom, washed my hair and watched my dreams of PERMANENTLY WAVED HAIR go down the drain.
Ah, the memories a little baby shit can stir up.
God, I LOVED that perm, all two hours of it.

For the first time in almost an entire year, I went to a real salon to get my Hair Did.

I’ve been putting it off because I am the Proud & Sole owner of the breasts that nourish my child who refuses to take a bottle and I fear if I leave her for a few hours, she MIGHT STARVE TO DEATH.
I finally convinced myself she wouldn’t starve if I left her for an hour or two. I made an appointment and asked my mother if she’d watch the girl for me. She was happy to do it.
You should have seen my mother’s face when she saw The Diaper Bag. You’d think I’d be a pro at packin’ The Bag, having raised two baby boys, but, um, I guess I forgot or something. I packed 10 diapers, an entire box of wipes, a fruit dessert, a bottle of juice, 3 toys, 2 bibs and one jumping activity chair. My mom was like “um, how long is this haircut going to take?!” And I was all “an hour at the most” and then she laughed at me. But I wasn’t laughing. No way, I was fighting back tears because I was leaving my baby girl for the very first time. I kissed her, fought back the tears so my mother wouldn’t laugh at me AGAIN and Off to the salon I went.
I told my stylist I wanted to keep the length, but I wanted lots of layers, then I lost my mind and said “just give me something kinda FUNKAY”.
At first, I LOVED IT. Layers everywhere! All of the dead ends and dead weight GONE! I was in love with it!
But now? I’m getting a little sad because I THINK it looks like Heavy Metal Hair.
I didn’t want HMH. I wanted FUNKAY hair. And in my mind? Funkay hair and HMH are two totally different things.
Perhaps I should have made sure that my stylist and I were on the same “funkay” wavelength before I let her go all Vidal Sassoon on my head because apparently? One mans “funkay” is another man’s “heavy metal hair.”
But hey, let’s look at the positive here. I was gone for an entire hour and a half and my daughter didn’t starve to death.
It’s all good.