Bad Mommy Redux

An Older Post, brought over from another blog, to get us started-

As mentioned yesterday, today is School Picture Day. And I, am one Wretched Mommy. I cringe, to imagine what those pictures will look like.
You see...*deep breath*...I CANNOT do hair. Not to save my life. Or my daughter's dignity, it would appear.

Maybe it's not even my fault; I think I know how to do hair. And yet, through either Ignorance or just some Genetic Hair Curse, any 'do I lay hands on, immediately turns into a Don't.And that is why Deirdre just got on the school bus looking like a retard.

We got her up at FIVE, man. And as soon as she finished her breakfast, I grabbed the curling iron and started in. On my side, I had a $40 curling iron that claims to use Nano-technology, and John Frieda's best curling spray. What I was facing, was what may be the only head of hair in the world worse than my own.
I managed one perfect curl. The rest went downhill, from there.
By the end, I was desperately curling the same piece of hair, over and over - one of those right-by-the-face-sections that HAS to look right. Not only did it not look "right;" it completely REFUSED to curl, whatsoever, choosing instead to just bow out in at a strange angle, making my child look as if she'd just received a blow to the head.
God.
It was like a nightmare - the school bus was coming any minute, and there was my trusting child, completely unware that through Idiocy, Genetics or Both, her mother had given her Retard Hair. Finally, I just made a desperate little "scree!" sound, and tucked it behind her ears, staring into her eyes, and making her swear to tuck her hair behind her ears for all she was worth, before her picture was taken.

What is WRONG with me? What is wrong with my genes?
I'm now flashing back to yet another Permanently Scarring Adolescent Moment, from about ninth grade. Hell, I think it was actually a Picture Day.
My mother was never any help, in the Pretty Department - she was pretty, but had never updated her own look, and had zero interest in helping me with mine. I had no sisters, and the closest I'd ever come to getting help in that area, was from my brother Kerby's Serious Southern Debutante first wife, who had divorced him, early in my teen years.
But I had a Plan. I got a lot of these Plans - Big Ideas that would surely change my life, transforming me into a girl of grace and beauty, and finally securing me the desperately-wished-for goal of Having A Boy of My Own.
This latest Plan involved my having stared at all the cute older girls I knew, and deciding to revamp my image to look Just Like Them. This was back when EVERY GIRL had that wonderful, glorious, soft curly hair - the long, flowing curls, in that just-barely-brushed-out look, with fluffy, side-swept bangs and perfectly face-framing curves, swooping off the temples.
You local guys? I am talking about Thelma Johnson Hair. Sure, there were lots of girls with hair like that, but Thelma was their Queen, in my book - her hair was exactly, perfectly the same, every single day. I still believe it was actually a wig that she had sent out for styling, every night.

So there was my goal. I had my mom's old nasty curling iron. The kind with decades of burnt hairspray and sacrificed hair forming molten layers of stink, on it's barrel. The kind with no plastic finger protector over the metal, so you opened its jaws at your own risk. The kind too old and cheap to have an off switch, much less temperature control - you just plugged it in, and took your chances. I also had about five different kinds of assorted flammable hairsprays, each bottle having approximately 1/2in. of fluid left in it, and a roller brush that was likely older than me.
I was ready.
I got up that morning, at apx. Ungodly-O'Clock, and got to work. Got my inspirational music jammin' (you know it had to be Color Me Badd, or something like that), laid out my weapons of war, and plugged in the world's most hazardous curling iron.
Over two hours later, I was done. My masterpiece was done. My hair wasn't as long as Thelma Johnson's, but even at shoulder-length, it was MAGNIFICANT. I still remember my pride and excitement, realizing that FINALLY, it was MY DAY! This was it, the day I would finally be PRETTY! SQUEEEE!

And then there was Gym Class. I had gym early in the day, that year - maybe second period - and our class was mixed with some older girls. It was a cold, wet, nasty day, and so we were all just sort of standing around outside, doing mostly nothing (again...crappy public school). Thankfully, I do not have a complete, detailed memory of this day, because the mind tries to destroy those memories that may drive one screaming off a rooftop. So, I don't know who all the older girls were; I only remember this...

Older Girl 1: "OMG, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR HAIR??!!!"
Me: Stares blankly, likely with that stupid nervous smile that says "Please don't hurt me; I'm special."
Older Girl 1: approaches slowly, as if my hair is an injured animal that may bite her. Touches it, in open-mouthed disbelief. Yells "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU???" eyes wide with horror and the sort of irritation most often experienced by cool, pretty girls, upon being forced to witness Social Reject Behavior.
Older Girl 2: steps in, trying to stop Older Girl 1. "No...I think...I think she did that on purpose; I think she meant for it to look that way."
Older Girl 1: "No way! DID YOU MEAN FOR YOUR HAIR TO LOOK THIS WAY? OMG, DID YOU THINK IT WAS PRETTY??!!!"
Me: *dies a thousand deaths* "Umm...No! What? No...I don't know what you're talking about. My hair's just...it's really humid, so it's all stupid."
Older Girl 1: "SHE HAS HAIRSPRAY IN IT! SHE DID THIS TO HER OWN HAIR!"
Me: "No I didn't." *rolls eyes, in desperate attempt to pretend everyone else is stupid, not me* "I just, uh...I had it pulled up, and sprayed, and then I just let it down..."
Older Girl 1: "WELL YOU NEED TO PUT IT BACK UP!"
Older Girl 2: realizes just how pathetic I really am. "Aw, leave her alone; she doesn't know what her hair looks like." (to me, speaking slowly, as if I may be retarded) "WHY DON'T YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM AND FIX YOUR HAIR; I bet you didn't mean it to look like that."
Older Girl 1: "Oh yes she did."

Have I mentioned all the screaming, cackling laughter? You should insert lots of loud hyena laughter, here.

I rolled my eyes, slumped my shoulders, and did my best impression of a girl far too busy with More Important Things to care about whatever silly, harmless, NOT-ON-PURPOSE thing my hair had done, and casually went off to the bathroom.
Omfg. The lovely, soft curls I had left the house with had immediately betrayed me, the second my back was turned. Now my hair was in sticky, bedraggled chunks, sticking out at random unnatural angles and flipping up on their pointy little ends. I did not only look retarded; I looked like a retarded girl whose hair had been attacked by a pack of wild dogs. Wild, Aqua-Net wielding dogs who hated me.

After ten minutes of desperate brushing, my hair was a pile of static and despair, and I hid in the bathroom until it was almost time for the bell, as I could not think of any remotely realistic way to pretend I did not care that my hair was retarded.

To this day, I SWEAR, learning to blow my hair out straight is, to a large degree, what saved my high school career. My perma-cow-licked, wild hair eats curls for breakfast, preferring to substitute its own psychotic, crunchy naps - the only thing that can defeat it, is a solid hour with a hair dryer and a HUGE brush, which I gladly put in, every morning, during my last couple years of high school.
So, for everyone who Knew Me When, and was ever jealous of my long, smooth hair...now I can reveal the truth. I got up every morning at 5:30am, and blow-dried, sweated and PRAYED over that *natural* looking hair.

In other news, I think Deirdre's bus driver is just screwing with us, now. That, or she needs her horn and brakes replaced. This morning, as I repeated our new mantra of "TUCK YOUR HAIR BEHIND YOUR EARS AND EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT," I heard the faintest sort of whining noise, from outside, and only realized that soft sound was a bus horn, when I looked out the window and saw it. It was still moving, and had not even come to a stop, yet, as we raced for the door.
Throwing open the door, I see that the bus is STILL moving, and its driver did not seem to have any plans on actually stopping - she'd just semi-paused, and was now ready to pick up speed again, as Deirdre and I fell out of the door in a panic.
God.
I swear I saw Angie grinning as she waved, and I'm sure I can guess why. Usually, Peyton takes Deirdre out to the bus, since I rarely have pants on, at 7:20am. But today, he'd already left for work, so the job fell to me.
Me, who was wearing tiny gray gym shorts, a pale blue men's Oxford dress shirt...and pearls and full makeup, because I was too lazy to take either off, when I went to bed.

Picture that.
Yep. I sent my daughter off to the bus, tugging at my too-short underwear-looking shorts (so that the children would SEE the shorts, and not assume Deirdre's mom was standing on the porch with no pants), wearing a man's shirt, pearls, and way too much makeup for the crack of dawn...looking like a Fancy Hooker who didn't have time to find her own clothes.

My kids are gonna need so much therapy.