Frankly Speaking

I spent Saturday afternoon with myself.

Not in a crowd. Not with friends. Not with relatives. Just me, on my own, for a couple of hours of, well – whatever I wanted.

I lingered in dressing rooms and refused to feel rushed. I window shopped and then check-out splurged. I treated myself to a cranberry juice. I thought about lots of things, and about nothing at all. I kept my radio tuned to the all 80s’ weekend station, and let the autumn sun warm my face.

And then, at the end of the day, when I pulled into my driveway content with an afternoon spent just the way I wanted I realized I hadn’t been alone at all. Because everywhere I went, and everything I did, there was a little baby somewhere inside, along with me for the ride. Sometimes, when you least expect it, life sure can take your breath away – don’t you think?

I don’t speak salon.

Oh, sure, I speak “girl”. I am fluent in the language of most things stereotypically female, or at least, portrayed as such in sitcoms and the like. I have no aversion to overwhelming amounts of the colour pink. I have always wanted to be a ballerina (i.e. taller). I secretly (or not so secretly anymore) would love to have lunch with Barbra Streisand, and could watch Yentl at least 47 more times without experiencing even mild irritation at those familiar strains – Papa can you… I cry at Hallmark commercials, I weep along to my Il Divo CDs, and I (grudgingly) accept that there is a time and place for pantyhose.

This, however, is not the same as speaking salon. In fact, salon is a whole other language entirely – and one I am not likely to master anytime soon.

I have no products, save a bottle of baby oil (yes, baby oil) which I use to diligently remove what I consider my “nine-to-five make-up”. Read: The same brand of mascara my mother has used my entire life. I have no “cleansing routine”, unless brushing my teeth regularly counts. The most exciting thing I’ve ever done with my hair was to get bangs in 1992 – which hardly counts as exciting given absolutely everyone had bangs in 1992. To add insult to injury, I’ve never had a facial, highlighted my hair, or invested in toner of any kind (mainly because I’m never really sure what it’s for).

That said, I am okay with this. But the salon people, it would seem, are not

On Thursday, a very nice pedicure lady asked what my usual “foot care routine” is, and to her horror, I asked if wearing socks in the cold months counts.

On Friday, a similarly nice manicure lady asked what my usual “hand care routine” is, and to her similar horror, I smiled and asked if gloves after November counted for anything at all.

On Saturday, a not-as-nice-but-fairly-bossy hairdresser lady asked me what I thought of her idea for “boho chic” hair, and I asked her who Boho was.  And then, to my horror, she replied: “It doesn’t matter, your problem is your hair is too shiny and glossy from not being dyed. We really need to shorten the top here before I can do anything with this.”

I may not speak salon. I may have no idea what most salon types are saying to me when I’m in there. I may never take an interest in this kind of stuff, ever And you know what? I like that about me.

This is me. I don’t like high heels and I don’t like hairspray and I don’t like boho chic (thank you, Google).

At long, long last, I know exactly who I am. And I know how to tell a mean-hairdresser-lady “No”. I know how to love me, just how I am, good things and bad things and girly things and non-salon-things all rolled into one. And if there’s one thing I’m feeling this week, it’s proud.

Because it takes a long time to get to here, and it feels really friggin’ good.