My sitter canceled today, and I had a hair coloring appointment at a new salon scheduled at five. I desperately needed professional help as the results from my last three home-dye jobs were conjuring up intrusive images of a calico cat. (I always forget what color I used the time before.)
So, I took both of my sons with me--against my better judgment. Peering into my back seat on the drive over, I started to give up hope long before the salon manager was summoned to look our scruffy three-some up and down. Predictably, after one look at my savages, she informed me that children were simply not allowed.
I pleaded. After she warily scrutinized my skunk-stripe of gray hair which was probably widening before her very eyes, she relented. It must have been a slow day at the salon.
Now that we were in, all I had to do was avoid getting thrown out before the dye was applied. Not a likely scenario for success. Really. Just imagine a four and seven-year-old trapped in a hair salon for two and a half hours while their mother is immobilized in a black straight-jacket of sorts. It is not a pretty sight, no matter how you look at it.
Luckily, the boys found my I-phone. Unluckily, they quickly burned out its feeble charge. (If they managed to e-mail or text you with those stupid emoticons in the interim, I apologize, but it was for a good cause.)
Next, they took turns roasting their hands and butts on a floor heater, played catch with a wadded up sweatshirt and tried to unscrew some faux-ancient window cranks that were probably installed to make the new space look like the warehouse it never was.
Then, the boys dumped the contents of my purse. And ate everything that had a fragrance to it.
Finally, they found my mini video camera.
Now, just stop and contemplate this: two unwelcome boys roaming through a hair salon filming unsuspecting patrons who were looking...uh, let's say...sub-optimal? Just imagine getting YOUR lip waxed while pint-sized Michael Moores aim a video camera at your horrified face as if it were some type of a corporate crime scene.
At this point, I reverted to the "pretend those are not my kids" mode. (Unfortunately, this is something to which my boys are getting quite accustomed.) As I surreptitiously supervised, I tried not to cringe when the boys manuevered around hairdressers' behinds for their close-ups but admit to flinching when I heard a distinctive "Shoo!" directed at my particularly tenacious seven-year-old.
As I watched the horror scene unfolding before me, the boys ultimately decided to aim their documentary efforts at the project of my own head. I could now catch snippets of their testimony and immediately worried about what they had said while filming the other hapless guests.
My debut consisted of a close-up of my scowling lips. Then the producers panned back to display my lovely scalp crowned with wads of heavily pasted hair and, what appeared to be, miniature aluminum window treatments. The dialogue went something like this.
Paul: "Mommy turned her hair black. Hideous, I would say."
Ben: "Ooh. Shiny. Mommy looks like a princess."
Tape is for sale.