Musical Mothering

 

 

This July, I will have been a Mom for 14 years.  I’m starting to figure this job out!  One thing is certain:  I could not have made it this far without all the help from Maggie’s Other Mothers (they know who they are), chardonnay, and music.

 

Don’t misunderstand me.  I have really bad taste in music.  But so does Maggie, and this is how we bonded from the start.  In the year 2000, Maggie loved the boy bands.  I remember listening to NSYNC and dancing with Maggie.  Well, I danced and she wiggled inside my tummy.    

 

Once she was outside my tummy, we danced to some Christina Aguilera (before she was Xtina) – our favorite song was Come On Over.  I held my little bald baby girl and we bounced while I sang my version “come on over, come on over Mag-gie!” 

 

When she could stand by herself I introduced Mag to Janet Jackson.  Maggie held onto the kitchen counter and tastefully bounced to Nasty Boys.  I am such a good influence. 

 

Mercifully, I was not her only influence.  When she was two, Maggie started saying “I-BEE-CUSE” after dinner.  I had to call her Other Mother/babysitter Kay to find out what in the world my daughter was saying. 

 

Kay had taught her to say “may I be excused?” when she was finished eating.  I think this balanced out what I had taught her – that Let’s Go Crazy is the perfect song to crank up real loud and play repeatedly while you run in circles through the house in your diaper.

 

When Maggie had matured sufficiently and was emotionally ready, I introduced her to Britney.  (She was four years old).  Our favorite song was Toxic.  Mag knew all the words.  She explained to me that when Britney sang “You’re dangerous - I’m lovin’ it” that Britney was talking about traffic.  Because bad traffic can be so dangerous.  We listened to this song so often, Maggie suggested my sister name her first-born child Toxic. 

 

From age 4 to 11, the music was a whirl of Justin Timberlake, Britney, Maroon Five, Britney, Adele, Nelly Furtado, Shakira, and Britney.  On the first day of 6^th grade we were both extremely uptight.  Ok, I was extremely uptight.  Mag was fine.  I was about to drop my BABY off at this big awful school.  We played Lady Gaga.  And it soothed us both.

 

I realize I only have 4 more years of music with Maggie.  Ok, I know there will be music after that too, but it won’t be the same, because I won’t control the Ipod. 

I have so much more music to play for Maggie.  Mag needs to hear and see Milli Vanilli.  She needs to know that just because a man looks nice and is a good dancer does not mean he has true talent.  Maggie needs to know she can choose her own music and dance her own dance.  Just because everyone else is drinking margaritas and lining up to do the Macarena doesn’t mean she has to. 

I need the music to help me explain true love.  I’ve already made Maggie listen to Fleetwood Mac sing The Chain and explained to her that the two vocalists loved each other and hated each other at the same time.  I’ve explained that while those vocalists sounded pretty great at the time, true love sounds nothing like that.  True love sounds like her daddy singing Blue-Eyed Girl to me, even though the song is actually called Brown-Eyed Girl. 

 

I need the music to remind her to come home.  Even though Mag will go off to college someday and might follow JLo’s lead – dating a series of dumb-but-sexy back up dancers, she can always come home.  Even if she makes bad decisions like changing her name to a symbol and later realizes she has made this bad decision and then decides to change her name back to a non-symbol, everyone will forgive her, especially me.  And she can come home.

 

If I know anything, I know that even though Maggie is now potty trained, even if she now knows Britney was not talking about traffic, and that Nasty Boys might not have been an appropriate song for a dancing toddler - she will always listen to music with me. 

 

And if the timing is right, and no one is looking, we might put on Let’s Go Crazy and run around the house in circles.  

a series of stylists

I am not a loyal stylist customer.  It’s not that I am overly critical of past work performed on my fine, yet also coarse, rapidly graying hair.  I have enjoyed wonderful hair miracles.  It’s just that I am impatient and impulsive.  My roots don’t grow in gradually like yours do.  Mine suddenly appear!  An inch deep!  And it requires an immediate remedy.  Also, if I notice a friend has a bounce in her step due to her perfectly applied high/low lights, I am instantly envious and want to meet her stylist.  This afternoon, please! 

If it cannot be done today, then I have, on a few occasions, attempted an-at home remedy with disastrous results. 

Whether I have cheated on my stylist with another stylist or with a box of Clairol, it is so uncomfortable admitting what I have done.  I am tempted to fib (I was at my parents’ house so I went to see my Mom’s stylist . . you were unavailable . . .I was bedridden for many weeks and in desperation was left to my own hair color devices  . . ). 

Like most cheaters, I am a bad liar.

Being this disloyalty has its perks:  I’ve been to about every kind of salon imaginable.  I’ve been to the super fancy ones with the high price tags, the small town ones with the ladies getting a curl-and-set, the salons where the only service performed is a dry haircut and the stylist has a bright blue Mohawk, and the “cool” salons meant for young beautiful people. 

I am uncomfortable at the cool salons.  If the waiting area is super-sleek and has magazines I do not recognize, I break out into a sweat and start noticing the lint on my suit, the scuffs on my courtroom heels, my cuticles.  I sometimes return to the cool places despite my discomfort because, well, the cool stylists know the famous people!  They have attended fancy trade shows or worked in a New York salon, and they have the best stories.  Like the time a has-been 80s Rock Star insisted on having his frosting applied at the crack of dawn so his fans wouldn’t know.  I love that story in particular because my cool stylist remarked “As if any of us knew him?  I was like, our Moms aren’t here.  You are not even relevant.”

Real life happens in salons.  Right in front of you eyes.  Round up seven or eight women and a few men, dress them in the latest fashion and place them in front of mirrors.  Now add a steady stream of customers and listen.  You will learn who has a new boyfriend, who is giving the owner the silent treatment or who just had “elective” surgery instead of paying her credit card bill.  This openness will prompt you to share your news, sometimes in a moment of spontaneous candor.  This is why my friend/stylist Paris was one of the first people to know I was pregnant with my first-born. 

If you prefer, you can just sit there quietly and check your emails or read a book, and that is ok too. 

A good stylist not only knows how to cut, color and style hair, she is an unlicensed counselor.  It is no surprise the stylist relationship is special.  There is something so personal about allowing someone to touch your hair.  Whether it is a new stylist, an old stylist, a salon in a detached garage, or a place worthy of a photo shoot, a stylist is performing an act of kindness.  She is making it better.  She is concentrating on you.  She is improving you.  In a matter of minutes a diagnosis is made, the patient is heard, and there is a treatment plan. 

I think most stylists know their value extends beyond the strands of our hair.  Like, when my friend/stylist Dawn made a house-call for the purpose of artfully styling what was once a long full mane, but was falling out in large swaths following merciless cancer treatment.  Dawn gave what she could, but she also received.  She was able to help.  In some way, she was making it better.    

Or take my mother-in-law (my Other Mother), a retired stylist.  Holly worked for decades in a local bank.  But, before her banking days, she obtained what was then likely called a Cosmetology License.  Holly held on to what she learned and kept her scissors sharp.  For years she cut her husband Houston’s hair.  Sometime in 2004, Holly cut his namesake’s hair too. 

Little Houston had a tangle of blond curls at the back of his neck.  Though his Mom thought they should stay put (forever if possible), it was time for them to go.  So Holly cut little Houston’s curls.  And for the next eight years, she continued to give him haircuts.  I imagine (because I am not there) that the routine is the same:  Holly notices her grandson needs a haircut, has him sit on a stool, wraps the smock around his neck, and starts snipping.  I suspect she takes a little longer than necessary.  Because for several minutes that boy is finally still.