Nicely Played, Karma

Karma is a bitch.

A real byatch.

And it always comes at you when you least expect it. Right now karma is all over my ass in the form of TRESemme hairspray. Tres Two Spray #4 Extra Hold hairspray, to be precise. The one with the superior hold and touchable feel. That one.  That’s my middle schooler’s hair spray of choice. My middle school boy. BOY! I didn’t know boys even cared about their hair, let alone set their alarm clocks to wake up early for the specific reason that they wanted enough time to actually “do” their hair. Did 12 year old boys care this much about their hair when I was in middle school? I always thought that the boys just woke up, towel dried their mullets, and went off to school looking naturally good (“Good” being a relative term.) Is that NOT how it went down? Don’t even tell me that they styled their hair. Do NOT tell me that they looked in the mirror and gelled and hairsprayed it. Just don’t. I thought it was only us girls who paid attention to their middle school hair. After all, we were the ones with the banana clips, the side ponies, the scrunchies and the spiral perms. We had a lot going on. And what we had going on took time and skill to accomplish.

So the other day when I yelled (Screamed? Shrieked? Call it what you will.) up the stairs to my son that he better not be late for school because he was doing his hair, I knew that life had come full circle and was now laughing in my face. Because I can remember, like it was literally yesterday, my mother yelling (Screaming? Shrieking?) the exact same thing up the stairs to me when I would be getting ready for school. My mother was the master of wanting to kill me if I missed the bus because I was doing my hair. And I was the master of missing it anyways because I was trying to make my hair look hugely fabulous. I knew where my priorities lay.

And then there was this one day.

I’ll never forget it.

I was a sophmore in high school. It was drizzly outside. Not raining (which would have been okay), just a warm misty drizzle. Basically the worst weather ever for a girl with curly hair. So I’m in my room and I’m doing my hair and it’s getting to be later and later…and I hear my mother yell down the stairs “The bus will be here is 5 minutes, and you better not miss it just because you are doing your hair!” Yipes! 5 measly minutes. I start going for it with gusto. I’m brushing, and spraying, and teasing, and lifting, and flipping, and scrunching, and spraying some more, and then some more, and then some more just for good measure (because, like I said, it was all misty out so my hair needed to be like a shellacked coat of armour) and finally I was done and my hair looked perfect. (Seriously, it looked so good.) So I jumped up, grabbed my bag, and booked it to the front door…just in time to see the bus pull away. Shit! Shit! Shitshitshit!! Sure I probably could have run outside and chased the bus and it most likely would have stopped to pick me up…but, as I mentioned before, it was drizzly. And warm. And my hair looked too fab to ruin. So I decided to take my chances and just risk the wrath of my mother.

She was bull.

But, you know, whatever because my hair still looked so good that it was totally worth it. We rode to school in silence. When we took the left turn to drive up the LONG driveway to the school she most likely laid into me about my lack of respect for other people’s time. (Okay! Geez, don’t have a cow.) I can’t remember exactly, but all I know is that from the beginning of the long driveway to the end of the long driveway things went south fast. When she stopped the car in front of the school I attempted to get out in a huff (that would show her!) but she stopped me and said something along the lines of “What about a thank you for driving you to school?!” And I, in all my adolescent stupidity, looked at her and said,

“Thanks for NOTHING!” (cringe!!!)

And I got out of the car and started to walk away leaving the passenger side door open. OPEN! (OMG! I shudder to think about it now, because I don’t know how she didn’t jump out of the car and full body tackle me right there on the sidewalk.) But she didn’t. Do you know what she did? She laid on the horn. That’s right. My God! It was such a brilliant, bad ass move. She laid on the horn and one whole class full of kids ran to the window to see what the ruckus was. “Get back in the car” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. (Crap! I’m dead!!) So I got back in the car and she started to drive away. (What is this?) She drove away from the school and allllll the way down the looooong driveway (Is she taking me home?), and she stopped the car, turned to me and said, “Now get out and walk back.”

Mary and Joseph!!!

Was she kidding me? What was this madness?! It was clearly drizzly and misty and warm outside! Anyone could tell that my hair would be ruined if I had to walk up that long driveway! There was no amount of Aquanet in the world that could have saved me. Oh man oh man oh man!!! It was genius!!! My adult self wants to go back to that moment and high-five her. It was simply the most brilliant move any mother anywhere ever in the history of the world has ever done.

So it is pretty much a no-brainer why I am now being tortured in such a merciless way by my OWN child who drives me to the brink of madness almost every single day with his hair styling absurdity.

Nicely played, karma. Nicely played indeed.