P,
Although my parenting philosophy may be somewhat narcissistic, I have taken another approach altogether with my beauty routine. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned T., my Russian hairdresser (will save A., the tortuous waxer for another day). Although I desperately want her to believe I have a certain stylish cache, she spends most of the time telling me why my hair is a disaster and my aging self is troubling at best. And I love it.
Just yesterday I mentioned that I wanted a new ‘do. After her initial disapproving look, she mentioned that I could look "somewhat" younger if I cut my hair shorter. She made certain to mention that husbands don’t like short hair and I was risking my marriage. Of course, for the trendiest style, I was willing to do it. I do love the short cut, but the honeymoon will inevitably end with my own first wash and style. T is clearly unaware of hair issues that arise after the visit–when it can’t be tugged into submission by a bossy Euro minx. It’s as if I don’t exist when I leave her shop. And I love it.
The stunning piece de resistance–the pinnacle of tortuous treatment–occurred when I inquired about some shampoo for hubby. T returned with a bottle of men’s shampoo–for gray hair. Now, I ask you, dearest P, how did she know I was married to a man with more than a sprinkling of salt and pepper? I would like to say she knows him, but she doesn’t. P, she simply assumed, based on MY appearance, that hubby was a man of a certain age. I’d like to think I simply look expensive and have the carriage of a woman who requires one of those much older men to support my habits. However, as I found T’s shop in a pocket of Bethesda not known for its high end retail, she knows it’s just not true. Her steady gaze said it all. I took the shampoo. Now hubby is forced to give up all vanity in order to cater to the relationship I have with T. And I love it.
Faithfully,
C.
