“Oh, she’s just a mom”

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

Whenever I have an appointment at the salon (which since I’ve reinvented my look with a pixie cut is surprisingly often), I make a special effort to make myself presentable. I try to wear something mildly cute or trendy. Strappy sandals perhaps. I feel compelled to, if not wash, at least style my hair. I do this even though I know 5 minutes after sitting down in the chair my head will be shoved under a nozzle and any semblance of my efforts literally washed down the drain. I put on extra make-up. I darken my eyeliner, apply some extra foundation, maybe some blush. Because if I have to stare at myself in the mirror for the next hour I might as well be pleasant to look at, right? Especially while attempting small talk. Do I really look like that when I talk to people?

I recently had an appointment with my new stylist, Stacey, at her new salon, Ritual. She was the one who chopped off my 12 inch ponytail in January . I didn’t have as much time as I had hoped to ready myself before the appointment. A bit of lipstick on the way up the front steps was about all I could manage. I avoided my reflection in the mirror as I sat down in the chair to explain my needs, wants and abstract desires for my new coif.

A few minutes later it was time to walk over to the sink for a wash. Stacey took my jacket to hang it up on a near-by hook. As she turned I eyed a spot on the back of the jacket that looked for all the world to be a fingerprint-sized smudge of dog poop. I whipped my head back around to avoid meeting Stacey’s eyes. She couldn’t have missed that. How had I missed such an obvious blemish on my jacket? I stared back at myself in the mirror in wonderment only to see a dried snot mark on the shoulder of my t-shirt now revealed that my jacket was hanging on the hook. But poop?! How is this possible? I don’t think even a pair of cute flats and an extra coat of lipstick could distract from this offense.

I remember an old grad school colleague who showed up to our weekly departmental seminar wearing a pair of jeans with a dried poop smudge on the back thigh. He claimed later that his new puppy must have gotten into his laundry that was sitting too close to the dog kennel. Okay, so not only does he fail to look in the mirror before walking out the door, but now he’s confessed he makes a habit of wearing dirty clothes picked up off the floor. The guy was really quite smart and handsome (and gay, unfortunately). But the only thing I will clearly remember about him is that huge poop smudge the shape of Michigan on the back of his beautiful thighs. Will this now be my fate? The girl with poop on her jacket.

After my haircut it was time to get up and reclaim said jacket. As Stacey turned around to grab my jacket from the hook I saw her hesitate. There was a sense of recognition and shared camaraderie in her eyes when she handed me the jacket. She pointed to the smudge. Taking a closer look I noticed the poop smudge had glitter in it. What on earth did Kodi eat? Wait…that’s not poop. It’s mustard-colored glitter paint!

Stacey mentioned how she had the same thing happen. Not wearing a jacket with poo on it, per se. Rather, she’s left the house with stickers on her backside or glitter on her face. She said, “Don’t feel bad. We’re moms. That’s our excuse.” Stickers, tiaras, dried smudges of unknown substances on our clothes in places we’d rather not draw attention. Is being a mom really a valid excuse for looking like a slob? Does our domestic role prevent us from taking that last glance in the mirror before stepping out the door? Probably not. But it does prevent us from doing anything about it. We’re either out of time to change clothes or out of snot-free clothes to change into. Maybe it’s best just not to know about these blemishes and have others make our excuses for us.