A funny thing happened today. I went out, sans bebe. I know- WILD! On Saturday, I took yet another exasperated look at my hair- untouched for nearly 11 months. My grey hairs were poking out like weeds, my ends were straggly and I felt more and more like a sad Before photo in a Take A Break mag. On a whim, I discovered my favourite salon had a new stylist doing a cut and colour at an introductory price, so I booked it. Cheers for that Maternity Allowance! It was a kind of now or never situation- Robin’s parents are only staying with us for a few more days soooo, with baby in Granny’s safe hands, off I toddled towards the Shoreditch.
Guys. It was…kind of amazing.
I got up. I put on some makeup. No, scratch that. I put on deodorant. Without. Interruption. Then, I put on my outfit (a leopard skirt and black tee) and I left the house without a changing bag or buggy in sight.
I hopped on tube like a normal person. I skipped down the stairs at Old Street station. Even walking into a Pret- something I used to do everyday– felt like this ginormous treat. Walking through the City at rush hour, holding my hazelnut latte in one hand as Suits power walked around me. Ahhh…to be amongst adults in a busy busy world again. That coffee, I tell you, that coffee was something I had looked forward to for 2 days.
So, my hair do.
I got to the salon. I had the talk- hair length, colour, you know…the yooj. And then spent 2 and half lovely hours, having my hair washed and massaged, and toned and Olaplexed, and trimmed and snipped whilst I sat in the chair and browsed my ASOS app.
Then, with beautifully blow dried hair, I met my husband for a quick lunch and raced home…because I missed my baba. I wanted to sniff her hair and kiss her cheeks and make ‘awwoooo’ noises to see her smile.
And if this all sounds trivial, then I guess it is. But post baby, the trivial little things- the buying of the coffee, talking to someone about something other than poop colours, even the act of picking out what outfit you want to wear out that day– you miss that. Post baby, getting your hair sorted out, sorts you out. I feel like me again, and not an over tired new mama with bags under eyes that run so deep you’re sure they’ll never recover. AND THEN, you get to go home and pick up that baby of yours, and smoosh her little face and promise you’ll never ever leave them again for Marcos the Brazilian hair stylist with the icy bleached hair (even though, you know, he basically Queer Eyed your barnet and you swear you’ll never box dye again)