Last year, after I'd written a couple of posts on fancy bridal showers and Southern traditions I enjoyed as a young bride, I felt the need to confess how un-fancy I am in my everyday life. I gave a small peek inside my very un-fancy life.
And here I go again. Dispelling all the mystique and sophistication I try so hard to promote around here... Oh, be quiet and just listen to my story.
Just today at the hair salon, I was reminded--again--that I lead a very non-fancy life. There I was, minding my own business, reading the latest Wall Street Journal...Okay, okay, quit your laughing. I can read the Wall Street Journal anytime I want. But, unfortunately, my salon doesn't carry that one. Therefore, I was forced to read People (or was it Star?) to find out whether or not Jennifer Anniston did or did not adopt a baby from Mexico. (You know I'm telling the truth because YOU read the same article, didn't you??)
What am I talking about here?
Oh yeah--minding my own business... And, all of a sudden, there she was. Miss Fancy herself. You want to know what fancy is? Well, fancy is black skinny heel shoes, and on a Wednesday, no less! Really really cute shoes. The kind of shoes that would feel at home in New York City.
And there I sat. Thinking that Wednesdays at the salon meant black slip on tennis shoes with cheerful socks. Socks that, up until that very moment felt very fun and cheerful! Socks so cheerful that they give actual shy strangers courage to speak up, "Oh! Well! Your socks...are so...interesting! And how cute that they are mismatched."
Yes, I'm serious. Black slip on tennis shoes and Little Miss Matched socks. Sitting next to Miss Fancy Pants in her svelte black skinny heels, and on a Wednesday.
My poor toes. They wanted to hide. Only, they already were--all snug inside the rainbow (yes, rainbow) socks inside the comfortable slip ons. Nobody told us it was dress up day at the salon!
I guess I should have known. I mean--the reciptionist's name is not Shirl or Dewanda. And the stylists all wear black and skinny leg jeans. There aren't any dog-eared copies of the latest Avon catalog laying around, at least that I can ever find. And there is no Leave a Quarter jar on the counter if you take a bag of Tom's chips.
Not that I speak from experience. Right?
Evidently, I haven't been paying attention. Seems that things like velour and tracksuits are about as welcome at a salon nowdays...as the Rachel haircut. (No offense, Rachel, your haircut changed my life...and released me from the clutches of my glorious 1980s mullet.)
But, somehow, in my last 10 sleep-deprived years of raising children, a morning at the salon meant two hours of blessed and uninterrupted quiet--where I could read, have my hair washed and dried, and have fancy products put in my hair so that it smells fruity the whole day. I guess haven't been paying attention as I've stumbled into the salon dressed in the least-dirty velour track suit, or the jeans with the least worn-too-many-times creases. I've just been so grateful for those glorious 2 hours, that I haven't really noticed the people around me. I've been so grateful to have my hair fluffed and fancied up, that I haven't noticed...
Noticed that, nowadays, fluffy hair that smells fruity (and expensive) is not enough anymore.
Evidently, I need some skinny heel shoes.
Preferably, not with velour.
I'm still not fancy.
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