Living in New York City for the past two years has had a way of making me feel pretty uncool.
It could be that I have been pregnant or toting around two little ones the entire time we have lived here.
It could be that I still smile at random people while everyone else glowers.
It could be the theme parties that I can’t stop throwing for the boys.
Or it could just be that I am uncool. Which I have always known, so I’m not sure why I’m surprised at all.
Mostly, I have come to terms with it.
I was watching a documentary on Kings of Leon the other night and they had footage of one of the brothers talking about how everyone in New York is so cool that there are levels of cool and whenever you think you are cool you suddenly realize that there is a whole other level above you and relatively you are still pretty uncool. No matter how cool you become.
Well, I though to myself, at least I’m not uncool enough to explain it in the same terms I would have used when I was 13. But he is kind of right.
And I guess he would know. Being part of one of the biggest bands of our generation and all.
So I am just going to sit back and wallow, nay, marinate in how uncool I am. What’s the use in trying to get to the top when there isn’t truly a top. And to get really existential regarding ‘coolness’ (can you even really do that?), isn’t trying to get to the top the uncoolest thing of all?
In any event, it’s decided. In case you missed it: I am not cool.
However, let me be abundantly clear about this New York, that does not mean that I want to just give up and wear Mom Jeans and get my hair cut like a boy (not in the cute, Emma Watson pixie way, but more in the Kate Gosselin arena). It does not mean that I want to wear holiday or granny sweaters (not in the ironic hipster fashion, but more in the style of Ms. DeCosta from first grade).
And it does not, for the love of all things holy, mean that I want my hair colored with frosted highlights.
I have seen tons of young (cool) women around these parts lately with fabulous blond highlights. Natural, blended, blond highlights.
My life hit a crappy, crappy bump these past few weeks. Which made me decide I wanted a big change.
Hello, LifeBooker! Yes, I do want to pay 60% less for a haircut and highlights! Thanks for knowing me so well! (Yes, I know this exact offer exists almost daily. We see what we want to see in times of stress and pain.)
The next day, I arrived at my hip, Lower East Side hair salon, with requisite graffiti art on the whole back wall and all.
Make me as blond as you can with the deal I bought. I want a big change. More blond around my face please. But not ‘mom-like’ at all. You know, a cool, edgy, blond.
That stupid girl tricked me and the next thing I knew I let it slip that I was actually a mom. I let it slip before she went to the back to mix the color.
Huge mistake. Huge.
Yeah, a few days later when we visited family I was welcomed with, “Oh, neat! You got your hair frosted!”
If I ever dare to step foot inside of a hair salon again (instead of just paying $10 to dye it myself the fabulous color I actually want, like I should have done in the first place) I am going to go in armed with an impenetrable fake life story that involves buzzwords like ‘artist,’ ‘band,’ ‘fashion,’ and ‘single.’ I will refuse to mention my husband, children, or educational work with children. Those are all suicide when having someone cut and color your hair. I have lived and learned.
And I am sick of paying way too much in a salon to come home to, “You look like a newscaster.”
I may be naturally uncool, but my hair does not need to make things worse. I will win this battle yet.