I Am Not a Professional

I cut my own hair.  Once. My bangs.  I was 9 or 10.  

So, my mom gave me a home permanent. 

I don’t know if it was to COVER the jagged cut or DISTRACT from it with something worse. This was the hair solution of choice in my home.  I had a perm every time I blinked.  

And ya’ll, I blinked, a lot.  

Let me just put it this way, if there had been a look-alike contest for Richard Simmons, I would have BEAT him.  A friend of mine saw a picture of my childhood afro and started calling me Regina (as in Richard’s long lost sister.)  

I learned my lesson:  I have never cut my hair again. (I also learned to hide from my mother when she came home from the grocery store- which sold home permanents to unlicensed people). 

I am not a professional.  That is why I go and have my hair done by a trained, highly regarded, salon stylist.  They are called stylists at Supercuts, right?

I’m in situations every day where I could use a professional:

I am not a licensed professional chauffeur. I failed my first driving test.  To this day, if my life depended on my ability to parallel-park, I’d be on life support.  And yet, I carpool, run dozens of errands weekly, and drive with passengers, daily.

I am not a certified professional chef from a fine culinary institute.  Perhaps this is why my toddler throws her food and my older kids run to the door every time it rings on the off-chance it’s a pizza man. My children’s NUTRITION depends on me. 

I am not a degreed doctor in the medical profession.  There are days where ALL I DO is medicate children. This is dangerous.  I’m describing symptoms, googling rashes.  I own my own temporal lobe thermometer and an ear thingy to check on ear infections.  See, how safe is that?  I don’t even KNOW what it’s called!

I am not a professional housekeeper.  Does that really need to be explained?  You can touch the dust, but please do not write your name in it.

I drive, I medicate, I clean.  But don’t expect perfection, I am an amateur.  

Not all hope is lost.  I am certified to do the following:

I can tickle like a pro.  I can remove sticky fruit roll up from the butt of Ann Taylor Loft denim in a snap.  I can talk on the phone, type on my computer and finish a school project SIMULTANEOUSLY.  I can nurse a baby walking, while pushing a grocery cart WITHOUT exposing a breast.  I can do wonders with Hamburger Helper and stretch a dollar like a rubber band.  

I can remove dog poop from the grooves of most shoes.  I can unclog a marshmallow gun and  poke a straw in a Capri sun blindfolded.  I can slick down my son’s cowlick, with spit.  I can cause quite a commotion when I scream, “Attack” at my daughter’s soccer game and I can silence my children with my special look.

I am a professional mom. Hear me ROOOAAAARRRR!

P.S. 

I do not cut my children’s hair.  Ever.  Bad hair decisions are inherited.  So, I leave it to the professionals.

And if home permanents weren’t already illegal, I wouldn’t let that curse continue on to the next generation.  That stronghold was broken at the Home Permanent Celebrate Recovery Deliverance Program.

Amen.  Hallelujah. 

Originally posted in February, 2008.  I'm trying to move some of my first posts over to Blogger from my old Mac site.