Blonde Style

I’m a recovering blonde bombshell.

You wouldn’t recognize me, back in the day.

Big hair, fuzzy coats, teetering heels, pouty lips.

Then I had kids.

I realize that I’m individuating as I part with my traditional blonde locks and go back to a more natural brown color for maintenance reasons.

I was losing hair in clumps after my second baby and I worried that I wasn’t going to have any left by the time I hit 50.

But I seem to think that it goes beyond hair.  I’m talking about style here—blonde style--- that I’ve moved out of.

As I evaluate the ragged remains of my blonde days contrasted with the gifts of well-meaning others (principled, utilitarian pieces) compared with the items I have purchased myself (functional pieces but nothing I really loved) I’m faced with a rather schizophrenic wardrobe.

I haven’t spent money on clothes in the last five years.  Funds were too tight.  I was in minimalist Jessica mode.  I didn’t want to explore my passion for clothes in truth for fear of a broken heart.  With no cash, I couldn’t effect change on my sense of style and that is something that is forever changing…  Style…

Now that things have shifted and I can start to dream again I find myself facing the task of reordering my closet…

What can be saved versus what must be thrown away.

Chocolate Lament

I just ate three pieces of chocolate.

Now for the lament. 

I don’t own a treadmill.

And I know I’m not making it to the gym tonight.  What a bear, to haul both of the kids to the gym.  To walk the gauntlet of the swimming pool with my 4 year old clamoring to get in and the last thing I want to do is put myself in a swimsuit.

When I see pictures of myself from five years ago I get sad.  Life was super simple.  Un-kid-ified.  All I had to worry about was how I looked.  How vapid—yes—but what I wouldn’t give for a few moments of that vapidity (is that even a word).  

Now in all of the hustle and bustle of puke and poop I am lucky to make it out the door with any accessories on that aren’t broken, not to mention dry hair?

Am I destined to be like my mother?  Forever applying her mascara in the rearview mirror?  Is there some grace in that kind of acceptance?

I don’t want to give up.  I see women every day who have.  I always want to remain aspirational.  Beauty matters to me, even if I don’t embody one ounce of it.  Even if I just witness it.

So I’m in search of pretty.

Even if it is haphazard.