Goodbye, divorce hair

  About a year ago, I walked into my salon a little spiffier than I normally do to get swathed in aluminum strips and neurological disorder-inducing chemicals just to look pretty for a few weeks. I was wearing a red patent leather heels, red lipstick and had a bold red ring where a diamond was once perched. I was smiling -- and not just because I was on time for once. I was feeling good before I got there. It was a turning point in a divorce that felt like it had been going on since the 1960s. It wasn't easy but I was making progress, I was getting through.

Getting my hair done didn't feel like a salvation that day like it had for the months before. I wasn't walking in hoping that some miracle of highlights and razor cutting could make me look fabulous when I felt a mess.

Sylvia, the lovely and gorgeous stylist with violet-tinted black hair and a Polish accent that makes her words drip and stretch, grabbed my hands and smiled back at me.

"And now," she said, eyeing my shoes, lips and ring, "you are a redhead!"

That's how my natural hair, politely highlighted auburn for a few years, became blazing red. I loved being a redhead. I loved changing my Match.com profile to read "Hair color: Red/Auburn." I loved thinking of myself as falling into some the bottle-red subset of the category where Rita Hayworth in "Gilda"   and Brenda Starr, Star Reporter will reign eternally.

It was the beginning of me looking more like me, or at least the self I wanted to be. The woman outside of a marriage. The woman with a big new career. The woman who was pulling up and out of the chaos to (try to?) be more confident, centered, still, and on fire all at the same time.

The red, I thought, said it. That woman is here.

 Today, I said goodbye to the red and to Sylvia, went to a new salon and followed the guidance of a new stylist who said that maybe it was time to move on. 

[A pic of the new 'do after the jump.]

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A date. With a man. Part 2

 A few days after Lil E asked me about dating, became a robot, and then powered down when I told him that I had been out with someone, the whole dating situation took a turn.

We were out for a Mommy and Lil E Movie night and somehow survived the money-sucking soul-vacuum that is Ice Age 3 (the only saving grace being that Denis Leary is somehow sexier when his voice comes out of a cartoon Smilodon). Our 3-D glasses were propped up on our heads and the reusable bottles of water we snuck in were stashed in my purse (actively raising a rebel over here). We walked to the car, holding hands and happy, sharing our favorite (ahem) parts of the movie.

I buckled him into his car seat, leaned in to kiss him before I shut the door, like I always do. But this time, I paused and leaned back to look at him. It was dark out and the light inside the car shone down on him and made his eyes glimmer.

"I'm not sure if you realized," I said seriously, my face only a few inches from his, "but I was on a date with a man tonight."

He stared back, raised an eyebrow, tightened his lips. I smiled slowly.

"A date with a LITTLE man!" I continued, pressing my nose into his for an Eskimo kiss.

He laughed. Loudly.

"Yeah, Mommy!" He got it. He giggled. He pointed to himself. "A date with THIS LITTLE MAN!"

When the words came out my mouth, I wasn't sure how they would be received. But I hoped that they would diffuse some of the tension and emotion around a subject that is really too big for a little boy to take on.

The next day, the words were spoken again. Or rather, yelled out from the car as Lil E leaped out of his seat to see my parents.

"Mommy went to the movies on a date with a man!" He was smiling and screaming at the same time.

I am pretty sure my mother gasped in the pause that must have only really lasted a second or two.

"A date with a LITTLE MAN!" He giggled again. He pointed to himself again.

My parents relaxed, laughed with him, pulled him from the car and hugged him tight.

We're all nervous about this part of the transition, particularly the wonderful and protective people who haven't been dating men who are taller than 3 feet and aren't covered in a fine layer of goldfish cracker dust (OK, mostly).

The serious talks will eventually resume once the robot is ready. For now, though, I'm perfectly happy laughing about a bad movie with a small boy who understands he occupies most of my heart.  I love that this kid feels safer knowing that most nights time with a little man trumps anyone else.

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A date. With a man

We were riding in the car, singing Michael Jackson loudly, and Lil E was doing this head-shake move that reveals a compelling flexibility that I think is reserved only for preschoolers. There was a pause in between songs just as I pulled up to a red light. It was suddenly, momentarily quiet in the car. I seized it.

"Yesterday," I said, peering into the rear view mirror at him, "you asked me if I went to the awards show on a date with a man."

"Yes," he said, nodding. I could see his eyes widen, even behind his Darth Vader sunglasses.

"I didn't really answer that then." This was hard to get out. "I'm sorry for that."

He nodded again.

"Do you want to talk about that?"

Another nod.

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