My Messy Bun Is Actually The Wrong Kind Of Messy. Which Is Just… You know… MESSY.

So there was THIS today on Pinterest:

ac06a4f5d65a3f9f51a33cde0ec1dd5eAnd THAT, people, is a word of solid-as-the-concrete truth.

I’d also like to add that it usually takes me fifty bobby pins and six broken, clear-plastic ponytail bands to achieve the look as well.  And then sometimes I even want wine for breakfast, because I’m all, THIS MESSY BUN LOOKS LIKE A TRAIN WRECK IN A HAYSTACK THAT MIGHT HAVE CAUGHT FIRE AT ONE TIME.

And then I usually want to call my friend Mika and say, “Listen.  Bring your good hairspray and thirty more bobby pins over to my house, because I’m going to need your spiritual gift with the messy bun this morning.  Yes… Again.”  Mika has successfully put a messy bun into my hair one thousand and fourteen times.  I’m always convinced that THE VERY NEXT TIME that she helps me out, I’ll finally be able to nail it myself.

Stylishly messy buns are not in my bag of what I’m capable of.  A messy bun that looks like it was styled by a hyperactive six-year-old boy is more what I can pull off with my hair in the mornings.

Anyway.

It was a Wednesday.  And I DID attempt the messy bun this morning without Mika.  It turned out about as well as you can imagine, if what you’re imagining is the apocalypse of all hair do’s.  Thing 2 and I then set off for a little mother’s group that we’re involved in, because someone said, “HOT BREAKFAST CASSEROLE,” and I was all, “Yes, please.”  I sat down at the table I’ve been assigned to, with a bunch of girls who are pretty much complete strangers to me.  One of them, who just recently moved here from half-way across the continent, said to me, “My word!  Look at you!  Your face is just glowing this morning; you look like you’ve been to a spa, and I LOVE your hair.”

Which is the exact moment that I decided lying to people isn’t always a bad thing.

Because A SPA?  I have a tusk about to burst through the skin of my upper lip, because apparently Miss Acne didn’t get the memo that I’m not fifteen any more.  And?  Well, this is my face that says, I WAS UP AGAIN LAST NIGHT WITH THE BABY, BECAUSE HE CHOOSES TO BE AWAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT SOMETIMES.  When I got out of bed this morning, I thought that I no longer judge women who opt for Botox, because I MIGHT ENTERTAIN THAT THOUGHT.

You know?

Except… Needles in my face?  Yeah.  The bags beneath my eyes are going to have to grow just a bit more before I’m brave enough to trade them in for needles by my eyeballs.

So yes.  This gal and her little white lie are now my best friends.

And that’s really the extent of what I have for you, unless you want me to regal you with how  my house looks like a bomb exploded here, and WHY CAN’T OUR FAMILY KEEP IT CLEAN?  Or how Thing 2 climbed to the top of his changing table today.  And to the top of the dining room table today.  And to the top of the kitchen island today.  And how he helped himself to a snack of cat food today.

But… you know!  I look like I’ve been to a spa, regardless of all of that.

Carry on, y’all.  Carry on, and have a happy Wednesday night.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *