Homey Don't Play Dat

When you pay someone to do a job or service for you, don't ya think they should appreciate the hard-earned money you are giving them? My Southern upbringing influenced the notion that if money is exchanged, kindness and a thank you are in order. But there are times when that doesn't happen...

Moving to a new city requires one to re-establish the support system of doctors, dentists, babysitters, "go-to" stores, and beautification experts. One of the luckiest connections was with my hairdresser of three years, but because of a recent incident, I broke up with him. The conflict started last year - after growing my hair for months, I went in for an easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy trim. A few weeks after that appointment, I pulled a 360 and went in again with a picture of a shoulder-length January Jones style. My stylist became a scene-king and chopped my hair several inches shorter than the picture! Why couldn't he just re-cut my hair, take my money and send me on my crazy way? As I left the salon feeling ugly, a line from the past popped into my head - "I don't think so! Homey don't play dat!" Bye bye.

With this new found courage, I took a hard look at other providers in our life. We haven't been thrilled with our pediatric office for a while. The doctors are amazing but the front desk rudeness is unnecessary and the gestapo nurses require a bleeding, wheezing child to get in the door. Forget that Gigi had a fever for 3 days of 104! Forget that David Dean had strep 4 times in 3 months and we want another strep culture. Forget about calling after hours if a certain doctor is on call - she'll hang up on you if it is not an emergency. (It happened!) Finally, I said, "I don't think so! Homey don't play dat!"

Our children have never seen "In Living Color" and they don't know Homey D. Clown but they have heard the line over the years. It is especially useful when the kids are fighting. Just last night Gigi recited it but she thinks the phrase is "mommy don't play that," which works just fine for me.

Hair-brained honking

Does short hair mean you are bitchy? That was the topic last week on a DC radio station in relation to “Kate Plus 8”. The DJ said that women with short hair are bitchy, like Kate. People called in, said she is nasty. They said her haircut is white trash. Hairdressers added their commentary: A woman with short hair has to have ‘tude to pull off a short cut. In order to wear a cropped do, a gal has to have the personality to make it work. Usually there is an edge to women with short hair.

Weeeell, I’ve considered myself a short-haircut gal for the last 13 years but I don’t think I’m bitchy. Sassy at times, yes. When we moved to DC almost three years ago, my hair was short and I noticed that few women in my burb had a cropped cut. I also noticed that people drive very aggressively here. Drivers kept flipping me off, honking, and yelling out of their car windows at me. It is the damn roundabouts. How are you supposed to know where to get off? Sometimes there is a sign but the only way to see it is if you go merry-go-round style in the roundabout. On one outing with my kiddies, a truck almost hit us. He laid on his horn, gave me the finger, and called me a bitch. I got riled up and screamed, “Fu@&’in A!” My son earnestly asked me, “Mommy, did you say, ‘That truck got in our way’?” Yes.

The last time I had longish hair was almost 15 years ago and when a terrible thing happened, I put Kate Plus 8 to shame. I was living in London, launching a cable network and was happily separated from my Atlanta-based-practice-husband. He came to the UK, all caveman-like, to drag me back to the USA by my LONGish hair. After a bad serving of shepherd’s pie, we ended up in the ER. The Doogie Houser ER doc proceed to take some of my practice husband’s blood but it started spurting out all over his chest. I can’t stand the sight of blood and had a pass-out-and-fall-into-a-hospital-wall accident. Things continued to go downhill – practice husband wasn’t being treated, I was changing his bedpan, I needed drugs for my broken nose. That’s when I got fiesty and screamed with swollen tongue, “THIS wouldn’t be happening in America!” Nurse Ratched had us transported to the Infectious and Tropical Disease Center out in the English countryside. Longish hair was NOT washed during the three days while in quarantine.

Today my hair is medium length and people are still honking at my driving. But now when they flip me off, I wave, smile and look happy. I have embraced the fact that I’m not the best driver on the road. It's liberating to feel good about not being great at something, which, by the by, has nothing to do with the length of my hair! Just sayin'...