I cut my own hair. Once. My bangs. I was nine or ten.
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!
Originally published on We Are THAT Family