If At First You Don't Succeed, Admit Mommy Was Right

We had an hour to spare and it took exactly three seconds to figure out how to use it. My little Burgh Baby takes the "Burgh" thing very seriously, from the way she pronounces Pittsburgh as "Picksburgh" to her insistence on growing a mullet. I hoped that I could maybe find someone who could address the whole mullet thing before the kid winds up on some horrible random website.

Alexis has had exactly one haircut in her four and a half years of existence, but never has she had one from a professional. I was fully responsible for the mullet thing, except for the fact that IT'S HOW HER HAIR GROWS. It doesn't matter what anybody does, there is no making the front of the kid's hair grow, but the back is kinda sorta thinking about it.

Regardless, we walked into a hair salon for what was sure to be a pretty epic moment in Alexis' life. She LOVES getting pampered and I knew she would love it even more with a pro holding a pair of scissors. She climbed up into the chair wearing the biggest dork of a grin I've ever seen. She sat patiently, still as a statue, as the young lady did a little trimming and shaping. Alexis decided she wanted her bangs cut and I cringed as the scissors undid all those years of growth. When it was done, I had to admit it did look better, though. Slightly less mullet-ish, even.

As the hair stylist pulled out her blow dryer to do a little styling, I waited for the Panic Eyes to take over Alexis' face. She HATES my blow dryer. HATES. She has never once had her hair blow dried simply because she refuses to even be in a room when one is on.

The Panic Eyes never showed up. Instead, I got to see Alexis' You Are Busted, You Damn Liar Eyes because the hair stylist offered to straighten the kid's hair. I have frequently and repeatedly told Alexis that her hair can't be straightened. It's beautiful and curly and she should just enjoy it exactly the way it is.

Four-year olds are jerks, so of course Alexis told the hair stylist that I had said her hair can't be straightened. The hair stylist responded by saying, "Oh, I can get your hair straight. You just watch."

I bored a hole in the lady's head. With my eyes. In my mind. Because GRRRRR! She wasn't supposed to tell the kid that I'm a liar.

But then the hair stylist pulled out a brush and some wimpy stlying spray. "No way will that do it," I thought to myself. In my mind, the only thing that will straighten those big, beautiful curls is a few gallons of product, an industrial strength straightening iron, and possibly some nuclear weapons. I mean, I've played with them from time-to-time, and those curls only appear to be gentle. In reality, they are some tough little buggers, persistent and possibly evil.

The hair stylist carefully guided a section of curl through the brush as she used the blow dryer to alternate hot and cold air. She pulled it nice and straight as she pulled the brush out and BOING! The curl bounced right back. She grabbed the section again to give it another try. BOING! The curl bounced right back.

Again and again, she worked to straighten Alexis hair. Again and again, it instantly went back to being curly.

I might have smiled as I watched. I also might have had to fight off some giggles because SERIOUSLY, if you don't have several gallons of product and some nuclear weapons, you are not straightening those curls. In fact, I think she would have had better luck trying to make Elton John go straight.

She fought those curls for a full twenty minutes before smiling down at Alexis and saying, "It looks like your mommy was right. You have the best curls in the world and they just aren't going to go away."

MOMMY IS ALWAYS RIGHT.

Remember that, Alexis, I'm always right. Especially about your hair.

One Way to Kick Off BlogHer. (I Don't Recommend It.)

I was doing exactly what I had been doing for the prior two hours--sitting. Not moving. Waiting (mostly) patiently.

While a born-and-raised New Yorker had told me it wouldn't take but thirty minutes to get from the Newark Airport to the Hilton where BlogHer was happening, he couldn't have known just how much the other New Yorkers would want to play bumper cars on a late Friday afternoon. I guess they couldn't find a carnival because they were playing bumper cars all over the roads.

As I sat waiting for traffic to clear from the third wreck of the 15-mile drive, I could see the hotel. If I would have had bigger pockets, I could have folded the car up, stuck it in my pocket, and walked there in less than five minutes. As it was, I was more stuck than Britney Spears' zipper after she shoved her ass in a pair of her old skinny days jeans.

Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

According to the GPS, I had moved a mere 0.1 mile in over 20 minutes. At that exact moment, I wasn't even in gear. I had the emergency brake on and was checking tweets on my phone. I glanced up in the rear-view mirror just in time to see an impatient douchenugget in a red t-shirt start zooming through stopped cars aboard his bicycle. His long dark curls fluttered in the wind as he zig-zagged his way left and right. I couldn't decide whether to be jealous that he was getting through when I couldn't, or if I should hate him for the way he was moving erratically, without regard for the potential safety of pedestrians also cutting through the not-moving cars. I might have fleetingly thought about how stupid it was that he wasn't wearing a helmet as he rode at top speed.

Turns out I was kinda, sorta, um, -REALLY- right.

As he came up along the side of my car, I scowled. If he slipped and managed to leave so much as a scratch on Mr. Husband's car, I was going to be in trouble. As he rushed up parallel to the passenger door, time stopped. Frame-by-frame, the scene played out as I watched him in the mirror.

He turned his head to the left.

His left shoulder dropped slightly.

The narrow black strap on his backpack slooooowly fell.

Down.

Down.

Down.

The strap hung loosely near his elbow.

His right hand came up off the handle bars.

He slooooowly reached over to grab the loose strap.

AND *POW!*

Before his right hand could intervene, his backpack strap went to the left of the passenger side mirror while the rest of him cruised to the right. With a *SNAP!* the narrow strap froze in place as it wrapped around the mirror and then jerked him backwards.

Frame-by-frame, millisecond-by-millisecond, the bicyclist flew up into the air as his bike continued forwards. He flipped, completely lacking in grace as he came crashing down on his head, his feet splayed wildly straight up in the air.

Bright red blood appeared everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.

The police officer who had been standing just feet from my car handing out tickets to anyone illegally using the bus lane rushed over and began attending to the crumpled pile of human lying motionless in the road. Minutes later, an ambulance magically appeared out of nowhere.

An hour later, I finally continued on my way with the knowledge that the bicyclist was injured, but would be OK. The cop didn't think very highly of bicyclists cutting through traffic, but was still certainly very helpful. I had missed all of the Community Keynote, but there was certainly still lots of BlogHer remaining.

The car mirror was certainly in much better shape than the guy who tried to use it to kill himself.

Self Portrait in NYC