The Bun

Most of you know that I wear a bun in my hair all the time.  No occasion is the exception.  I wear a bun at church, at the gym, at home, on dates with my husband, at the movies, at night to bed.  You get the idea.  I've even overheard myself described as "the girl who always wears a bun in her hair."  That one made me cringe.  You see, it's not as if I love this particular hairstyle.  It's just so easy and practical.  My husband loves my hair long.  And when I say love, I probably mean an emotion even stronger than that--maybe obsessed would be the word.  

When we were first married, he left me for three days to go see his brother return from his mission to Japan.  I decided to cut my hair, as all newly married women do.  I tried to explain to him that it really wasn't my fault, I didn't disregard his wishes, it's a phenomenon with newly married women.  It was pretty much inevitable that I would do it, once I said, " I do."   That line of reasoning did little to convince him.  Let's just say that I have yet to repeat the experience in our eleven years of marriage.  He's much more easy going about my hair now, but still prefers it long and I prefer to keep him happy.  So in the bun it goes, because I am, if anything a lover of the easy and practical. 

Today I woke up feeling uneasy.  I wanted to do something different with my hair.  I wanted to blow it out, leave it long and frustrate everyone's opinion of "that girl with a bun."  I didn't want to be her today.   Sadly, Ella wanted to be in time-out for fighting with her sister and brother numerous times.  Jackson wanted answers to important questions like, "How does the garage opener work?" and "What does invisible mean? Why is the air invisible? How come we bleed? Where does our food go? Are peas good for you?"  Kate wanted to talk about complex emotions and figure out why everything isn't fair and find her missing underwear.  Max wanted to be rescued from the toilet bowl, the stairs, the balloon piece in his mouth and a whopper of a poopy diaper.  Yet, I still had hope--until ten minutes before we had to leave for church. 

 I was downstairs with drippy, wet hair feeding Max his lunch.  I finished up and on my way up the stairs to my blow dryer, I discovered J sitting in our coat closet with a pair of scissors.  He had already cut up his brand new gymboree, plaid church socks and was working on his pants.  After a mini meltdown(mine) and a time-out(his), I was back on track to my blow dryer and then I discovered Ella in the bathroom with an entire tube of gel in her hair,  mixed in with hair spray and leave-in conditioner.  She was repentant and the damage was done--so I said little and we washed her hair.  By this time, I  was at least 30 minutes late.

 We ran out the door: Jackson in his cut-up, hole-filled socks, Kate in her dress sans sash, Ella in her wet bun and ripped-up jelly shoes, Max and his poopy diaper and me, in a wrinkled dress with my hair in, of course, a bun. 

And that folks, is the reason why I ALWAYS wear my hair in a bun.

Of course, sometimes I'm just lazy.