Saturday, February 26, 2011

The Local Beauty Parlor

   We moms have learned to find and take those relaxing moments in any way shape and form we can get them.  A walk to the mail box, a couple extra minutes in the shower, or if  there is a true desperation for some alone time, a trip to the grocery store.  I have been known to sneak to the bathroom with a book tucked under my arm and stay in there for suspicious lengths of time.  When the hubby starts yelling "Whatchya doin in there??" I know the gig's up.
     But my all time relaxation favorite is a trip to the local beauty parlor.  And by local, I mean right here in my home local.  The problem resides in finding a willing beautician.  I resort to all forms of begging and pleading to get my way on this one.  My boys already have caught on to my tricks, and they're not so easily persuaded anymore.  If one of them asks if there's anything to play and they see me smiling and starting to reply, they quickly amend, "except beauty parlor."  If I include payment, sometimes I'll get a passing interest, but they think a quarter per five minutes is an incredible rip off.
     If my husband is home, I will so nicely go sit on the floor next to his chair in the guise of chatting, but  like a  puppy looking for a pat, I will make sure my head is placed conveniently near his hands just in case. 
    Being  that the baby is still in the hair pulling stages of life, I'll keep her on the back burner until I wear out my current sucker, uh, beautician.  My three year old.  She is also catching on quickly to my begging ways, but  if I see her beginning to respond in the negative, I pull out my secret weapons.  Plastic scissors and the water spray bottle.  What child that age can resist the chance to thoroughly drench something?
     So the bliss begins.  She sets up shop in her bedroom and waits for my knock.  She ever so graciously has me sit down in the "chair" formerly known as the toy box, and whips out her favorite baby blanket to wrap around me.   Then comes the spraying, combing, measuring, "put your head down", "shut your eyes", and snipping.  All the while the chatter continues; "Where do you live", "What's your baby's name",etc.  For all of two minutes pure contentment reigns, and what a glorious two minutes it is. Just when the relaxation starts to really sink in, I hear the dreaded words, "Okay, look in the mirror."  Oh the let down. 
 But this has got me thinking.  I wonder how many minutes I could get out of her on massage therapy?

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