I was dragging around yesterday at lunch and Rob noticed. He asked me what was wrong and I told him I had a hair appointment and didn’t feel like going. Yes, I know that doesn’t sound like anything to be morose about and it seems silly, but as I explained to Rob – I just wanted to do something other than sit for two hours in a salon making small talk with my stylist. Fredrique is a nice man, but we rarely ever talk about anything but American politics and American cultural defects. Cindy, my previous stylist, would chat with me about kids – mine and hers and tell me what she’d been up to. The time went by much faster. But the best thing about Cindy is that she would let me not talk if that’s what I wanted. I didn’t feel any pressure to fill the air or entertain her. And then there was the sitting for two hours without much to do. Okay, I could have taken a book and I did talk my yoga for dummies, but I really wanted to spend some serious time on my writing. My writing muse is feeling quite neglected and isn’t happy with the snatched moments I have been getting in the past couple of weeks. Life calls and I answer and the muse knows this is the reality, but she was pouty yesterday because my best friend sent me a very belated birthday gift of a novel formatting program. The muse very much wanted to spend a few hours with it yesterday, but I had this hair appointment. We are finally getting to take our honeymoon as part of the trip. Katy is staying with the folks and Rob and I are taking off for a cabin in Southern Illinois for five days on our own. I can’t have grays and roots showing. Hairy legs perhaps, but not grays and roots. So, I sucked it up and went to the appointment. And it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. Reading helped. The shampoo girl gave me a great scalp massage. Reminded me a bit of the lonely caregiver days when I would go to get a wash and style at Cost Cutters just to have someone rub my head. Sad, pathetic days. Yesterday it mainly reminded me of Rob and the way he rubs my head at night when I am laying on his chest. Happy, contented days. Having my hair done in the middle of the day is another reminder of what a different life I live now. I don’t have to be anywhere at any given time expect for school drop-off and home in time to meet the bus later. I have things to do – shopping, housework, cooking, working out, writing – but there is no specific time table for any of this. I don’t have to dress any particular way, so I am usually pretty casual in my yoga togs. I don’t wear a bra anymore. I don’t shave my legs. I never wear make-up. They were things that seemed so non-sensical  when I had to do them and did I really have to do them? Or was I just lock step with all the other women in this post-feminist era? Yoga duds aren’t professional. Bralessness is too provacative. Make-up free is a sign of disinterest. Hairy legs are just gross (and another sign you don’t care about yourself or upkeep). A new blogging friend asked via a comment why I didn’t identify with feminists. And perhaps this is part of it. Feminism is just another way we women pressure each other to conform to a standard that does not fit every one of us. I never wanted a career. I just wanted a job that I enjoyed. Do what you enjoy and the money will follow. Isn’t that what they say? I never saw motherhood as limiting or men as evil. Although both can be true, motherhood is about sacrifice and most men are not bright enough to be evil – just annoying (as are women). Feminism is black and white and I have always known that life is not that simplistic. Being blond is my only girly vice really and even that takes a back seat to my muse.