amenopausalmom.com

I have this friend.

For the sake of keeping all guilty parties protected, I will call her Frumpalicious.  I call this to her face, so she knows my views. I’m not keeping any secrets here, other than her true identity, and I’m only doing that because I don’t want her to freak out one day if a reader walks up, pats her on the back, and says, “Dear XXX, I’m so sorry your ‘friend’ Menopausal Mom writes such terrible things about you!”

But I digress.

Last night. Phone call.

Frumpalicious: “I did my hair tonight.”

Menopausal Mom: “Uh-huh.”

Frumpalicious: “I know what you are going to say, but I didn’t have the thirty or forty dollars to color it at the shop.”

Menopausal Mom: “Oh.”

Frumpalicious, after a very lengthy pregnant pause. Then, “I know. I should have just paid it.”

Menopausal Mom: “So, what color is it this time? Would you have gotten the chemically enhanced blond nearly green, or the dark black eggplantish hue?”

Frumpalicious: “You remember Tang?”

Menopausal Mom, who drank gallons of Tang as a kid and who was getting excited at the simple memory of the sugary-sweet drink (and wondering if it were still for sale and, if so, whether or not I could sneak out of the house to purchase a few tubs later that night): “Absolutely! Which flavor?”

Frumpalicious: “Orange.”

Menopausal Mom: “Oh, I looooved orange!”

Frumpalicious: “I’m talking about the color, not the taste.”

Menopausal Mom: “Oh shit.”

Frumpalicious. “Exactly.”

Ya see, here’s the thing: Frumpalicious decided, sometime between college and little beast number two, that spending money on herself - you know, so she would look, well, like a normal product of society - was no longer an option. She went on to ditch a variety of goodies most women over 35 require, such as makeup, a real hair stylist, and wrinkle creams.

For the past five years, Frumpalicious has dramatically changed her look, from somewhat hot - think a plump Jennifer Aniston with darker hair and smaller boobs - to a rounder, plainer, frumpier version of her former self.

Frumpalicious wears her bangs like this:

Enough said.

So I did what any good friend would do. I packed up a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates, and my camera, rode over to her house, snapped a shot of the mess the instant she opened the door, then doubled over and laughed so hard I sort of peed my pants, but only a little bit.

When she said orange Tang, she was not kidding. Frumpalicious looked similar to this, minus the spikes:

Frumpalicious had a few glasses of wine, and while she drank and cursed the Gods of hair color and bad directions, I listened. I’m a good friend this way: I listen. I told her it would be okay, we could get it fixed. She would not have to go into work the next morning looking like Bozo the clown in drag. No sir, all would be right with the world.

Finally, after her third glass, I said, “Listen, Frump, how about I give you the thirty dollars it will take to get you out of this mess? But only if you promise to never color your hair by yourself again.”

Frumpalicious considered this, then shook her drunken orange head. “No, no my friend, that’s not going to work for me.”

“Come on. It’s what friends do.”

She stood and then disappeared from the room for  a minute, returning with yet another box of hair color: This time, true brown.

“I got myself into this mess,” she proclaimed, “and now I will get myself out.”

I decided to watch. After all, that’s what friends are for. This time, when the color ended up looking something like this:

I remained positive.

Frumpalicious, staring at herself in the mirror through foggy eyes: “So? What do you think?”

Menopausal Mom: “Uh huh. Yea!” Nodding, trying to remain positive.

Frumpalicious: “Uh huh good or uh huh bad?”

Menopausal Mom, after a slight delay: “Well, better than before, right?”

Frumpalicious, shrugging. “What’s it matter, I’m a forty year old mother of three. Who really even looks at my head anymore?”

And you know, maybe she’s got a point!