Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl. Not to mention I own four cats….and a chug. Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.
I still own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair and the purple one below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase (now, I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from walking bean fields….I also got a tie dyed shirt, which I still own (my hoarding abilities can be discussed another time). Obviously I put my money to expert use).
Hard earned hair accessory.
Although I saved scrunchies from years past, this does NOT mean that I condone wearing anything of the sort in public. I feel so strongly about this, I have risked jobs and friendships, saving folks from public embarrassment.
A few years ago while at an extremely new place of employment, I spotted my boss sitting at her desk with a white scrunchie in her gorgeous hair. And while I hadn’t quite figured out our working relationship boundaries yet (being that I was her assistant) I felt it my womanly duty to rip it out of her hair.
Well, actually I walked up behind her and as I slid it off of her hair I leaned in and whispered, “We don’t wear these in public. Trust me.”
About to be unemployed but I don’t care.
Horrified at my casual approach and sure as shit I was about to be fired, she laughed and said thank you. We’re still gal pals to this day thanks to my brazen move in the name of fashion.
Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie even though I wear tiny sombreros and t-shirts announcing my crazy cat lady status.
And then there’s my old band manager I ran into at the mall one afternoon.
I expected so much more than….
While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach, it was the teeny, tiny piece of material stuck in the layers of curls that made my skin crawl.
Scrunchie not blending in dude.
Being that I didn’t work for my buddy, I could be a little more blunt in expressing how insane it was to see a grown man wearing a scrunchie.
KNOCK. THAT. SHIT. OFF.
A mere two seconds later, the scrunchie was mine and my buddy was back to being, well, my buddy.
Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.
So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.
But I only sport these little pieces of fashion fails on two occasions.
I wear one to keep myself cool when I sleep within the confines of bedroom walls.
Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.
I still even love this piece of shit when it gets stuck in my mane every morning.
The other occasion in which I wear something so taboo is a deep, dark scrunchie secret.
I wear it to perfect my bun.
Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.
Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.
Scrunchilicious bun secret.
But you can bet your ass I ever let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.
So there I am, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…
I LOST THE BLACK ONE.
Visiting Iowa, I was certain that I left it in my sister’s guest bedroom. And quickly resigned to the fact that I’d never see this beloved piece of my hair history again due to the fact that she has three and a half-year old twins.
Goodbye my love.
What will keep me cool at night?!
How will a bun ever be the same?!
But then I remembered I still had a purple scrunchie from 4th grade.
Be still my beating heart.
As I went to sleep that evening, reaching for the limp pile of aged elastic and who-knows-how-many-germs-its infested-with-material, I heard a snap.
My purple piece of shit went to scrunchie heaven, as the decades old elastic finally died (most likely committing suicide).
Finding myself empty-handed, I did the only thing I could think of to console myself.
I headed to Claire’s Boutique – a store I haven’t stepped foot in since I was a gal on the hunt for prom accessories in high school. Upon entering the overstuffed store, a sweet girl who was maybe 15 greeted me and instantly looked baffled when I told her I was in dire need of a scrunchie.
“A what?” she asked.
“A scrunchie. You know, a hair tie with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.
Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the store music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her back to the clearance section where she announced…
“This stuff has been here since before I started working here two years ago. Maybe you’ll find something to help you out.”
Um, what the fuck 15-year-old?!
The new take on scrunchies are pieces of fake fur wrapped around elastic that are about as durable as an earthworm on a dry day, which would be why they were on clearance for 99 cents.
I mean, seriously?
Giving up on Claire’s, I headed to the mall where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts. While perusing the endless goodness at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.
Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.
What has this world come to?
These are only acceptable on white hair around a nursing home lunch table, mmmkay?
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
Scrunchie sadness combined with the hilarity of an upscale department store selling them in silk.
Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do and also knowing my bun days were over, I tried mending my broken haired heart.
But then…the black scrunchie found its way back from Iowa into my loving arms.
All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.
Now where’s my Caboodle?