Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl.
Maybe more of a nightmare than dream.
Not to mention I own five pussies, feed seven outdoor cats and recently added a pomeranian to the mix.
Just over here, wondering how I’m not yet married.
I fucking loathe scrunchies with all of my being (along with fucking Croc shoes that convey “I really have given up on life” – unless you’re a gardener).
My thoughts on Crocs captured purrfectly in an exquisite photo by my buddy Phil Lanoue.
Being that I consider myself fashionable, and how loudly I make my disdain for fabric wrapped elastic known, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my earlier years.
I own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair I got at Kmart in sixth grade. I also sleep in the purple scrunch below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase in fourth grade (I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from pulling weeds in bean fields. I also got a tie dyed shirt, which I still own (my hoarding abilities can be discussed another time). Obvies 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 locks 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 was so excited to see him and his fabulous fam but also felt immediate shame for his kids when I assessed his outerwear.
I expected so much more than….
While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach (but I mean, it’s such a classic dad look, so it’s cool), 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.
From totally geek to totally
chic 80s rocker.
My intense dislike for scrunchies in public does not reflect my feelings on the use of them in private.
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.
Morning mane tangles.
The other occasion in which I wear something so taboo is a deep, dark scrunchie secret.
I wear it to perfect my bun.
Which, now that I think about it, means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.
Scrunchalicious bun secret.
But you can bet your ass I never let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.
We’re all friends, I know you won’t tell.
So there I was, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…
I LOST THE BLACK ONE.
After visiting Iowa a few years ago, I returned to my Nashville Mini Manse unable to find my bun perfecting pièce de résistence I’d taken with me on my trip. I was certain that I left it in Sister CBXB‘s guest bedroom and quickly resigned to the fact that I may never see this beloved piece of my hair history again (I mean, it’s not like she’s that busy with twins that she couldn’t drop everything and scour her palace for my beloved accessory but whatever).
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.
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.
Can a girl catch a goddamn break?!
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 – 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, an elastic band with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down the back of my neck.
Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the store music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my elderly status), 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 Gen Z-er?!
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 at Green Hills where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts (but not as badly as when I gave myself a concussion while dancing in a parking lot). Perusing the endless, out-of-my-budget fashion at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.
Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.
These are only acceptable on white hair around a nursing home lunch table, mmmkay?
And they wanted twelve (12!) motherfucking dollars for one (1!) scrunchie.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
First world problems.
Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do combined with the fact that my bun days were suddenly over, I tried mending my broken haired heart to no avail. A regular hair tie left dents in my otherwise straight locks. Bobby pins weren’t strong enough to keep my mane up at night. I was doomed.
But then, the universe must have sensed my intense agony and a miracle occurred. The black scrunchie found its way back from Iowa into my loving arms.
All of this mental anguish over the love of a scrunchie. Thank god I have Xanax handy for extremely significant life challenges.
Now where’s my Caboodle?