How to Not-So-Secretly Love a Scrunchie

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).

The huge gator bit off more than it could chew in this unique series of images captured on camera by American photographer, Phil Lanoue.

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 acccessory.

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.”

Um, no.

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

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….

Manager fail.

THIS.

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.

NOT blending in.

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.

Someone actually procreated with you?! TWICE?!

KNOCK. THAT. SHIT. OFF.

A mere two seconds later, the scrunchie was mine and my buddy was back to being, well, my buddy.

Yep. Back to being a bonafide '80s rocker

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.

CBXB shocker!

CBXB shocker!

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 sweat no more.

Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.

Even love it when it gets stuck in my mane.

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.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Scrunchalicious bun secret.

But you can bet your ass I never let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.

Hey-oh. But why would I ever let anyone in on my bun magic?

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).

Noooooooooooooo!

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.

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.

S-N-A-P.

Noooooooo!

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 14-year-old?!

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?

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 scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What.in.the.fuck.has.this.world.come.to?

Search to replace. Nordstrom FAIL. FAIL. FAIL! Especially with silk scrunchies. Old people lunch tables in nursing homes is hte only place this is acceptable.

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.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

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.

BUT WAIT! My sister found it. And is my hero.

Miracles.Do.Happen.

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?

CBXB

CBXB!

Ass Kissing Like a Boss

Most of my working adult life has been spent kissing ass (which, when it boils down to it unless you work for yourself, comes with career territory), as I’ve found myself being a personal assistant (job description: therapist, mom, chauffeur, wife that goes home at night, nurse, pet wrangler, girl Friday, psychoanalyst, chef, medical doctor, maid, laundress, child care provider) more than once.

Being that I live in Nashville, I once scored a job as a member of an “up and coming country music artist’s” management team (translation: personal assistant).

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

This up and comer had more money than God. Like hundreds of millions of dollars to live on and wipe her ass with, allowing her to not work a day in her life. Ever. So what’s a gal with all of that money and limited talent to do? Be a country singer -DUH!

My first day on the job, I was supposed to fetch lunch for this budding superstar. My list said chicken broth and Sprite. Surely this was supposed to read chicken noodle soup and Sprite, yes? Nope. I sat there and watched a grown woman with the body of a 4th grader slurp chicken broth for lunch – you know, to keep that girlish figure.

That being said, I should have known better when I was requested to bird sit (yes, you read that right) her three fine feathered friends and she told me to help myself to anything in the fridge. But when I ran to see what kind of name brand goods a rich up and comer ate, I was sadly disappointed to see that A) I would be starving over the weekend and B) it was all food for the birds except for mustard, Jell-O cups and eggs.

Help yourself to my bird food. Literally. Her birds' food.

Help yourself to my bird food.

Of course, being that this is Music City and I worked for a mover and shaker, I experienced all kinds of fun events. Like the Country Music Festival held in Nashville every June. Before we headed there for her first appearance, she said to my colleague, “Better not tell anyone you work for me or you might get mobbed.”

Tens of tens

Clearly I feared for my safety as she performed.

Other events I was able to experience included red carpet moments for her gigantic showcases. One time, as I was laying out her very high-end, $28,000 designer dress out for a show she ran in after a facial and screamed, “MY FACE IS RED!” I glanced up at her and agreed by saying, “Your face is red,” as she’d just had her mug rubbed, poked and prodded. Her response? “Eat shit and die.” I’m surprised I have any tongue left after all of the biting I had to do in order to keep a paycheck.

Your face matches the empty carpet.

Did I mention that your face matches the empty carpet?

I also got to be a personal stylist when we were getting ready for “big” magazine shoots (you know for a free city publication).  While helping her skeletal frame in and out of outfits, touching up her lip gloss, assuring her that her hair was just big enough but not too big I often got to hold her beautiful diamond jewelry between shots.

Sweating

Who wouldn’t spend $56,000 on a toucan ring? WHO?

This lovely creature of a woman also purchased a puppy for her manager on Valentine’s Day. Because nothing says “I love you” like a dog you (i.e. the assistant) get to take care of. Forever. A puppy was beyond an appropriate gift for a guy who travels three weeks per month. Perfection. So you all know that this goddamn dog became my pet, right?

Mells

The bane of my existence, pain-in-the-ass, little love of my work life.

As we all know I’m much more of a cat lady, although I couldn’t help but fall in love with that flipping happy face.  Which ended up being a good thing as the puppy single-handedly destroyed my office one night, managed to eat a bag full of mini Snickers over lunch one day therefore shitting gold for three weeks (after I was assured by the vet she wouldn’t die), chewed through the hose on my personal washing machine when I took her to my house and managed to eat through every single can of a 12 pack of Sprite, spraying the sugary liquid from floor to ceiling. FUN TIMES.

Such a good listener

Sit. Stay. I’m magic with dogs.

While wrestling with the dog became part of my daily duties, I also got the pleasure of carting this woman to and from very important appointments (mani, pedi, massage, hair appointments).  And what better way to use my double degree from a fine university than to balance her three pet birds on my body while driving through the streets of Nashville (you know, to socialize them)?

Goddamn Bird I ended up loving...ugh.

No Polly, I don’t want a mother fucking cracker. I want you to keep your crest from obstructing my view of traffic.

Amazing what one will do for a paycheck, isn’t it? While I happily, thankfully, fortunately, get down on my hands and knees and praise Jesus every day that I don’t work for this woman anymore, here’s how I always wanted to respond to her requests….

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking most all of the time.

Safe to say I don’t miss her! One bit.

The dog…that’s a different story.

CBXB

CBXB!