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!

Does Anyone Have a Caboodle Where I Can Store My Scrunchie?

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.

For real.

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 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 hair 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 expected so much more than….

Manager fail.

THIS.

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.

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

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.

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.

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.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

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

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.

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 from 4th grade.

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!

Noooooooo!

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 14-year-old?!

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?

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 scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What 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?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

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.

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

Miracles.Do.Happen.

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Now where’s my Caboodle?

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Remedy Trashtacular Hair Hell

Ever wake up after a hard night’s sleep, take a gander in the mirror and immediately want to wave a white flag in defeat?

About last night...

About last night…

Surrendering any hope for good lookin’ locks for the day, you know when you show face (or dark roots, rather) in public folks will be talking behind your back about what a trashtacular turn for the worst your looks have taken? How you’re letting yourself go? How you must be broke as the top three inches of your hair are shades darker than the rest of your locks?

There's Something About Mary hair.

“There’s Something About Mary” hair – only greasier.

OK, so I don’t generally go in public decked out like a dork.  But I do often wake up longing for hair that magically grows a light blonde out of my scalp (instead, I have to visit my magician every six weeks) therefore alleviating the need for me to wash my hair every.single.day.  If I miss a shampoo, I look like I have taken Crisco to my roots by noon.

How does one cover up the trashiness growing from her mane?

Here are a few remedies I’ve found work for my hair indiscretions.

#1. The Snooki

Snookie

The Southern version of the Jersey Shore ‘do.

Requirements: two barrettes.

Two barettes

Objects may seem higher in the mirror than in actuality.

This overall style saves me 25 minutes of hair hell in the morning.

#2. The Bang

When I was bitching at work regarding my greasy, grimy mane, a girl turned around and said, “Just wash your bangs in the morning.”

No shit? Being blonde is hard work.

Wash your bangs. Duh.

Full frontal cleanliness.

Requirements: shampoo and blow dryer.  This version of “clean” hair saves me 20 minutes of primping.

#3. The Bret Michaels

Every rose...

Every hair has its thorn…

Requirements: scarf (and no ponytail the day/night before).

Louis Vuitton to the rescue!

Talk dirty to me.

This is an ultimate time saver, as I can truly bounce out of bed, tie a scarf and go (but I have to remember to pack a Sharpie marker in my purse for all of the autographs I’m asked to sign while sporting this style), which saves me 30 minutes of hair agony.

#4. The Bun

This was an accidental oily hair cover-up, as I tossed my locks up in a bun one day at the beach.  But when I realized it would stay put all day, the look was added to my dark root arsenal.

An accidental beach miracle.

An accidental beach miracle.

Requirements: one scrunchie (yes I said a scrunchie – I’m too cheap to buy the bun sponge helper thing. But it doesn’t count as a scrunchie in public if you can’t see it. Ok? OK?!) and bobby pins.

Bun it.

Just dreaming of Jeannie and wishing I could grant wishes.

Behind the bun.

Behind the bun.

This ballerina remedy adds another 15 minutes to my day.

#5. The Hat Trick

Greasy

Can’t tell I’m a slimy mess under the fedora, can you?

This is the simplest remedy of them all. Grab hat. Put on head.

Requirements: any kind of stylish head topper.

Put a cap on it.

Playing hide and seek with the horrific dark roots.

This trick saves me 35 minutes of messing with my tresses.

After all of the five remedies above have been tried and tested over the 42 days between salon visits (minus the nerd look), it’s time to visit my miracle maker.

Preshy

Getting blonder (not smarter) by the second with my precious sidekick, Precious.

My roots breathe a momentary sigh of relief as I let them come out to play in all of their newfound blonde glory.

FullSizeRenderBlonde!

Back to blonde(r) requires celebration, naturally.

If you happen to see me in any of the above states, you’ll know I’m either trying to eek out seven weeks between salon visits or avoiding the hair wash (because I’m hung over, tired from a long weekend, hung over or just plain lazy).

It’s possible you won’t recognize me in all of my “I-swear-I-don’t-live-in-a-house-on-wheels-although-you’d-never-know-it-with-my-three-inches-of-visible-dark-roots” various, incognito giddy ups as you mistake me for Bret Michaels. Or any guest from the Maury Povich show.

Cheers to good hair days!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Love a Scrunchie

Yes, that kind of scrunchie.

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl. Not to mention I own two cats....

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl.
Not to mention I own two cats….

Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.

For real.

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 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 hair 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 expected so much more than….

Manager fail.

THIS.

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.

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?!

Someone actually procreated with you?!
TWICE?!

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

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.

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.

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.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

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

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 two and a half-year old twins.

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 from 4th grade.

I think I found it in my Caboodle.

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!

Noooooooo!

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 14-year-old?!

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?

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 scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What 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?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

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.

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

Miracles.Do.Happen.

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Stop judging me.

CBXB

CBXB!

For the Love of a Scrunchie

Yes, that kind of scrunchie.

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade  = dream girl.  Not to mention I own two cats....

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl.
Not to mention I own two cats….

Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.

For real.

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. Obviously I put my money to expert use).

Hard earned hair acccessory.

Hard earned hair accessory.

Although I hoard scrunchies from decades ago, 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.”

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 expected so much more than….

Manager fail.

THIS.

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.

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?!

Someone actually procreated with you?!
TWICE?!

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

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.

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.

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.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

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

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 18 month old twins and a dog that likes to eat everything.

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 from 4th grade.

I think I found it in my Caboodle.

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!

Noooooooo!

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 fifteen 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 music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her to the back of the store 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 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?

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 scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What 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?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

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 started to try and begin mending my broken haired heart.

But then…

Mama CBXB returned from another trip to Iowa and had a surprise for me.

Miracles.Do.Happen.

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

My antique hairpiece is back!

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Stop judging me.

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Cat Woman Style

Much to my unembarrassed delight, it seems as if I’m becoming known around the streets of Nashville for my crazy cat lady status.

Wranlge

This is Ted and I love him more than most humans. Deal with it or move on.

Last week, I was in the pharmacy (you know, where actual people get their medicine) picking up a prescription for my recently acquired sick ass stray kitty, New Cat.

Hi. I'm expensive. And I like it that way.

The most expensive stray cat in the history of my mini manse.

Wanting to put a paper bag over my head when I heard “New Cat, New Cat, your prescription is ready,” over the loud-speaker in Walgreens, I assured myself that this couldn’t have been a blip in the pharmacist’s radar of unusual medicinal refills.

WRONG.

I went to pick up my own personal prescription this weekend and, well, I got a handwritten note from the pharmacist accompanying my refill.

Yep. Seriously.

Making last impressions whether I want to or not.

The lady at the register commented that the pharmacist must remember me from a previous visit. Oh, no shit Sherlock?

My Iowa twins thought the story was simply hilarious.

Because they're happy...

Can you believe our aunt is such a jack ass? Hee Hee.

Ma came in to soothe nerves and further extend the celebration of my birthday month week.

Like mother, like daughter!

Cheers to cray cray and birth dates!

Of course I didn’t mind being a tad spoiled…

Gimme

I wish my mom knew me better.

Gift helps

Thank God I had Tedstar to aid in the unwrapping of every piece of ribbon.

Due to all of the glitter on the gifts, I was able to shine bright like a diamond the rest of the day with the copious amount of pink sparkle on my jeans.

Not at all upset with the glitter.

Wishing these jeans were for real.

Taking my upgraded fancy pants out and about, we invested in a few birthday cocktails.

Still a celebration

A glass for the birthday. A bottle for the crazy.

Perusing through my gifts the next morning, I got a little tangled in my new Beats by Dre headphones.

Tangled

Taking headphones off for blondes is hard work.

Help.

Obviously.

Possibly the best birthday gift of all this year? A long-lost scrunchie (yes I said scrunchie) that I wear to bed nightly reappeared with my mom after her last trip to Iowa (I was for sure my dogphew ate it).

Scrunchie

It’s a birthday miracle!

All of the tangled excitement and scrunchie fever had me exhausted before noon.

Exhausting.

Thanks for the over-partied recovery mask Enchanted Seashells!

Here’s hoping you have a week filled with non-crazy cat ladies and lots of springtime fun.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!

 

Tale of the Dark Roots

You ever wake up and just want to give up on your appearance? Showing up for work, having your co-workers talk behind your back about what a trashtacular turn for the worst your looks have taken?

I gave up on my appearance.

Hello. My name is Captain and I could give two shits about the way I look.

OK, so I don’t generally go in public decked out like a dork.  But I do often wake up longing for hair that magically grows a light blonde out of my scalp (instead, I have to visit my magician every six weeks) therefore alleviating the need for me to wash my hair every.single.day.  If I miss a shampoo, I look like I have taken Crisco to my roots by noon.

How does one cover up the trashiness growing from her mane? Remedies I’ve found…

#1. The Snooki

Snooki wants her pouf back.

The Southern version of the Jersey Shore ‘do.

Requirements: two barrettes. This overall style saves me 25 minutes of hair time in the morning.

Two barettes

Objects may seem higher in the mirror than they are in actuality.

#2. The Bang

When I was bitching at work regarding my hair care, a girl turned around and said, “Just wash your bangs in the morning.” Well DUH!

Wash your bangs. Duh.

Full frontal cleanliness.

Requirements: shampoo and blow dryer.  This version of clean hair saves me 20 minutes of primping.

#3. The Bret Michaels

Every rose...

Every hair has its thorn…

Requirement: scarf (and no ponytail the day/night before). This is the ultimate time saver, as I can truly get up, tie a scarf and go (but I have to remember to pack a Sharpie marker in my purse for all of the autographs I’m asked to sign while sporting this style).

#4. The Bun Day

I just recently tried this technique while at the beach over the holidays. So it was an accidental greasy hair cover-up.  When I appeared at work with a knot on my head one dude said “rough night last night?” while another asked if I was a dancer. Seriously.

Hungover?

The hungover ballerina.

Requirements: scrunchie (yes. I said a scrunchie – I’m too cheap to buy the bun sponge helper thing. But it doesn’t count as a scrunchie in public if you can’t see it. Ok? OK?!) and bobby pins.

Two toned

Two toned remedy equals 15 more minutes of the snooze button!

Now you’ll know when I’m between salon visits – if you can even recognize me in all of my “I -swear-I-don’t-live-in-a-house-on-wheels-although-you’d-never-know-it-with-my-three-inches-of-visible-dark-roots” various, incognito giddy ups.

CBXB

CBXB!