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Not so long ago I had very long hair. Down to my waist, in fact. Because I also owned a few pairs of Birkenstocks and wore the occasional long skirt, I was often accused of being a hippie. Generally, I took no notice. Yes, I recycle and tend a vegetable garden and enjoy camping in the out-of-doors, but I don’t really identify myself with the neo-hippie movement (if you can call it as such) or with the Rainbow People or with Dead-heads or Phish-heads or really any other kind of heads whatever they may be.

Still, in the early stages of my pregnancy, I commented to a friend that I couldn’t wait for my belly to be tough, taut, and bulging. I mentioned that I had always pictured myself largely pregnant, in a long white eye-lit gown, barefoot on an old-fashioned porch, my long hair cascading in gentle waves down my back, a young man in a straw hat and overalls playing the banjo for all my shoeless friends.

What the hell are you talking about? was her response.

She was right. What the hell was I talking about?

The very next day I made an appointment at a trendy, punk-rocker salon and donated my tresses to charity. It was time to resurrect my bad ass self.

Walking out of the Salon I felt like I should be on the cover of Spin or at the very least invited to join our local Burlesque.

So, you can imagine my surprise when, while visiting the weekend at my sister’s house, I received the following compliment from one of her friends:

Oh wow! I love you hair! It’s very, um, Mommish.

Mommish? Now what the hell was she talking about?!? I might have a little grey in the bangs, but most people wouldn’t even notice.

Mommish? With my Sonic Youth tee?!? Honestly!

I truly had expected her to say something more along the lines of: I love your hair! It’s very hip! It’s young, modern, punky, funky, wild, and sexy. Did you just get back from a Rave?!? Who’s your stylist?

Instead, I had to catch myself half-wince and grin and say thank you and grab myself another beer from the fridge.

Mommish!

You see, I may be off-center here, but since having Silas it’s been easy to imagine myself as a hip and happenin’ kind of woman. Mama, yes. But, not the kind of mama I might have been doomed to be if I hadn’t caught myself in time enough to get thee to a barbershop.

Cute, pixie haircuts aside, I’ve found motherhood an opportune, albeit odd, excuse to get down and dirty with my utter unsquaredness. I’ve easily been able to conjure up the spirits of Writer Mama and Salsa Mama and Wine-Cheese-and-Intellectual-Conversation Mama. I’ve been to prenatal yoga, and baby yoga, and momma and me music hour. I’ve strapped Silas to my chest while rehearsing a very foul mouthed one act play and while listening to my husband play guitar at local breweries. I am happy to say that every morning Silas and I rock out to Baby Zeppelin and the new Medeski, Martin, and Wood kids CD. Shit! During my pregnancy I craved Outkast instead of craving ice cream and pickles!

And, furthermore, I’ve been thinking about getting my nose re-pierced! Now, how’s that for hip and trendy?!?

Still, even with my arsenal of ‘I can prove I’m with it’ comments (Yes, I have a copy of Who Would You Do? on my shelf), I have a fear that this nay-sayer friend of my sister’s may be right.

I am 30 after all.

I guess that’s no spring chicken. And, I have begun to notice the little wrinkly imprints of crow’s feet. And, honestly, this Mommish comment was not the first time my station in life has slapped me in the face.

I am reminded of a Ween concert in which I realized I was the only person above the age of eighteen.

I am more painfully reminded of a business trip to New Orleans. (What kind of business I dare not say. I must have someway to protect the innocent.) Embarrassingly clad in a calf-length pseudo-velvet jumper with outdated cinch waist belt, a boa, and a fraying bun, I hit Bourbon Street with my group of professional friends. After several hours and a few too many perfect Manhattans, I felt the need to advertise my youthfulness. Apparently, dancing wildly in the streets and shouting obscenities wasn’t enough. I had to be accepted and revered by early twenty-somethings. I had to blend in. Be cool. Hang with my hip hugger homies.

Asking all my co-workers to “watch this” I bravely approached a table full of youngsters obviously too young too be drinking. As I jolted about like I was dancing with John Travolta in Pulp Fiction and cleverly smiled at them from under my wrinkled brow, I shouted “Hey dudes! Are you old enough to be drinking here? Don’t worry, I’m cool.” I thought they’d wink, and maybe laugh, and give some sign that we were all on the same groovy page before inviting me to sling back a couple of tequila shots.

That is, until I became suddenly and horrifyingly aware of the tragic depth of their looks of disgust and condemnation. Instead of offering a seat at their table, they asked if I was an undercover cop and then turned their backs to ignore me. Some of them even snickered and whispered cruel and unusual things about me before getting back to their conversation about Pokemon.

Come to think of it, I experienced a similar ostracization while desperately trying to infiltrate a tight-knit circle of Confederate ladies gyrating to the tune “Redneck Woman” at an odd southern-style wedding last year.

Maybe I just try too hard. Maybe I’m not the cool, collected, postmodern artiste I always wanted to be.Or maybe every one else is just delusional.

Mommish, Indeed!

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 6th, 2008 at 5:46 pm and is filed under Just (not so) Plain Life, Pure Raw Motherhood. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.