Somewhere along the line I made myself a martyr.
I decided to not practice self-care, but always promoted it. I lack the typical things one needs for many self-care activities. Namely time and money. I claim I didn’t really enjoy the things I actually enjoy greatly. A massage, a facial, getting my eyebrows shaped for me instead of plucking them at 2 in the morning- bleary eyed in the bathroom mirror- before finally falling into bed. I lied to myself that I didn’t care that my cuticles look ratty and my toenails are black from running, or that the split ends of my hair didn’t bother me.
Because I’m a mom.
… and my kids need things, and I need to donate to charities, and support the classroom, and put gas in the car for the hundredth time this week. Where am I even driving to that I constantly have no gas? And so I’m a martyr. And I’ve decided I don’t need things, I can go without I proudly boast. But the truth is I can’t because I don’t want to. Because I am a mom. And I am tired.I am the mom. I am the martyr. And I am tired. Click To Tweet
And I work hard. And I deserve to get my nails done every now and then and to get a massage and to enjoy a candle and a new scent to celebrate the season. And I deserve a haircut that I love. So I am grateful for the squad who pulled together when I was at a low point in my self-care. Who rallied to tell me this was okay. That if I wanted to chop it all off or let it grow long or dye it, that it was my choice; I would slay whatever look I chose. And so I made a choice. To stop getting a haircut that I wouldn’t need to upkeep but once a year. To not go with the simple highlights because they don’t need any maintenance. I chose something that would force me to sit my ass squarely in the chair of Sarah Marsh at The Gallery Salon, and spend a few hours by myself with a friend taking care of me. Taking care of a friendship I value. And looking goddamn fierce while I do it.