The Rockwood Files

The Rockwood Files: 10 minutes before a haircut

February 17, 2016 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Once every six weeks or so, a woman has a certain window of opportunity that makes her feel as if she’s on the verge of greatness – like anything could happen. The window opens about 10 minutes before a haircut appointment. And for those 10 minutes, we women flirt with the idea of doing something crazy.

This is especially true for women in the midst of growing their hair longer or for those of us who get our hair colored. (And for the record, I color my hair because I want to. The fact that the hair color also happens to remedy the valley of grey hairs sprouting up along my part is just a happy accident. But I digress.)

The more hair options you have, the crazier things can get. “What if I just cut it all off this time? I could walk out of that salon with a whole new look. I really could. Should I try something new? Would I regret it? What if it was amazing and I was so glad I did it?” The questions swirl around in our minds as we consider the big question: To cut or not to cut?

Men don’t understand the indecisive angst that precedes a woman’s haircut. For most guys, it’s just hair. Men are comfortable with getting their hair cut by a vacuum cleaner attachment. They’re not choosy creatures. Most of them spend about one second contemplating their next hairstyle and that second happens as soon as the barber asks them how they want it cut. “Just clean it up,” they say.

After that, they devote their brain power to more productive pursuits, like what to eat for lunch or weighing the benefits of a plasma TV versus an LCD screen.

But for a woman, a haircut is an event to be cherished. We plan on it and look forward to it. I don’t wash my hair before I go to the salon, but I do take a little extra time on my makeup and the reason has everything to do with that moment when the stylist turns the chair around to face the mirror. That moment is what we call “the big reveal.” It’s like those home renovation shows when the owner walks into the remodeled kitchen and squeals with delight when she sees the changes.

The big reveal is as close as most of us get to having our “Cinderella moment.” And that’s why women are typically so loyal to a hair stylist. She’s the scissor-wielding fairy godmother who spins us around in her magic chair and transforms a shaggy, greying forty-something into a vibrant, refreshed young woman who looks like she just stepped out of a Pantene commercial.

After considering all the options and browsing through at least 50 celebrity hairstyle photos, I usually say these three little words when the stylist asks me how I want it cut: “Just a trim.” (Then I berate myself for being a hair coward.)

But one of these days, I’m going to do it. I’ll work up just enough courage or reckless abandon during that 10-minute window of opportunity, and I’ll walk out of the salon with a Halle Berry pixie cut or a modern bob of blazing red hair. I’ll shout, “Take that, world! I am the master of my own hair destiny!” I’ll be drunk on power and high on hairspray fumes.

Of course, no one will hear me shout triumphantly about my hair in the empty parking lot, but I just know it’s going to feel really good. Maybe next time.

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

The Rockwood Files: Top 3 things annoying parents do

January 21, 2016 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Today I’m sharing important research I’ve compiled here in the parenting trenches that may help my fellow parents gain more insight into why we’re so annoying.

While driving them back from yet another after-school lesson, one of the three kids in the car began to drum on the armrest. (Have you ever noticed how almost all boys under the age of 20 have a tendency to drum on things? Desks, tables, cars, legs, and almost any hard surface? I think they’re born with it. I call it the Ringo Starr gene.) After four miles of drumming, it got annoying so I asked him to please cut it out.

But it made me wonder: What do I do as a parent that annoys the kids? So I asked. “Kids, I’ve got a question. I want you to answer it honestly, and I won’t get upset at all. I’m just curious. What do parents do that annoys kids?”

“Nagging! It’s definitely nagging,” said the teenager, who answered far too quickly and confidently for my taste. “Because you do it a lot. And it’s annoying. And irritating. Especially when you do it when I’m trying to relax and play video games. Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag…”

“I get it. Thanks for your input,” I said, cutting off his string of nags. I looked over to the other two kids and waited for their response. “What about you guys? What annoys you?”

The middle child just sat there looking hesitant, as if he was about to tiptoe across a minefield. “That’s a hard question, Mom.”

(I knew I liked this kid. Bonus points for acting like it’s tough to think of anything I do that’s annoying.) “Oh, come on. I’m sure there’s something I do that you don’t like.”

“Oh, well yeah. I mean it’s just hard to pick one.”

(Bonus points officially subtracted.)

“Oh, is that right?” I said while performing a dramatic eye-roll. “Just give it your best shot.”

“Okay, I’d have to go with yelling. I really don’t like when people yell,” he said.

“Fair enough. And for the record, I don’t like yelling either. It’s just that sometimes it feels like yelling is the only way to get you guys to hear me because sometimes you don’t listen the first few hundred times I say it.” I stopped myself at that point because I’m pretty sure I heard the oldest one muttering the word “nag” under his breath in the backseat.

I turned to the youngest, my sweet, precious 8-year-old baby. “What about you? What annoys you?”

“Well, I really don’t like it when parents get mad and use a kid’s middle name. It’s scary to hear your middle name.”

I nodded my head, doing my best to stifle the laugh. Parents have been doing the “middle name thing” for decades now. When my own parents did it to me, I knew it was the warning shot over the bow. It was the flash of lightning that comes a second before the deafening clap of parental thunder.

By the time I’d collected all this riveting research, we’d arrived back home. As the kids began climbing out of the car, I thanked them for participating in my research. But they didn’t hear me, probably because I didn’t yell it and they were too busy drumming on things and playing apps on their phones. I was going to repeat myself but I’m pretty sure that qualifies as nagging, and far be it from me to be annoying.

The Rockwood Files: Beagle trouble

December 10, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Charlie Brown and I have something in common. We’re both in love with and completely exasperated by a beagle.

My fondness for Snoopy was one of the reasons I happily welcomed a beagle into the family nearly four years ago. The kids named him Charlie. At the time, I had no idea how many times I’d stand at the front door and call that name over and over again, waiting for our wayward beagle to come home.

Perhaps I should have known a beagle would be trouble. There were plenty of clues in the Peanuts comic strip that should’ve tipped me off. Snoopy clearly had a passion for adventure, as evidenced by those daredevil flights as the Red Baron. And he was always more interested in his own agenda rather than blindly obeying his master.

I have two theories about our Charlie: He’s either the dumbest dog I’ve ever known or he’s the smartest and the most stubborn. My conclusion depends on the day and what kind of trouble Charlie has dug up for himself.

Charlie’s favorite kind of trouble involves a backyard prison break or, if he’s inside the house, it’s a “door dash.” Door dashers are dogs who wait for any door to open even a crack, and then they fly past you in a blur, streaking toward the outside world. We hired a dog trainer to help us break this habit. Although the training helped, even the dog expert warned us that it’s nearly impossible to overcome the power of a beagle’s nose. It’ll lead him to adventure every time.

If one of the kids lingers at the door too long or if one of us forgets to tell Charlie to “park it” (which is a shorter way of saying “Don’t run out the door”), Charlie forgets his previous training and sprints toward freedom. It’s useless to chase or call him because he can’t hear us. He’s too busy sniffing and mentally chanting the word “Squirrel! Squirrel! Squirrel!”

For dogs like Charlie, new outdoor territory is a fascinating action-adventure novel. Anyone who has ever stayed up too late at night reading a suspenseful book can understand the lure. To Charlie, every mound of dirt is mesmerizing. Every breeze is spellbinding. Every telephone pole tells a story.

The only good thing about a beagle’s insatiable nose is that, although it leads him away, it also helps him find his way back home, looking as guilty as he is – knowing the price of his adventure will be another bath.

Often, instead of coming home, it’s over the driveway and through the woods to Grandmother’s house, he goes. My parents live in a townhouse just a few blocks away, and Charlie sniffs his way there for a visit with their dog named Boots. He barks at their back door, and they let him in and give him multiple treats and then a nap in one of their plush recliners.

Mom’s theory is that by rewarding him, he’ll come to her house when he runs away instead of playing in the street. When Charlie goes missing, I get a call from Mom when he shows up over there. I can’t blame him much. If my human kids ran away, that’s where they’d go, too. At Grandma’s house, there’s a 99% chance that someone will be cooking bacon and an even better chance that a furry visitor will get a bite or two.

Mom says if I’d get Charlie his own recliner and feed him more table scraps, he’d probably stay home. And to that I reply with what Charlie Brown would probably say after groaning and rolling his eyes: “Good grief!”

The Rockwood Files: Phone Alone

October 8, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

My name is Gwen Rockwood and it’s been two hours since I accidentally left my phone at home.

I realized it roughly 20 minutes after it happened, and by that time I was already 15 miles from home with no time to drive back and get it. When I reached over to the passenger’s side seat to grab it, I found nothing but a lifeless charger cord with no phone attached to it. I hoped that perhaps it had slid off the seat and onto the floorboard. I searched the cracks and crevices around the center console. “Please be here. Please be here,” I chanted. But it wasn’t.

My phone was home alone. I wanted to slap my hands against the sides of my face and yell, “Nooooooooo.”

But there was no time for that because I was already late for my haircut appointment. I walked into the salon while still rummaging through my purse, hoping I might have overlooked it in the jungle of crumpled receipts.

“Is something wrong?” my hair stylist asked.

“I left my phone at home,” I said.

“Oh, no. That happened to me once. It was bad,” she said.

She led me over to the chair and fastened the black cape around me. I tried to tell myself this was a good thing and that some phone-free time at the salon would help me decompress from the digital demands of daily life.

But it didn’t feel good. It felt… weird. Like I’d left my right arm (or my brain) at home on accident. I couldn’t check email. Couldn’t read the online news. Couldn’t check the forecast. Couldn’t read my e-book. Couldn’t get or send a text. And I couldn’t even check the time because I use a phone for that, too.

Speaking of time, it stood still. What was supposed to be a relaxing hour in the stylist’s chair felt like eternity. I kept mentally retracing my steps, wondering where I’d left the phone. I imagined the text messages that might be pinging away in the stillness of the dark, empty house. I imagined it ringing incessantly. “What if the school nurse tries to call me because one of the kids is sick? Or hurt! What if Tom has an emergency? What if my mom has called so many times that she thinks I’m dead in a ditch somewhere?”

When you absolutely can’t answer your phone, you convince yourself you’re urgently needed by everyone, possibly even the White House.

Then over the roar of the hair dryer, I heard it. My phone! My heart leapt at the sound of that familiar ring tone. I dug through my purse again, certain it was there after all. In my head, I spoke to it. “Is that you, phone? Are you here?”

Then the woman in the chair next to me reached into her handbag, retrieved her ringing phone and crushed my hope. I looked at her screen longingly. “I remember when I was able to send text messages,” I thought, as if it had been two decades instead of two hours since I’d done it myself.

Finally the haircut was over and I paid the stylist as she set up my next appointment, asking if October 30^th would work for me.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “My calendar is on my phone.”

As I drove away, I reminded myself that this phone-free existence used to be normal and we managed to get through entire decades without them, even though it seems impossible now.

When I finally got home and scooped up my digital beloved (which had registered only one missed call that was not from the White House) I changed the ringtone to an old song from the late 70s. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It sounds like this: “Reunited, and it feels so gooooooood.”

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To check out Gwen’s book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

The Rockwood Files: Calendar entries don’t lie

September 10, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

I typed the appointment time into my smartphone calendar app and then frowned down at the glowing screen. I was beginning to see a pattern, and I didn’t like it.

Thursday: Oral surgery to have wisdom teeth removed

Next Tuesday: Mammogram

Third Thursday: Eye exam

Fourth Friday: Annual physical

Next month: Teeth cleaning

Lately it feels like I’m always scheduling another doctor’s appointment. When I factor in regular checkups for our three kids PLUS the appointments with my hair stylist who expertly covers these pesky gray hairs that keep popping up, I’m realizing that a big chunk of my life is spent in appointments.

Sometimes I see someone out in public and instantly recognize the face but can’t think of the name, and then I realize she’s one of the many nurses or receptionists I see when I go to yet another doctor’s appointment.

I hate to admit it but all these calendar entries don’t lie. More and more, it’s taking a significant number of trained professionals to keep this middle-aged body ticking along at top speed.

When did this happen? Back in college, I could get by on a sporadic diet of chili dogs and Cap’n Crunch cereal and only occasionally need a doctor during those rare times when I might develop a sinus infection.

Those days, sadly, are over.

The only thing that makes this situation easier is the fact that I’m not alone. My husband has had more doctor appointments than I can count lately, trying to get his prescription for bifocals just right. Bifocals! Aren’t we too young for those?

And yesterday I had a phone conversation with a dear friend who told me she has finally scheduled a date for surgery to correct her gum recession. I pounced on this news, eager for more information:

“So you’re doing it? My dentist wants me to have that done, too. Who’s going to do your surgery? Do you like him?”

“Yes, I had the consultation and he says I’m a good candidate for the surgery and really need to have it done.”

“Well maybe I’ll wait until after your surgery and if you like how it goes, then I’ll schedule my surgery with the same doctor. I want to hear everything about it, okay?”

“If I can still move my mouth, I’ll give you the details.”

After I hung up, I remembered back to a time when my girlfriends and I used to talk about boyfriends and what we were planning to wear when we went out on a Saturday night. Now we talk about receding gums, and we trade names of gifted oral surgeons. We compare co-pays on insurance plans. We swap tips about vitamin deficiencies.

Middle age brought with it a batch of subjects I never wanted to know this much about, yet here we are, spending more time on WebMD than we do on Facebook.

The good news is that, despite all the doctor appointments, I’m healthy and so is my bi-focal wearing husband. We’re the lucky ones. If we get regular checkups and medical screenings, I pray that we’ll stay that way. And I’m grateful we have good doctors who take excellent care of us when we do find ourselves in their offices.

But every now and then, it would be nice to feel like I did when I was in my twenties, when the only appointment on my agenda was with a chili dog and a late night bowl of Cap’n Crunch.