A MILF No More?

When I was a kid, my parents forced me wear my hair short. And since the hair was also frizzy and bright red, I spent most of my pre-teen years looking like the love child of Carrot Top and a '70's-era Dr. J. No matter what hideous shade of seizure-inducing pink my mother dressed me in, people invariably gushed, "Oh, what a cute little boy!"

So when they finally let me take control of my own style (high school), I overcompensated. I farmed some major ‘80’s hair. I never met a perm (I needed big hair to balance my Fame-inspired off-the shoulder ripped sweatshirts) or a highlighting technique (which complemented my orangesque tanning-bed glow) that I wouldn’t try.

But I absolutely refused to get it cut until the day after my college graduation, and then only because I downed half a dozen shots of Jagermeister at the now-defunct Gully's Riverview Inn and passed out facedown in a wad of someone else's gum.

In my late twenties, I grudgingly came to accept that I couldn’t pull off do-me butt-length blonde streaks anymore. So I got the rite-of-passage female corporate drone haircut, and my hair has remained meekly at shoulder length ever since. My one other major change was when I got bangs in ‘98, a concession to the folly of the aforementioned ‘80s "All-You-Can-Tan" package. Being a tightwad who is squeamish about needles, I figured that bangs are cheaper than Botox. But aside from those two events, all’s been quiet on the hair front.

So last week, when I went in for regularly scheduled maintenance, I was most surprised to emerge from the salon with a short new ‘do. I don’t really recall how it all went down (something to do with an anniversary celebration and free champagne punch) but the end result was a new style that I can best describe as Carly Fiorina meets The Monkees.

I am upset with this turn of events for an utterly shallow reason: with short hair, I feel like I no longer qualify to be a MILF.

Whether or not I’m actually a MILF right now is up for debate. I have only one source of MILFinformation – Manager Dad. Since he is not a stupid man, I cannot say with 100% certainty if he truly believes that I am, or if he just wants me to keep doing his laundry.

And while I know I shouldn’t care about MILFdom (I’m one of those keep-your-own-last-name semi-feminist types), I do anyway. I'm not trying to be a Springerian train wreck, wearing microminis at 57 and sleeping with my teenage kid's boyfriend. Nor do I want to turn into a dog-frightening Joan Rivers freak show, desperately sculpting my last shreds of remaining natural skin into an eternally frozen expression of surprise.

No - I simply want to maintain a reasonably age-appropriate level of good-lookingness so that I can enjoy the occasional catcall from construction sites, and continue to earn more money than my less attractive counterparts. (Don't shoot the messenger on that one - this has been statistically proven).

Response from the family is split - thumbs up from The Girl, thumbs down from The Boy. Manager Dad wisely broke the tie with a "you look great, honey."

Reaction from friends and coworkers was generally positive, although the “You look very professional” that I got from Steve in Information Management doesn’t quite have the same ego-stroking impact of a "Hey there, hottie." On the other hand, I guess it also doesn’t have the same potential for a sexual harassment claim, so I respect where Steve is coming from on that one.

I think I like the haircut. And if I decide I don’t, I have an ace in the hole - a young, defenseless daughter with no disposable income who cannot drive. I can project all of my hairy desires on her. I feel that it is my motherly duty to instill at least a few childhood hangups; all things considered, a hair fixation isn't the worst thing she could wind up with. Shouldn't take too much therapy to cure.