::quickly putting it out of my mind::
The problem isn't that she had a thing for shoulder pads in the 80s, because, c'mon, at least she wasn't wearing hot pink spandex leggings. (Like I was.) (In like 4th grade.) (THEY WERE MY FAVORITE PANTS EVER.) The issue arose when we had progressed into like the late 1990's and I'd spot her in her bedroom, padding up the shoulders of her sports coat before heading out in public.
Me: Mom. What are you doing?
Her: [Guiltily.] But these aren't even that puffy!
Me: Mom. Give me the shoulder pads.
Her: [Look of horror crosses her face before it rests in resignation] FINE. [Tosses them at my head.]
And that day, I swore I'd never turn into my shoulder-pad-loving mother. Nothing good can come of a woman who is holding on to the past. Especially if the past consists of shoulder pads.
And yet, despite my resolution, I seem to have started slipping down this slope myself. The other day, after lathering my locks with Extra! Volume! shampoo and blow-drying my mop upside down for maximum body, I stood upright to find my husband looking at my head with a cocked eyebrow.
Him: [Walking toward me, pats down my hair with both hands.] Your hair. It's...poofy.
Me: [Slapping his hands away indignantly.] YOU'RE MAKING IT GO FLAT!
Him: Wife. Flat? Flat is a good thing here.
Me: What? So, you want me to wear my hair like THIS?! [brushing my hair angrily]
Him: [Confused.] Well, yeah? Is this supposed to look bad?!
Me: YOU'RE IMPOSSIBLE. [Fixing hair furiously.]
Him: [Stunned silence.]
Me: THIS! THIS IS SUPPOSED TO LOOK GOOD!
Him: THAT is supposed to look good?
Me: It isn't supposed to look good, IT JUST LOOKS GOOD. Notice my lips? FULLER. And my figure? MORE SLENDER. And let's not even talk about my cheekbones. I'm practically a supermodel when my hair is full, husband.
Him: No, you're practically Snooki, wife.
Me: SNOOKI?! You don't even know who Snooki IS!
Him: Well, clearly you do.
Me: [Tosses hairspray at his head.]
Him: [Hiding behind door] I'm just saying! I don't think that was even cute in 1957!
Me: 1957?! That's when my MOTHER was born! And I---
[Flash back to shoulder pads, to lightening bolt earrings, to sport coats with the sleeves rolled up, to high-top velcro sneakers in banana yellow, to resolutions of not becoming my mother by clinging to my 1990's hair that was totally full and rich and OH THE VOLUME. IT WAS BEAUTIFUL.]
[Drops blowdryer. Kicks volumizing gel in defeat.]
Him: ... Wife?
Me: Yeah....I, ah....*sniffle*...I'll be down in a minute. [Brushes hair angrily. Weeping silently.]