By Melanie BatesI recently lost my mojo. I dont know what else to call it but, as Ive been devouring the contents of the Owning Pink website recently, Ive decided that they are on to something BIG. Mojo means different things to different people. According to Owning Pink, for some, mojo is sexual, for some, mojo is being present in the now. For me, mojo is that inner glow, the one you often see on pregnant ladies. Mojo is that smile inside of you that shows on the outside. Its that inner spark, that feeling of connection to everything and everyone around you. Its feeling truly alive. When youve lost it, things feel gray and dingy, and its as if that tinge of hope within has buried itself somewhere and is too busy licking its wounds to present itself.After days of blah and meh, I wasnt sure what to do and, damned if it isnt superficial, I dashed to my black Beetle and raced to the salon. Once there, I hobbled up to the counter, my pasty skin stretched into a grimace, with hair that looked like the end of a Q-tip thats been hanging out in the bottom of my travel case since a European vacation in 2004. I asked for my stylist Nicolette. The receptionists pink and tan glow hid what I imagined was her own grimace at my pallid state and said, Have a seat, shell be right with you. As I looked around the salon I saw smiling faces, heard endless chatter, I saw hot pink highlights with streaks of robin egg blue, I saw people glowing, and not from some radioactive hair gel.After a few minutes Nicolette came over and greeted me with a steady smile and just like that I breathed a deep sigh of relief. She took me to a seat and stood behind me lifting up piles of my frizzed hair asking what I might want to do with it. You have to understand. When you sit in that stylist chair something comes over you. A need to confess, an urge to spill pent up emotion. Stylists are the unrewarded psychologists of our society. So I said it, ! Ive lost my mojo. Ive just had surgery and I need something. Anything! My bloodshot eyes stared back at her through the mirror, made more red by the dark circles underneath them. I felt like a crack addict at an NA meeting, sitting there with my coffee cup shaking in my hand. Nicolette didnt flinch, her tattoo muscled arm flexed as she pulled her fingers through the tangled mess of my hair. I gave it up to her at that point and told her that she could take creative license and do whatever she wanted as long as the colors were golden so that my face wouldnt continue to look like Shamus inner belly.
