“Please excuse Ann for being late this morning. She has morning sickness.”
One year in high school, I decided to embrace a new look. I walked into the salon with my long, straight locks and walked out sporting the trendy feathered style made famous in the ’70s. And, like most salon visits, my hair looked flawless—until I had to recreate the magic at home.
The first morning after my haircut was a disaster. Gone were the carefree days of wash, condition, air dry, and go. My new look required a blow dryer, a curling iron, and an unfortunate amount of patience—qualities I quickly realized I did not possess.
Each morning, I wrestled with my poufy, uncooperative hair, growing increasingly frustrated as I transformed from hopeful hairstylist to reluctant country Western singer. Instead of sleek and feathered, my hair took on a mind of its own—too big, too wild, too… country western.
I struggled so much that I was often late for school. My mom, ever the patient one, initially tried to help. But I was sixteen, and nothing went as planned. If my mom touched my hair, it wasn’t right. If she gave advice, I ignored it. And if she tried to help in any way, it only made things worse.
After a week of excuses and scribbled late notes, my mom had had enough.
“That’s it, Ann Marie. No more! I am done writing notes. You will just have to get up earlier and figure it out yourself,” she declared, standing her ground. “I’ve written a note every single day, and this nonsense ends now.”
Her warning should have been enough to deter me, but the next morning, I found myself staring into the mirror at what could only be described as Dolly Parton meets tornado aftermath. My hair was huge. My bangs curled in opposite directions. And despite my best efforts, I looked like I belonged on the cover of a country western album.
Desperate, I ran to my mom one last time.
“Mama, please! Just one more note! Look at me—I can’t go to school like this! I look like a country western singer!”
She let out a long sigh and picked up the pen. “Fine. But this is the last time. What should I say this time?”
“Just say I was sick this morning. Thanks, Mom! You’re the best!” I called over my shoulder as I frantically tried to tame my wild curls.
Mom handed me the note as I rushed out the door. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, thanked her, and ran down the stairs, crossing the street toward school. Halfway there, I glanced at the note, reading it absentmindedly—then stopped dead in my tracks.
I blinked. Read it again.
I could not believe what I was seeing.
The note—written in my mother’s perfectly neat handwriting—read:
“Please excuse Ann for being late this morning. She has morning sickness.”
I nearly dropped my books. MORNING SICKNESS?!
I turned back toward the house, my jaw hanging open, but my mom was already standing at the door, watching me with a satisfied smirk. She waved and called out, “Guess you’ll be on time tomorrow, huh?”
And that was that.
Mama always had a way of getting her point across—especially when it came to taming her wild chicks.
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Tales of a Family 