My mom bun has been my most loyal companion for the past seven years. Through diapers and school drop-offs, through sleepless nights and potty-training, it has remained steadfast—perched atop my head like a frazzled crown of survival. Some moms cut their hair short to escape the inevitable toddler tangle phase, but not me. I cling to my curls like my kids cling to me when I try to go to the bathroom alone.
At this point, my hands just know what to do. Stressful morning commute? Twist, wrap, secure. Lost my coffee again? Fluff, tuck, done. Found my coffee, but now it’s cold? Tighten, sigh, accept fate. Somehow, no matter how the day starts, my hair finds its way to its natural habitat—its neutral position.
My mom bun is also my built-in signal to the world that I mean business. Mom bun a mess? It’s been a day. Tight and looking professional? I’m ready for anything. The messier the bun, the closer I am to unraveling. This mom bun has carried me through last minute grocery runs, frantic drives to soccer practice, and emergency late night laundry so my kids are dressed for spirit day. It’s not just a hairstyle, it’s my survival strategy.
The mom bun has survived sticky hands, playground windstorms, and seven summers of pool days where I’ve given up on dry hair entirely. It’s been yanked by babies, frizzed beyond recognition in Midwestern humidity, and somehow stayed put through every windows-down car concert where I pretend I’m still 20.
And if I ever cut it off, what would I do with all these curls? Sure, there are a few grays in there now, but I like to think of them as wisdom highlights. I’ve grown older and wiser in the seven years since I first sported this mom bun, but it hasn’t failed me yet. The mom bun is my comfort zone. And so, it stays—messy, practical, and a little lopsided, but forever reliable. Just like me.
