Melissa Explains It All: Tales From My Abnormally Normal Life (28 page)

Doing My Own Hair

Because I’ve worked with some of the industry’s best hair stylists, like José Eber and Laurent D, I never experimented or “played” with tools or hair products on my own. I rarely touched a can of hairspray, and when I did, I’d lacquer my head into a rat’s nest rather than mist it for a light hold. As with my face, my full and shiny mane turned dull and lifeless when I didn’t have pros to help.

This is clear when I look at paparazzi and red carpet photos of myself shortly after
Sabrina
ended and before
Melissa & Joey
began. I was on and off jobs, so I didn’t have regular guidance. In my glamorous days on
Sabrina,
I’d ask my stylist to give me a different look for every event, and I’d rarely repeat a style, even on the show. When we ran out of ideas, we dyed my hair red and tried different hair accessories. If I did my own hair, I wore it in a tight high ponytail or used a pair of sunglasses as a headband. The rest might be straight in some areas, slightly wavy in others, and always flat to my head. I let my stringy bangs flop to the side.

As I get older, my biggest hair issue is volume. Much like my relationship with makeup, I’m terrified to use too much product, so I never get the height or density the way I want it. And when I see stylists for a trim or blowout, they make me look like a Texas housewife with a poufy mane. I feel like they’ll go to any effort to curl, shape, and zhush my hair into something other than what God gave me. I still try to preserve the look as long as I can, but it usually doesn’t hold for more than a few days, so I’ve started ripping out magazine photos of hairstyles and copying those. My friends give me rave reviews when I do, which goes to show how sad my hair looks when bobby pins are an improvement. I’m glad I don’t have a daughter who’d go through a braid phase. She’d ask for a fishtail, and I’d give her a crooked banana-clip ponytail instead.

Because on-set stylists have used so much product and heat to manage my mane, I’ve gone on a deliberate hiatus from hair care to replenish its natural oils. When I was traveling in Italy in the mid-nineties, I spent three weeks adding oils to my hair and kept it wrapped in a bun. I used ylang-ylang and lavender oils mostly, which gave off a potent scent, especially mixed with the aromatic garlic and tomato sauces already in the air. During
Sabrina
’s second season, my costar Beth Broderick spooked me with a story about her hair falling out from being too dry and brittle, so I insisted my stylist Colleen use Evian spray instead of hairspray to tame flyaways for one whole season. You heard me right. I asked for bottled water instead of tap for my hair.

Getting Dressed By Myself

I was never down for wearing restrictive clothes and heels for sixteen hours on set, and then changing into something fab for the car ride home. After a long day, I dressed for comfort. One of the best days of my unfashionable life was when Juicy Couture launched its velour tracksuit. Suddenly, I could be “in” for work, flights, the gym, and lounging at home. Dress it up, dress it down—J. Lo did! When I needed an upgrade, I turned to our wardrobe closet at work. On
Sabrina,
my lawyer negotiated a nice-size clothing budget into my contract so I could take home clothes and go shopping for events and appearances. It took me nine years after the show ended to donate most of the looks. I didn’t want to admit that midriff tops and low-cut jeans weren’t flattering on a thirty-something mom of three. I also didn’t have the fashion IQ to realize they weren’t stylish anymore.

Without stylists at my beck and call after I left
Sabrina,
dressing to impress became less of a priority, and it showed. For the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Inaugural Celebrity Rock ’N Bowl, I wore a velour hoodie, T-shirt tucked into jeans, white belt, and Nikes. For an upscale Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation event, I wore gray cargos and a T-shirt. I was pregnant for a Power Women Hollywood luncheon, so I threw on the only thing that fit: a green-striped sweater poncho. The sweater wasn’t bad in person, but it made me photograph like a circus tent.

Luckily for me, my friends Michele and Kimi both worked in wardrobe with me and still care enough to save me from myself. Once a year these girls, or my trendy sister-in-law Sally, help me do a closet purge. Kimi especially despises my red cotton dress with a large eagle decal on the front. I found it in Melbourne, Australia, in 2000 and initially bought it for when Mom and I went to the Persian Gulf on a USO tour to meet and entertain our troops. On July Fourth, I signed autographs at the U.S. base for the families stationed there, three of which had cats named Salem. I also wore it on
The Tonight Show
not long after 9/11, to further underscore my patriotic spirit. But Kimi said that pairing it with white patent-leather heels, which is how I styled it, was a major fail for late-night TV. Thanks to her frequent and sarcastic jabs, I’ve retired the eagle dress to my Lake Tahoe closet, where I show it off on the beach every Fourth of July and send a pic to Kimi for sport. I even managed to squeeze into it when I was seven months pregnant with Tucker. I liked how the bird stretched and soared over my swollen belly. I can’t believe the seams didn’t burst.

One reason I hold on to things long past their expiration date is because I hate shopping. The way I see it, there’s no point in wasting an afternoon at Bloomingdale’s if repeating an outfit or handbag gets me on E!’s
Fashion Police
for the wrong reasons. What’s more, when I’m working, I spend hours in fittings and doing various wardrobe changes. By the time I get home, I don’t want to try on anything but a terrycloth robe after a long, hot bubble bath (this never happens, by the way). So I borrow clothes from work if I need them, or ask the ladies who shop in wardrobe to grab me an extra pair of cowboy boots or jeans in a size that we know fits. Even then, nothing’s too formal. Why wear Manolos to chase a toddler or a silk shirt when I’m leaking breast milk? Even V-necks seem wrong when they make your sons yell, “Mom, I can see your boobies!”

I was raised to think I could do anything I put my mind to, but dressing well for my husband doesn’t seem to be one of them. Mark’s known this from the start. When we were first married, I went shopping with his sisters and tried to run in to Abercrombie & Fitch for new cargo pants, but his sisters blocked me at the cash register. Mark gave them specific instructions to do this. Apparently, he was on a mission to replace my usual black, gray, and army green wardrobe with jewel tones like emerald greens, turquoise, blues, and of course, Alabama crimson.

Like father, like sons. My boys are very conscientious about their fashion choices. Brady only wants to wear Hulk sneakers and Mason will only wear shirts with sea creatures on them. They both love to accessorize with hats and ties, which I find dashing. I’ll never forget when the kids saw me in that blue-and-white-striped Betsey Johnson tulle dress with fluffy bright pink pumps, a candy necklace, and a Ring Pop for the opening of my candy store, SweetHarts, in L.A. When I emerged from my bedroom dressed like the Sugarplum Fairy, Mason literally gasped.

“You look
perfect,
” he said.

Making Food

Craft services, catering crews, and studio commissaries prepared most of my meals and snacks for eleven influential years of my life. Oatmeal, breakfast burritos, burgers, chili, salmon—all good, none made by me. On my days off, I ate out with friends, spread peanut butter on bread, or reheated the previous night’s doggie bag. I also dined on English muffin pizzas with jarred Ragú sauce and mozzarella cheese. When Mark and I got engaged, my sister Trisha bought us a nice toaster oven so I could keep my husband happy with the only dish I knew how to make.

Clearly I never really learned how to cook, and I’m not sure I ever will. On set, the men and women in aprons made it seem so simple. The caterers kept busy in their little truck, making everything from chicken Marsala to silky custard flan. At home, I hate dealing with the massive cleanup, but before I even get there, I despise the prep work. It takes planning to find a recipe, shop for it, and drive off without leaving the bag on the roof of your car. I’m so indecisive. What if I go through all that trouble only to realize I don’t want filet mignon with risotto for dinner, and I’m more in the mood for sea bass with polenta? Not that I’ve ever made either of those dishes with much success. Maybe I could hire a food truck to back up to the house at meal times.

You’d think I’d learn to cook, given how much I appreciate a delicious meal. Mark and I are foodies and could eat our way across the United States. We have our favorite spots in certain cities and airports, and get excited about visiting each one. On our next trip to Alabama, we plan to fly into the Atlanta airport and drive across the state line so we can hit up Mary Mac’s Tea Room for some cheese grits and cornbread dressing. We look forward to nights out in New York City when we can eat ourselves into a food coma at our favorite steak houses and Mexican restaurants. We are also not above driving forty-five minutes to have breakfast at the nearest Cracker Barrel.

Eating out with the kids is also easier for me than feeding them at home. Our boys, especially Brady, are picky eaters and expert mess-makers, so it’s nice to give them a range of choices and sneak away from the milk and pasta sauce they always spill on restaurant floors. I think eating out has also developed their young palates. Mason was already a better cook at five than I was at thirty-five. He’s like Mark, who never lets a morning go by without whipping up ricotta pancakes, chicken sausage, cheese grits, bacon biscuits, or chocolate-chip waffles. Even when it’s a recipe that comes from a box or the freezer section of our grocery store, I still clap and thank Mark when he channels Bobby Flay because, frankly, it means I don’t have to.

I’m in no way complaining. Right after I had Brady, I tried using Jessica Seinfeld’s cookbook to sneak veggies into my children’s favorite dishes. I put a pot of water on the stove to boil, but got so involved in slicing and dicing that I let the water evaporate and the pot burned. Who burns water? I tried again, this time remembering to add the macaroni to the H
₂
O, but I didn’t realize the noodles would expand. I used the wrong size pot too, so the macaroni tumbled onto the floor and what was on the bottom burned. I gave up and made English muffin pizzas.

Chapter 17

WHEN MOMMY’S WORLDS COLLIDE

Until we bought our home in Connecticut, Mark and I had only moved to other cities for our careers. But Westport was entirely our choice and was intended to benefit our growing family and life together. Such a freeing decision, coupled with the fact that our town is straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, made every experience feel heavenly. We immediately invited couples to dinner, said “You bet!” to every play date for the boys, became regulars at the restaurants, and made friends with our neighbors. We were your average suburban family and loving every minute.

But in the fall of 2009, just three weeks after we moved, I was called back to L.A. to compete on the ninth season of ABC’s
Dancing with the Stars
. In the past, I might have taken Mark and the kids on a job with me, but now I wanted them to have consistency and community. My sons, especially, needed to sleep in their own beds, stay in school, and make friends since we were new in town. For the first time in my babies’ lives, I had to pick up and temporarily leave them, but not without first bawling my eyes out in the parking lot after dropping them off at school. (Parents I’d never met gave me awkward, comforting hugs. But I took what solace I could get.) The good news was that Mark’s job gave him the flexibility to let me travel for work, and he was good at being Mr. Mom. Mark’s amazing with the kids and an awesome disciplinarian. Though I’m the oldest of eight, and Mark’s the youngest of three, my parenting instincts don’t guide our family. I’m just the sucker who gives in to every sob and chance to spoil the kids with toys and sweet treats. Anyway, Mark also knew
Dancing with the Stars
was something I’d wanted to do since the show asked me to participate in their first season, although being pregnant with Mason at the time made it impossible. Mark would do what he had to do to cheer me on.

Despite the show’s demanding rehearsals, I jumped in with both feet. I went to L.A. for five days to meet my partner, Mark Ballas, and begin practicing, and then he came home with me for five weeks where we rehearsed every day in a ballroom at our local YMCA. I was no fly girl, but I felt good about the progress I’d made. I also think watching me work so hard at home made it easier for the kids to see me leave again to shoot the show in L.A. for ten weeks. I promised the boys and myself that if I was going away for so long, I’d give every performance my all. I was ready to work hard, deal with sore muscles, and use plenty of cornstarch to prevent quarter-size blisters. And because I always wanted to be a dancer when I was young, I was curious to see if I still had what it took. I knew the judges would be critical, but I planned to handle their analysis with grace and aplomb. I couldn’t be any worse than Cloris Leachman or Jerry Springer, right?

My bubble popped pretty fast. I loved the billowy, twinkling costumes, but that’s where the joy ended for me. I’ve never experienced pressure and stress like what I felt from fans and myself during that time, especially since I was on live television. The slightest misstep could end up on mean-spirited blogs and in tweets as soon as it happened. I wasn’t sure I had the head to stay positive and focus on learning complicated moves at the same time.

When I first heard that British man’s voice announce “Dancing the Viennese waltz, Melissa Joan Hart and her partner, Mark Ballas,” I thought I’d vomit all over my flowing white gown. But I kept it together during my first ninety-second dance to David Cook’s “The Time of My Life.” Throughout the song, I felt like I was gliding on air, and I was so proud that I didn’t miss a one-two-three step. I felt amazing about my performance, my heart pumping with adrenaline.