Have you heard? The CBC is in a little over a week, and I've had a running of list of things to do to get ready for months now. Business cards? Check. Awesome butt-shaping blue jeans? Check. Cute shoes? Check. A functional diaper bag that can also be my carry-on? Check. Cute haircut? Check . . . oh, wait.
I got my hair cut last Thursday. My hair is curly and big, and really has a mind of its own. When it's curly, I manage it mostly by not managing it . . . that, and great products which, I swear, are an invention of the 21st century. Occasionally, I blow it out myself, but usually, if I want to wear it straight, I pick what I hope will be the first day in a long stretch of rainless ones, and go have someone else do the 45 minute elbow-wrenching job. And if the gods have smiled upon me, that blow out will last . . . 4 or 5 days.
That's why I have just noticed today the carnage. I don't know what happened. My stylist usually does a fantastic job . . . but Thursday, she cut my shorter layers so short that they could now be classified as bangs should I choose to wear them that way. She left my longer layers so long that now that I've allowed it to do what it wants to do, I can only describe my new do as a curly mullet.
I fixed my hair this morning, and then I cried. And then I called my sister and sent her a picture. She kind of laughed and then didn't say much except, "I . . . um . . . I think we can fix this?"
Not exactly convincing.
We then discussed the merits of having a Jane Austen-ready haircut (there are none), and I did a Google search to see if anyone is casting for Louis XIV (most are looking for a man to play the lead, even if the hair is spot on).
I called the salon this afternoon. And I'm going back in tomorrow morning to get it re-done. But the bangs? The bangs I didn't ask for, and that have not, for a reason, graced my face since an unfortunate eighth grade hairstyle mishap -- well, I'll just have to wait for them to catch up with their cohorts.
I should just wear it straight until it grows out. But have you been to the North Carolina mountains in the summer? The whole afternoon thunderstorm weather pattern is pretty much the norm around these parts, and what kind of crazy person straightens curly hair on a rainy day? Even on a good day, my straightened hair has a look of potential energy about it -- like any exposure to humidity might cause my head to explode into an afro-like puffball of unruly ringlets, mostly because that's exactly what happens.
So somehow this bad hairstyle sent me into a tailspin that I have struggled to get out of all day long. It's a symphony week and I like to get things in order early when I know 5 of the next 6 nights will be occupied with non-housekeeping and mothering activities. I've done NONE of the things I needed to. I played with my kids. I figured out how to webchat so MommyJ could see my ugly hair. I wrote this blog post and put out some other fires, but I didn't clean the floor or fold any laundry or even make dinner -- my lovely husband brought home burgers for the kids and sushi for the grownups instead.
To add insult to injury, Miscellany pooped all over my bed, onto sheets that I just changed last night. LAST NIGHT, I tell you! It is on CPod's side. Maybe I'll just leave it. Poop? Bad hair? Anything else? Please, let the cleansing strains of Appalachian Spring do their work on my psyche tonight. I need a lift in the worst kind of way.
I spent the afternoon asking myself if I was really that shallow -- so shallow that a bad hair day can turn me into a self-centered ogre? Yes. Yes, I am.
I was due for a reality check, and I got it when I spoke with my best friend this afternoon. Her mother is in end-stage renal failure, and at this point, dialysis is out of the question and the best they can hope for is a short wait on the transplant list. We just went through this with CPod's mom, and I wish that degree of worry on no one. Our outcome was positive, and I can only pray that hers will be as well.
That bad haircut? Pales in comparison to the sentence of a life-shortening disease calling in its dues. That needed perspective-kicker has shifted my focus away from the mirror. Good thing, because the reflection is really, really bad.
(I just read this to CPod. He really thinks I should say something about how I'm trying to work on my present lack of depth. Or some redeeming characteristic that mitigates my narcissism . . . yeah. I got nothing. Maybe the act of posting the debacle will be cathartic enough for me to move on, but chances are I'm not moving on until tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed for something halfway attractive!)