Early this morning I drove over to the mall and had my hair cut. Every time this happens I manage to have a mild anxiety attack, but this time I’ll spare you the details. It’s hair. It will grow. I must enjoy this process, because I keep repeating it. The salon I went to is right next to Chapters and Starbucks, so it’s no great surprise that I spent another hour there searching for ways to get rid of even more money.
I got stuck in the Self Help section looking at books which want to teach me how to be happy. And happier. And smarter and richer and more successful and focused and content and gawd only knows what else – I never made it to the bottom shelf. I actually hate the bottom shelf and think everything in there should be placed at eye level for people like me who don’t feel like bending over. If there was a book down there with advice on how to get over being so damned lazy I didn’t see it.
There is a happiness quiz in one of the books I decided to bring home with me. If I pass that with flying colors I suppose I won’t have to read the rest of it. And without any advice at all I managed to buy something that has already made me very happy for inexplicable reasons.
It’s a desktop gargoyle. I have never had a gargoyle before and until this morning I had no idea that I needed one. Having inch long spiked up hair no longer matters. The little book that comes with it says he will protect me from evil spirits and act as a warning to potential evil-doers. It suggests I should get ready for an exciting life alongside my new beloved fiery-eyed friend.
Even without his eyes lit up he’s pretty impressive. Available at Chapters. If there are any more demented shoppers like me out there, these will be gone before you know it. So get out there and get one NOW.
Doh. As if, in this part of the country, we really need a groundhog to figure that out for us. It’s a beautiful sunshiney day, temperature just slightly below freezing, roads mostly bare. Shadows everywhere. It ain’t spring yet.
First thing this morning I went to a new (to me) place to get my hair cut. It truly was a mess (my hair, not the hair place) because I’ve been cutting it myself for longer than I cared to admit when I was asked. The hairdresser wanted to know why I do that. There are a lot of reasons, actually. Impatience and insanity top the list. But I also know the meaning of ‘just a trim’, and can take off the minimum amount of hair necessary to perk things up. Of course it all eventually gets out of hand and uneven and shapeless but it’s a quick fix for however long it works. No appointment necessary. If there’s a spot I missed yesterday I can just snip away at it today, no worries. Plus I normally hate how a stylist styles my hair and can hardly wait to get home to mess with it. I also rarely like whatever products they’ve mucked about with. My hair is super fine and most body building preparations just weigh it down flat. I also hate looking at myself sitting in front of those huge mirrors, draped in a big black cape, resembling that big fat caterpillar on a mushroom from Alice in Wonderland.
Those mirrors are not flattering. All I really am interested in seeing is my head. I try not to look at the great amounts of hair covering my face and the cape and the floor. Or the look of pained concentration on the face of the poor girl who is trying to turn a shapeless mess into something not quite so scary.
Today I came out of the salon with my head looking pretty much like it does right out of the shower. Hair flat and straight and pasted to my skull. Why do these people think I want to look like that? I do not have an Emma Watson face anymore! Okay, I never did, but you know what I mean. Hair hides wrinkles. Or at least it should give you something else to look at without having to squint your eyes to find it. It’s a lovely precise cut but it’s so short it’s kind of shocking. I don’t like shocks. What all this means is – if an old lady comes out of a hair salon and laughs in disbelief at her own image in her rear view mirror, you can rest assured that it will take at least six weeks worth of hair growth for her to get over herself and back to what she would consider “looking normal.”
Anyway I’ve pouffed it up a bit so I look like a fluffy drowned rat. Much better. I won’t be tempted to pick up those scissors for quite some time.