Rolling with the hair

Going through the process of brushing my teeth tonight, I suddenly recalled the time my best friend, Christine, did a buzz cut design on my hair, but used the wrong size of head on the clippers.

You see, to make a long story short, she and I both set up / participated in a fundraiser for St. Baldrick’s Foundation, a pediatric cancer foundation, in which we raised money by putting a reverse bounty on our heads – when the bounty was paid/raised, we shaved our heads, a step toward solidarity with children who have cancer, and a financial donation to their care and eventual cure.

As our hair was growing back, Christine got this really cool buzzing of the word Beloved on her head.

About a handful of weeks later, for the Fourth of July, I brought over our clippers so that Christine could do a headband design in my hair.

In preparation, we prepared and I signed a contract, freeing Christine of blame for whatever was to come…

“What am I getting myself into here?”

“A bad idea,” responds Christine, happily, brushing back the wetted hair, so she doesn’t shave the wrong stuff.

I reminded her consistently about getting the head correct on the clippers…., and she, in her certainty that it was the correct size, used the same size she had had used on her own hair… five or so weeks ago…

Seeing as how my hair was now about an inch longer than hers had been when she had the word buzzed into it, the very first cut proved that she had selected the very wrong size.

Since this first cut was right on top of my head – front and center – we agreed to roll with it… while laughing our guts out, of course.

For the day/evening, she finished up the striped design, trimmed down the longer section of the stripes a bit, and then painted the super short sections red, white, and blue.

So, my hair was totally themed for the night, and got new colors a day or so later.

For the next few weeks, I mostly wore a fabric headband at work, but otherwise let my hair down, so to speak, and let the design and painting shine through.

It definitely improved over time, and eventually did almost exactly what I’d wanted it to do in the first place…, but just weeks after the fact, and nowhere near as well.

Nonetheless, it was a wonderful experience of trusting, making mistakes, loving friends anyway, and embracing what’s so… even if it means a messed up and painted hair-do for a few weeks. 😛

Post-a-day 2019

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Shaving

Oh, what a thing, shaving…

You know, it usually takes me two to three days to shave my legs effectively.

The first day happens when I 1) have decided to shave and 2) have remembered actually to bring my razor to the shower with me.

You see, I keep all of my things out of the shower, so that everything stays clean… I was already looking for a solution better than having to keep the water really low, so that it wouldn’t splash and get anything else wet while I showered, when I read Marie Kondo’s fabulous recommendation of just removing everything after each shower…, and I accepted.

Therefore, I must remember to bring a razor with me to the shower before I am in the shower and washing my body, suddenly recalling that I had intended to shave three days ago already…

So, that’s the first day of actual shaving – if we counted all the days I forget to bring the razor, we could get into months of waiting around, so we’re going with the days on which I actually do the shaving.

Now, I typically shower before bed.

I also typically have lower lighting on in the evenings and at night, as a sort of preparation for bed, allowing my eyes and mind and body to calm down in the lower, softer lighting that would be terrible for daytime hours but that is perfect for bed preparation.

Therefore, when I finish shaving the first day (night, really), what looks like a job well done, I can usually expect not to be so.

And so, the following day, in daylight (or, at least, daylight lighting), I examine my legs – it originally was on accident, and still usually is, but I occasionally remember and check intentionally – and almost always find hairs here and there, and occasionally even a whole chunk or strip of missed hair.

Oops… oh, well… I’ll fix it tonight.

And so, remembering where the missed areas and spots were, and also doing a bit of a close-up look under the lights before I get into the even darker shower, I shave a second night.

That’s the second day.

Usually, at this point, I’ve gotten all the hairs off my legs.

However, there are the occasions where I have yet again missed a hair or fifty.

And so, on the third day, upon discovering the again-missed hairs, I typically go directly to a razor and dry – extremely carefully, of course! – shave those missing hairs in the good lighting.

Thus concludes my monthly or quarterly or, on extremely rare occasions, weekly leg shave.

If I ever have forgotten too many days in a row, and I have an event that night or the next morning, the whole thing happens in fast forward: jump straight back into the shower (if I’m even showering, and not just shaving my legs directly from the side of the tub), and then do the cautious dry shave for the final stragglers I notice while dressing.

So, in a sense, shaving is quite the event in my life. 😛

Therefore, if I shave for you, you can know that you are really important in some way. 😉

Post-a-day 2019

Freshly Sliced

I am the epitome of sliced white bread, as I enter campus.  I have on my dance top and shorts and my hipster tie-dye Oakley sunglasses.  I am eating a Trader Joe’s snack bar and holding a large bottle of cold Trader Joe’s electrolyte water, and am walking with a cool green backpack on my back, and my dirty blonde hair in a messy bun on top of my head.

Two black guys are walking towards me.  The larger of the two, a very large and very dark guy, asks me how I’m doing and what I do here.  I tell him that I go to school.  He asks if I do any sports or anything, because I look like I do long-distance running; I look very thin and fit.  I say that I did.  He says that ‘you see there, I was right – you look like it’.  I notice that I’m also wearing running shoes – the ones I used to wear for all my walking and bike riding at my Japan job – and that I haven’t just been doing exercise, despite my complete outfit for it.  He hands me a flyer while saying that they hope I can join them on the 20th, and then I continue onward.  Based on the flyer, it looks like some sort of DJ dance party with stereotypical black advertising and expected attendees.  Not that I’m opposed to the party, but I’m not exactly the target audience of the flyer, making it surprising that this guy would have stopped to invite me…I mean, did he see me?  Again, not opposed to it.  I’m in full support of it.  I’m just a little surprised by it.  However, I recall that this is a college campus, so they’re probably inviting just about any girl they can find (who doesn’t look like a total nerd, that is), and my surprise lessens significantly.

After a few hundred yards of walking onward, I see what I originally think is a dead snake on the ground.  As I approach it, I see that it is a strand of weave, of false hair.  A gurgling chuckle rises within me.  This is definitely not my typical territory, and I feel as though my thoughts of being stereotypical white bread have just been proven by my surroundings of very much black culture  – not to mention the fact that almost everyone I can see is black to some degree – showing up in stark contrast to me.

And then I remember that I also am wearing a drape-y scarf, despite the fact that it is still technically summertime.  I’m even more white bread than I had thought.

Post-a-day 2018

“You could tuck in the mullet part”

The things we say in our family member text messages – things which, at the time, seem normal enough to us – never cease to amaze me… and today’s was no excuse.

We were looking for a reasonable Elvis wig in the costume shop, for a Catholic Life Insurance party this weekend, you see, and one wig was really rather good, minus the few mullet hairs in the back.

Simple, and totally normal, right?

😛

Post-a-day 2018

Church, bras, and tangled hair

I was discussing with a co-worker this evening a church that my family attended when I was a baby, and it brought to mind the last time I attended Mass there.  We had moved elsewhere for church when I was still quite little, but occasionally still went to Mass there for a while.  Eventually, though, we had stopped altogether going there, and always went to one of two other nearby churches.  Therefore, it is easy for me to remember the last time I attended Mass at this particular church, because it was a singular event, with no other occurrences within years of its happening.

My youngest brother and I were tasked with going to church together on our own.  He was probably 16 or so, making me 12 at the time.  I remember how we were hanging out at home, and how he was playing games on the still-new PS2.  And I eventually finished getting dressed at the last minute, and we rushed off to Mass.

We ended up having the Mass time incorrect, so we weren’t just a little bit late to Mass.  But we stayed, anyway, and attended what little was left of it once we arrived.  When we arrived back home, a very unique experience happened, and one which I feel shows how loving we are, my brothers and I.  I had worn this top that went on like a tube top – yes, there were sleeves of some sort, or else a sweater that I wore over it, but it went on like a tube top.  However, it wasn’t the usual stretchy material of tube tops, but rather a somewhat set-size material with elastic around the top piece to help it stay in place.  (I’m almost certain that it had wide-ish straps, but nothing like actual sleeves to it.  I remember specifically that I had to wear a strapless bra with it, because of the strap situation, but that is all of which I am certain about the straps – strapless bra required.)

When I went to remove my top, changing out of the nicer clothes and into comfy, regular clothes, I got myself stuck.  You know the feeling… pulling it upward first, and, at the pivotal point, feeling the fabric stop sliding and suddenly hold tightly to the width of your currently-expanded shoulder blades… and being incapable of pulling the top back down, because your arms are now stuck up in the air, because the fabric really just doesn’t give almost at all.

So, what could I do but get help?  I remember having the slight concern of going to my brother for help, because he would see my bra! my thoughts shouted in whispered tones.  It took almost no time to accept the social standard as just that, and then to let it go.  I was beginning to panic at being stuck, when I was walking back out into the living room for help from my brother.  He easily stopped immediately what he was doing, and came to the rescue.  I think it might have actually taken us a good bit of effort to free me, but we eventually succeeded, and I was grateful for his help.

And, what is amazing about this, really, is that neither of us was uncomfortable with the situation.  Sure, it was an odd situation – I was already at the point of having been able to dress myself alone successfully for years.  But it was still easy for us both, because of our love and care for one another.

 

As another brief anecdote, I remember a time my oldest brother was babysitting me, and I went to use my mom’s rounded brush, typically used for curling hair while blowdrying, to brush my hair.  I did it in a sort of hurry, and somehow twisted the brush while it still had my hair running through it (I had long hair at the time), and began brushing a new spot on my head… ultimately knotting a big chunk of my hair into the brush.

My brother was able to reach my mom on the phone, and she said to check with the neighbors, because the mother there might be able to help unknot my hair.  A good, long while later, the neighbor was convinced that my hair had to be cut, in order to remove the brush.  I remember my mom’s voice on the phone declaring, “Do not cut her hair,” to my brother.  I think it took over an hour, possibly longer, and I don’t remember who finally did it (though my brother, the neighbor, and I all worked on it at times, and my mom might even have had to finish it up when she got home later), but my hair eventually was freed.  And I was concerned about ever using that kind of brush in my hair again.

Obviously.

You know, I think those were the worst that ever really happened when my brothers were in charge of babysitting… not bad, I think.  🙂

Post-a-day 2017

A man’s bathroom

What’s the deal with guys and hair in the bathroom?  Any time I have been in a guy’s bathroom, no matter who he was, his bathroom has had short, little black hairs all over it.  Countertop, sink, toilet, even the shower seems to have these little hairs all over it.  I used to think it was just facial hair, but I feel like that would end up restricted to the sink area.  These things end up all over the bathroom.  And it is revolting.  I know I have a sore spot for bathrooms in the first place, but come on, guys… Really?

Ugh.  It’s just gross… clean up after yourself.

😛

Post-a-day 2017

Salty Hair

I love the feeling of my hair after a good day at the beach.  Running my fingers through it, slightly course and thick yet smooth, feels almost like running my hands trough tall grass, grabbing hold of a chunk with a bit of dirt, and then swirling it around, feeling its sharp-edged softness.  Kind of weird idea, I suppose, but it’s what seems to suit best as an analogy right now.

The salty, sandy thickness, supplemented by the warm (or hot) sun exposure, sings of satisfaction in the day’s accomplishments.  Today was a good day, I can feel it saying.  Today was a very good day.  And it always has been when my hair is like that.

My skin is slightly sticky, sand keeps appearing in little patches anywhere on my body, and my hair is sunbathed and thick.  Today was a beach day, and it was a wonderful one.  Today was a wonderful day.

Post-a-day 2017