Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Hair today--oh, never mind.
Too horrid even for me. Woke up several times during the night, each time thinking it was daylight outside and I was supposed to be up already. It wasn’t, and I wasn’t. When it was finally daybreak, Boy was already out of bed and downstairs enjoying the sweet thrill of Pokemon or other such Japanimated crap. I can’t complain about it too much, though, being that he has never been exposed to the full horror of nothing but Hanna-Barbera cartoons being the only thing on the air. I lived through some tough times, you know.
ANYway, it got light enough outside to be able to see objects in the room so I got up and got dressed and shaved. I really needed a haircut. Luckily, with just two of the kids to handle, I had planned on just such an excursion for us, to get both mine and Jonathan’s fur trimmed.
Got the kids to get their clothes on, went and started another load of clothes in the washing machine, and turned around to see that Catherine had done her normal job of dressing for the occasion. Forest green class tee-shirt, black pants, shockingly bright purple socks. “Catherine, do you know your socks are purple?”
“Do you know that they really, REALLY don’t match your shirt?”
“Oh. Well, go get your coat on so we can leave.” No use fighting about it. I usually don’t let her out of the house looking so much like a little girl whose daddy dressed her, but she seemed happy enough so I figured why bother with it. Boy came down and was dressed like a little boy.
Off then to the wilds of the Colonial Promenade-Tutwiler Farms Version. “Are we going to eat breakfast?” ::sigh:: Like a couple of piranha. “YES, we’re gonna eat, but Jonathan and I are going to get a haircut first and then we’ll go get something!” “Oh.”
Walked in and in a great surprise, the shop was open at 9 and ready to do business. Since there were no other customers, Jonathan and I got called back first thing. He hopped up in a chair and I gave the woman vague instructions on how to do his head--shorter, up off his ears some, off the collar, no weird lines or grooves or indentations circumscribing his head--just a plain, little boy haircut. AND NOT TOO SHORT! She seemed to understand.
I sat down in the chair of my assigned stylist. “Hey, hon--what we gonna do for you today?” ::sigh:: How I miss the girl who used to cut our hair back when we lived in Irondale. She was just pretty as a peach, and she always smelled like perfume. As opposed to an odd, faint combination of menthol cigarettes, beer, and onions.
Oh, well. I told her to thin it out a bit all over, then just a regular cut all over--same look, just shorter. And to cut it kind of close in the back, because it gets all wooly between haircuts and it winds up looking like some kind of weird animated Howie Mandel mess.
She seemed to understand. She started spraying my hair down and making small talk. “Does it get real curly back there?”
“Yes. I suppose if I got a haircut when I should, it wouldn’t get to looking so messy.”
Spray, examine, spray. Comb. Spray.
And then, the quote that we started the day this morning with--
“Didya ever let it get real long, like back in the hippy days?”
“Nah--maybe about down to my ears or so, but not so long.” I went to a small Christian school, and for many years we had a hair code that proscribed the hair not to touch the ears or collar. Later on, they finally lightened up a bit, but even if there hadn’t been one, I still would have kept it within reason. But my big question is, have I gotten so aged that I can now safely be placed in the Hippy Era demographic, even though it was about a decade before my prime period of rebelliousness?! By a woman who seemed to me to be at least ten years older than me!? I was a child of the Wondrous Magical Disco Inferno NineteenSeventies, not the Sixties! I’m going to just HAVE to get myself some Grecian Formula.
Anyway, she was on to the cutting part now.
“‘Cause you know, I just really have a thing for curly hair. I just love it. ‘Course, it could be ‘cause I got a lotta natural curl myself.”
Yep. She did indeed have a mane of curly glam-rocker hair. Although I think the natural curliness might have had some augmentation. She continued on, and cut off all of the flowing locks upon my nape, and finally gave me a break to ask if it was okay. Still a bit heavy on the sides. So she got out one of the big sheep shearing clipper guards and ran it up and down across the back of my melon, and, there you go. A nice job, overall. (I sure do still miss Allison, though.)
Catherine had been awfully quite during this whole exchange, but thankfully after it was all over, I found that she had apparently made herself at home and read all the dog-eared magazines about Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt (TOGETHER FOREVER!) and how to drive a man wild in bed. I’m just glad she didn’t knock over any of the displays of expensive junk.
Paid, and out the door, Boy and I with our freshly polished noggins, and Cat now pouting because she didn’t get her hair cut. I know better than to do that. “LOOK! If you want it cut, you’ll have to ask your mama, and you’ll have to get her to take you. I’m not about to have to answer for that one!”
I was able to deftly divert her attention with the promise of food. A stop at McDonald’s for the culinary masterpiece of breakfast burritos, then back to the house to eat and to begin the arduous process of folding clothes.
Made much more bearable by the premiere showing of one of my Christmas gifts, Cat Ballou. One of the best of the comedy/western genre, and even though she grew up to be one of Those We Only Mention With Disdain and Scorn, Jane Fonda is just as cute a bug. And any bad feelings about her should be more than overcome by having the manly man Lee Marvin in it.
We didn’t quite get all the way through it, though, before it was time to take a break and head out for the basketball game. Since Reba and the girls had not gotten home, we took off across town for yet another thrilling adventure!
NEXT: Thrilling Adventure.
Comments: Post a Comment
free hit counter
so what if they're mostly me!