Miracles Are

Exhibit A.
You flew in the sky from there to here, to see your family, but you came to see me too, and I got to wrap my arms around you, and you are still you are still you are still my dear darling girl, my friend, my you-know-who. That's the sweetest blessing and benediction to a week that began with my getting dumped (thankfully not by Rob). That was the worst. You are the best. I love that we are still heart and soul friends and I hope I hope I hope that will always be our joy. I believe I believe I believe it will be.

Exhibit B.
You, amazing person who also flew in the sky from there to here, are exactly the person I expected. I don't brag like lots of people do that I am a good judge of character, because really, who can suss out that sort of information without a great deal of work and actual revelation? Such a declaration always embarrasses me. What I do claim is that it doesn't take long to love people, and every once in a while that feeling seems to predate the friendship itself. So when did I start knowing you, anyway? Logic says it must have been the first time I studied you in photos. But even then I felt a sense of recognition, so it must have been earlier still. Huh. Well, nice to meet you and finally get to say I like you out loud and to your face.

Exhibit C.
Thunder and rain. Comfort sounds.

Exhibit D.
After my third hamburger in less than 24 hours, I am completely ready and can hardly wait for The Great Garden Produce Purge of September. I wish I was starting my juice fast tomorrow, I am that tired of food, but I still have some prep to do. I am so ready to wash my brain and my whole system with veg and fruit. A full month of harvest season relief and bliss! It was that final devastating hamburger, the one at the ward picnic this evening, that pushed me over the edge. I don't care if I eat meat again till autumn. Or maybe ever. Ack!

Hitting the high notes

These are moments from this weekend that I would not trade, not even (collectively) for a more timely exodus to Oregon (though I'm dying to get out of here):

• Eating bean and cheese pupusas with lots of that delicious cabbage-jalapeño slaw and mysterious sauce on the side, at the El Salvadorean restaurant right around the corner from our house 
• Hiking up to the magical field above Big Springs, in the moonlight, shiver-me skirt-draft notwithstanding
• Catching over eight garbage bags' worth of possessions and releasing them to either be purchased again by some lucky thrift shoppers or picked up with Monday's garbage
• Putting on safety goggles and becoming a sawdusty superhero, Auntie with a Chainsaw, during today's extended family wood splitting party at my in-laws' house
• Watching loved ones work together harmoniously, the bigs and littles, and seeing Mum smile at us and her new woodpile
• Introducing The Tribe to La Michoacana Mexican Creamery, particularly the littlest girls who chose their cones by color and not flavor—Two scoops, please: make them Pink and Really Pink. 
• After more than a week spent fussing around with my mop of a so-so beauty school spiral perm, finally figuring out how to cope with it so my hair can be nicely subdued without adding crunch or yielding to frizz (Thank you, Bumble & bumble.)
• Attending the delightful dress rehearsal of Mozart's Die Zauberflote (The Magic Flute) and seeing people we love onstage, offstage, and in the audience—wonderful! (You really should see this opera if you can.)

The stuff of Conference weekends: Saturday

General Conference is always a feast and, particularly on Saturday, it's also a marathon. There's a lot to absorb, and in between and around listening sessions there are meals and family time and extended family and friends time and hopefully a walk and . . . .

Rob and I watched GC via the internet, by ourselves at home. Rob brought in his "knitting" from the studio, which means he quietly worked on sewing together screens for a new papermaking mould. I broke out the laptop and tried to make notes about whatever grabbed me.

During the break between the morning and afternoon session, we went to Sam's Club where apparently it was Big Cheese Day—and oh, what samples! Cheese! Cheese and crackers! More cheeses! Lamb! (Lamb?!) Cheesecake! I thought we would be late getting home because Rob was so excited about one of the samples that he got back in a long line. Something went wrong and slowed the sample ladies way down. It's a good thing they finally delivered that extra lamb sample; I think Rob might have waited for it the rest of the day.

Later when the second conference session was over, Rob got ready and left to save seats for his dad and brothers for the priesthood session. That left me on my own till it was time to gather with the women of the family. I was pretty hungry (only had samples for lunch) so I looked in the fridge for a little non-cheese something to take the edge off my hunger, figuring I'd eat with the ladies in a while.

My eyes fell upon the last of the beautiful brown eggs. This was the one I'd been saving, my favorite of three dozen. Just look at the freckles, wouldja?



No kidding, I formed an emotional attachment to this egg. I'd originally thought of blowing out its insides so I could keep the shell, but decided instead to make A Symbolic Occasion of cooking and eating it. And so, with much ceremony and some olive oil, I fried it, I ate it, and then waxed appropriately appreciative and wistful. That was one delicious egg. Perfect.

Funny, though, it turned out to set the tone for the rest of the evening, which was focused entirely on eggs, chicks, and all their wonderful plumage—a hen party! Here's what happens when all the men go away for a few hours. (I need to amend that—there was one young nephew on the premises, but he had a date with a computer game.)


Decorating an Easter tree, wrapping eggs in onion skins, then bundling them with cloth and string for the dye pot.


My namesake, eating Easter grass.


The champion egg blower.


Our eggs after going onion skin-ny dipping. Pretty, no?


Fancy feathers!


An exotic bird.


They don't call them fascinators for nothing.


Chicks dig 'em!


Time to try some curls on the girls.


Rag rollers—for beauty on a budget. Quote of the night—while E. was enduring the terrible tuggings of the rag-rolling process, she waxed thoughtful: "When the men are gone, it's so peaceful."


E.'s BEFORE shot. (Just wait till Sunday!)

Homespun meets the glossies

Rob and I are among many featured LDS artists in the current issue of a new mag. You can read it online here.

TIPS:

If you want to leave a comment, read the regular web version of our article.

If you want to view the actual print layout of the article and see the photos full-size (including one which makes me look positively lumpy, but ask me if I care), read the PDF version.

(It's better with big pictures, I think.)

Any day I have hair is a good day

It's April, my month. I'm happy to welcome it. It's completely committed to spring—none of this one tentative foot in front yard violets and one foot still in winter business. Even if April happens to bring us a chill here and there, we're going forward into budding and blossoming life, and not backward. I woke up this morning feeling green and interested in putting extra energy into positive thoughts and language. Last month I was sick a long time; this month I want to be very well.

Ironically, I spent the 1st day of my month stomach-sick. Rob too. I had a reprieve long enough to have a lunch date with Bec o' my heart and spend a couple nice hours just talking. That was a break I was grateful for. She's such good company, and the sweet potato fries at Guru's are worth getting sick again for.

(Yesterday, the first day Rob and I came down with gut rot in earnest, all either of us could get successfully down was dried mango, a gift from our friend Paul. If you get this bug, I suggest you have somebody pick up a bag for you from Costco. And drink lots of water.)





(Not many left. See?)

Bec o' and I were celebrating our birthdays today—that was the excuse we used to go out anyhow. Before she came by to get me, I spent the morning cooking up a batch of an ancient Mediterranean beauty treatment—Halawah—to give her along with a cheesy note. Has anybody else tried sugaring before? It's strange and wonderful, not too painful, and is even nice on toast. I tested the stuff out to see if it actually works, and—voila!—I am defuzzed! I'm going to test out an original recipe next time, with rose water. Interested?







(Sorry, no action shots. Maybe next time.)

My other project today was finishing up an announcement design for my cousin and his bride-to-be. One more reminder of the season—pink! green! Their wedding colors! The combo puts me in mind of tulips. Two lips, get it?



(Last night was Pick Yer Pantones night. That's always fun.)

Speaking of colorful, Bec o' and I were discussing an idea for one of our next meetups: a trip to the wig shop to try out some new hairdos. This is actually more than just fun for me, though it's sure to be that. This alopecia I've been wrangling since my surgery has turned aggressive in the past few months, and if it keeps going this way much longer, we're all of us in for a rude shock. Baldness! Ack! Devastation! O, vanity! It's funny, and I do so try to appreciate the humor in the situation, the way the current attack has played out; this go-round all the big patches which have ejected hair are hiding beneath the veil of my part. I seem to be crossing the line between alopecia areata and alopecia totalis in a sneaky way. The people who know I have this disorder say, encouragingly, "Oh, you can't tell at all! I don't see a thing wrong!" All the while, a quarter of my head and rising is attemtpting to embrace my inner Sinead. It's as if my scalp is trying to spare us all the sight for as long as possible. One day I'll wake up and it will be like my hair fell out overnight.

I'm working on coming to terms with what seems inevitable. Rob tries to downplay it, bless his loving intentions. I have one friend who seems to get it, and he is losing his hair himself this week to chemo. He tells me he is "pissed on women's behalf" because it's not so acceptable to go around sans hair as it is for men. He tells me, perhaps a little too optimistically, I'd look "fantastic and boldly beautiful without the bandana." But this is a man who has yet to see me in person.

Anyway. I asked Rob yesterday what color wig I should get if I ever go that route. He joked, "Chartreuse." Don't put it past me. If I have to lose my own, I may invest in technicolor. I'll take a flamboyant wardrobe of coiffures, thank you. Lots of people are stocking up on beans and wheat to see them through hard times. Me, I think I'll put away some henna tattoo kits and some synthetic bobs for leaner days.

For now, I've decided to adopt the philosophy that any day I have hair is a good day. If my hair finally goes, then I'll pick something else to appreciate.

Like tulips. Two lips, get it?







(I look positively shaggy in these! The grand illusion!)

Anybody want to donate some locks of love?

Six quirks (for Becca)

This piece of inhibited exhibitionism was inspired by a meme that Becca played on her blog of delight, Tropical Velvet:

1. I typically check out more library books than I can comfortably carry by myself, and am lucky to finish just one.
2. I frequently run from ringing telelphones.
3. I carry ibuprofen in an Altoids tin. It's nicer to take minty pain-killers.
4. I sing to my dog.
5. I have to use my VitaMix at least once every day.
6. I have an obsession with boots, especially black ones. If I had a lot of money, I'd have a closet full of them, all kinds.

That was an easy confessional. Anyone else care to divulge?

The day the dopes came over

Years and years ago when I used to live with my friend Tootin' Sammy, we got a new roommate named Carrie Jean. Carrie Jean's brother and her boyfriend, who were best friends, used to come over to our place a lot and spend time. We loved Carrie Jean. We loved her guys too, but I have to tell you that as university English department wunderkinder their esoteric literary debates got a little chewy for Sammy and me. It's not that they were smarter than we were (oh, of course not!), or that she and I loved books any less (we liked to eat them for lunch!), it's just that we we weren't up on the erudite criticism theories of the day, and frankly, we were frequently bored and/or intimidated when the brainy mud-wrestling began. Such is the twisted perspective of youth.

It just so happened that I grew up on Steve Martin humor (and I'm certainly none the better for it), and one day Sammy and I broke out my old worn paperback of Cruel Shoes to entertain ourselves in low-brow fashion. We laughed ourselves silly over one story in particular which, at the time, seemed to fit our situation perfectly. So you won't waste your time looking it up I'll give you the slightly edited version here. It's quite short.

The Day the Dopes Came Over
by Steve Martin

I was sitting at home, minding my own business, when my doorbell rang. "Who's there?" I shouted. "We don't know," came the reply. I immediately knew the dopes had come over.

I opened the door and invited them in. I was happy to have company even if they were a bunch of dopes.

"Well, what brings you over this way?" I queried.

"Yup."

"Yup."

"Yup."

"Yup," they said.

"Would you like some coffee?" I asked.

"Gol," said one dope, "how long have we been here?"

"About two minutes."

"Gol, we should have left hours ago!" And they packed up some of my things and lumbered out.

"Goodbye, Dopes!" I shouted.

They turned to me and shouted back, "Goodbye, you big idiot!"

See? You have to be young and giddy to really appreciate this kind of humor properly.

I forgot to mention that I had sort of a crush on Carrie Jean's brother. And Sammy thought her boyfriend looked like a Greek god. That may or may not be significant to the subtext.

Anyway. Sammy and I often talked about how foolish we felt when the boys came over and got going with their intellectual lit-speak and seemed to be trying to engage (impress?) us. Sammy would occasionally try to give it a whirl, being an English major herself, and no small thinker, but it was always the same—crash and burn.

So, from the point of our Steve Martin binge onward, Sammy and I gleefully and secretly referred to the boys as the Dopes. Don't ask me why. We said "yup" to each other a lot while the visitors were present and holding court, and I'm afraid we stopped trying to keep up with them altogether. The two of us were pointedly—there's no other word for it—dopey. It was a highly stupid but very effective coping technique, and we enjoyed the boys' stopovers so much more.

The reason all of this comes to mind and seems the least (very least) bit blog-worthy is that in a little while Rob and I will be having dinner with some people that I often feel shy around. These are nice people, but . . . well, it's just that old intimidation complex again. I still wrestle with it occasionally, even though I know I ought to be done forever with it. Suggestions?

You needn't worry that I will act like a dope though. I will do my best not to say ain't, so as not to offend the sensibilities of my dinnermate who is a very proper and cultured lady, a writer and also the widow of one. Likewise, I will mind my manners. The musicians, however, operatic and classical, might be tougher for me to negotiate, and so I have prepared myself this afternoon by watching this funny video. It made me laugh, helped me relax, and get things into perspective. Hey, Steve Martin's not my only influence; I grew up on Mozart too. Tonight when I begin to choke on my curry because I feel I'm somehow not quite good enough, I will think of this piece and smile:



Wish me good luck!

UPDATE! The evening went just fine, and I didn't even have to rely on the manualist's version of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik to ease my nerves. Hurray!

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts

Today I:

•read scriptures while sitting on the toilet lid in the new bathroom
•helped Y. register for oodles of baby shower gifts at Wal-Mart (ack)
•ate a tofu-vegie wrap from Guru's and felt virtuous for avoiding meat
•was treated by Y. to a birthday pedicure at a school of aesthetics
•was friendly
•chose red nail polish
•screamed in the unexpectedly snowy wind and tried to run a block to our parking spot while wearing useless pedicure flip-flops
•pulled on a wonderfully soft pink silk-cashmere sweater that would have felt so much nicer with no layers between us
•ate ibuprofen by the fistful
•went to the house of some friends and asked their eldest daughter to consider a "job" staying with an elderly lady so she won't have to be alone at night (if the daughter doesn't accept, do you happen to know of somebody really trustworthy and caring who'd like to get paid to sleep in a nice room with a nice library in a nice house with a nice person downstairs for a nice weekly check?)
•made bison burgers for supper and felt virtuous because, well, at least it's hormone-free
•bloated and hurt
•accompanied an excitable group of teens to a batting cage, which was closed, and then to a miniature golf place, which was not
•shot some blurry photos at ISO 3200
•went to Target and bought a bath pillow, bananas, eggs, yogurt, and chocolate granola (which did not make me feel virtuous, but was really good with soymilk when I got home)
•prepped dining room windows for painting with froggy green tape
•felt inexplicably depressed
•designed a graduation announcement for my cousin who's about to be crowned a dentist
•let the answering machine do its job
•decided I need to give up blogging (but wouldja just look at me posting anyway)

This one's for Nigel

And they say he's Mormon.

I'm giving you another chance, o abundant universe

So, you didn't come through with the hat, and now after doubling in price, it's sold out. Maybe you didn't get my message in time. Or maybe since everybody's asking for things right now, it being Christmas and all, you're swamped trying to fill requests. It's okay. Really. I understand.

But you can make it up to me. I found something else, and honestly, now that I've seen it, I'm not at all sure I can live without this. It would give new meaning to my walks on Bright Street. Please give it some thought. I think a gift like this might change the course of my entire life. And you know I'm a little off-track right now. Please get back to me with your answer, ASAP.

Love,
Geo

P.S. No big rush—I don't need it for Christmas. But really, wouldn't this be just the thing to wear on New Year's Eve?

It's comin' on Christmas

Thank heaven for:

•a brain and two feet that got themselves and the rest of me out of the mall, tout de suite
•the nice candy lady (not Lois, unfortunately—guess it wasn't her shift) who helped me choose an exciting assortment for she-whose-name-I-drew-for-Christmas' advent calendar
•keeping my head and resisting temptation when the intoxicating scent of deep chocolate filled my nostrils
•online Christmas shopping when I can't handle crowds and besides can't find what I'm after locally
•clean sheets on the bed
•coming up with a simple alternative to the handmade gift I was about to overwhelm myself making
•talking to my older friend Iris, the one who's got terminal cancer, and her telling me what she says to God every night: I think you ought to reconsider. You're really not gonna want me up there. I'm not gonna just show up and say, "Welp, whuddya want me to do NOW?" I'm gonna be a real pain in your a••!
•beautiful skeins of yarns that feel as good as they look
•praying to find some jeans to fit me while I'm fleshed out and can't fit my real clothes, then finding some good ones second-hand
•coming to terms with the fact that my body is something of a shape-shifter, which means I need to store my full range of sizes rather than annually give the fat clothes the boot for those few minutes when I fit comfortably into smaller numbers
•helping lay out Opera Miss' voice recital program
•wordplay
•allowing myself to say no when I don't feel well
•the bittersweet joy of another close family member announcing a pregnancy (current tally: 3 little chickens in the incubator and 1 just hatched out)
•offering "Coach" my early morning hair-fluffing services gratis, in the women's bathroom at the Fieldhouse Salon
•the prompt and lucrative sale of our old stockpile of beautiful art papers, many of which are no longer produced (sick and wrong!)
•learning that Kitty's pneumonia isn't so horrible that she can't come home from the hospital in a day or two
•old Stargate SG-1 episodes that aren't dogs, unlike the one we watched tonight
•sleep
•mirrors that are kinder than others
•this song (and the fact that "the best baby that I ever had" stuck around):

Forget Kevin Bacon, I'm two steps from the Dalai Lama

Thankful for:

•"Mom's Stuff" made by lovely Lee (see celebrity endorsements)
•going outside with a trash bag at midnight and getting to see the big fat yellow half moon set
•grabbing my coat and chasing the moon down the street until it was finally out of sight
•knowing I'll wake up to more order than usual
•not thinking of it as losing sleep but as enjoying quiet, productive time
•the incredible tree heart my cousin sent me (this is something I must post about)
•dropping off another carload of weeded out stuff at D.I.
•ceviche
•a new blow dryer (finally)
•full warranties
•Bumble & bumble
•Comet
•getting to see M. and S. together tonight as a newly engaged and very happy couple
•being told by S., "We owe it all to you!" (a matchmaker's vain dream come true)
•visiting with out-of-town family
•my young niece knitting her first stitches—Hurrah! Another convert!
•kissing my baby namesake
•jicama + hummus
•compassionate Rob
•Kathryn Kennington's BFA final show: "Treasures of a Child"
•getting all the bananas frozen before Sunday
•a surprise soul-filling good-enough-to-cry-about email from my darling Billy
•working to classical music
•Phoebe's CDs (that's fun to say)
•blog friends who make it like comment Christmas (you are my elf heroes)

O abundant universe

I really really really really really want this hat.

Hairline, fractured*

*ALTERNATE POST TITLES:
It was the best of manes, it was the worst of manes
Hair-razing stories
All tressed out
Hair today, gone tomorrow
Follicle follies
WARNING: This post is insanely long!

• I had no hair at all till I was two—Karo syrup kept various fashion accessories affixed to my peach fuzz head.
• I sprouted a headful of ethereal ash blonde hair, but the color only lasted till I was four, when I committed to being a brunette.
• I sported a Dutchboy bob in kindergarten and it made my chubby cheeks appear even chubbier.
• In elementary school I chewed on my hair while learning times tables. I thought my hairclip looked like a large cockroach and frequently made it dance and amble across my desk.
• I regularly washed my Barbies' hair in Suave strawberry shampoo, then carried around and smelled them.
• My hair grew long and straight, and too thick for most ponytail holders. It was my crowning glory . . . or at any rate, the sole feature that identified me as a girl.
• Because I was shy, my hair was a built-in protection; I often hid behind it or turned my head so it would fall like a curtain between myself and others.
• As a child, I loved taking long baths and thought my flowing underwater mermaid hair was terribly romantic.
• I sometimes got teased or questioned about having "hairy arms." When I glumly told my mom about it, she said she understood because she used to get teased the same way by her classmates. That didn't make me feel better.
• I shaved my arms once as a kid. Big mistake. They were super itchy and looked weird when the stubble started showing.
• I was frequently told, "Get your hair out of your face!" and some adult—a parent or grandparent—would push my hair back behind my ears where I hated it, saying, "There, that's better. Now everyone can see you."
• I was fascinated by the way a hair curled and fizzled when you held it up to a candle flame or a burning match. I even kind of liked the smell. I got in trouble a lot for burning my hair.
• Split ends were an endless source of picking and pulling fun. Multiple splits were the best—those and the ones you could pull apart clear up to your scalp. Seemed to me you could double the amount of hair on your head that way.
• My mom decided to trim my hair so it would look nice for my 4th grade school picture. She kept trying and trying to "get it even" and by the time she finally did, I was back to a chin bob. It hung straight down in my face for my photo, and my dad never stopped swearing at the photographer, even years later, for shooting me that way.
• The only fancy hair skill I learned in high school was blow-drying it upside down for more volume. (Braiding a la Pippi Longstockings doesn't count as a skill.)
• For a time, I got sick of the hassle of washing my long hair, and rejoiced when I discovered the baby powder trick.
• It wasn't uncommon for boys sitting behind me in classes or on buses to pull or play with my hair.
• Best-smelling shampoos my parents ever bought: Clairol Herbal Essence (the original one, not made anymore), beer shampoo, and "Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific!"
• Shaving my legs made me feel grown up and sophisticated at first, but I soon came to envy blondes for whom shaving was optional.
• I tried bleaching my leg hair to make it blonde, but it stopped lightening up once it hit the brassy red stage.
• I learned by sad experience that when you are going to the ocean, you shave your legs the night before instead of on the morning you go, or else you'll get an itchy salt spray rash.
• I received a terrible shock once when I went to the beach with my Young Women group, and one of our leaders, milky pale Sister T., stripped down to her one-piecer swimsuit, and her inner thighs were covered with dense black hair.
• When I was a senior, a very sweet underclassman drew my portrait and wrote me passionate love poems—to the "girl of the raven hair."
• By the time I graduated high school, I could sit on my hair.
• When I left home for college at 17, I moved to Utah and cropped my hair like a boy's.
• My first up-do was the summer after my freshman year at the Y, when I went with my friend Scott to his senior prom. His sister did my hair—not my best look.
• When I was 19 I got my hair done in Salt Lake and the man who cut it butchered it so badly that I cried for days and wouldn't leave my apartment for nearly two weeks.
• I was teased mercilessly by my father when my blonde conservative boyfriend put a permanent fat purple streak in his hair.
• I got sucked into the L'oreal ad campapign: "Because I'm worth it!" and kept my hair Dark Ash Brown for a year or two.
• For a while I was stuck in the perm it—straighten it—color it—perm it—straighten it—color it cycle. Until my hair turned into gum.
• My hair was platinum long enough for me to realize that blondes do get treated differently and they do not have more fun.
• Before I made it back to brunette, I tried to hide my platinum-ness from my father, who came from out of town to visit me, and I accidentally turned my hair a sickening shade of pink.
• A now-little-known fact: I actually went to hair design school for a year, between higher education stints, worked in good salons, and even did a bit of teaching. But I never overcame my aversion to curling irons. I don't do hair at all anymore (not even my own, apparently)—I utterly loved my job for a while, but one day I woke up and POOF! KERPOW! SHAZAM! I was unexpectedly and completely out of love—DONE—with all things HAIR. I quit my job and never looked back.
• During that time, I also did some modelling in big hair shows. Big SHOWS, that is, not big HAIR. (Okay, maybe my hair was big a few times.)
• At one of these shows a very handsome lion-maned Greek man named Yanni tried unsuccessfully to drag me into the men's bathroom. In case you didn't know, not all male hairdressers are gay. And the ones who do big shows are something like rock stars in their realm, and are accustomed to groupies, who must be willing to be dragged into men's bathrooms. I had a similar run-in with an Irish hair celeb in Las Vegas, but again I escaped.
• You can take the girl out of the salon, but you can't take the Aveda off her shopping list.
• I found my first white hair while I was dating Rob. I yanked it out and kept it in my wallet for a long time. It seemed like a sign.
• I fell in love with henna after my salon days were over and kept my hair a pretty shade of earth mama red, off and on. It's fun sitting outside with a good book, your hair packed in green henna leaf sludge and wrapped in cellophane, waiting for the sun to bake in your color. Maybe I'll try it again one of these days . . . .
• I noticed more white hairs moving in when my mom was dying of cancer.
• When I served as Young Women president the first time, one of my favorite girls, a genuine character, used to sneak up behind me in the hallways at church and try to yank out my white hairs before I could catch her.
• I got my first real invasion of white hairs the season that I spent in NC helping my grandmother after her massive stroke.
• When she moved in with us a few years later, that's when my browns began to really lose the battle. Yes, I think stress can definitely knock the color out of your hair.
• I used to painstakingly tweeze my eyebrows, which are of the western forest variety, into the "right" shapes. It was a lot of work and ouch, keeping up with the neverending process. Fortunately, I didn't inherit the dreaded unibrow gene, so nowadays I settle for my own natural wildness.
• On the other hand, I do bleach me a lip once in a while, and ruthlessly yank out wandering chin hairs. Oh, I'm vain, alright, for all the good it does me. This week I studied up about laser hair removal and decided against it, and made my very first appointment with an electrologist for next Saturday. I do not want to end up with a chinny-chin-chin like most of the grande dames of my family. It's all so silly, isn't it?
• Being brunette is a lot of work. What do blondes do with all their extra time?
• The irony is that I now have an auto-immune disorder, alopoecia areata, which causes occasional crop circles to form on my scalp. Are my AWOL hairs simply travelling south to my face?
• Before I knew I had alopoecia, my sister-in-law discovered a small round bald spot near my crown while giving me a razor cut. I felt pretty anxious about her discovery. I had a detailed dream later that week which showed me a significant picture, of a tonsure. I did some online research about various illnesses and when I recognized the picture from my dream, I knew I had found my problem and was able to read about the treatments available and know what kind of doctor to look for.
• I refuse to have a monk's hairdo. If it ever gets that bad, I'm going to buy a lot of cool wigs. Maybe even a pink one.
• I get shots in my head, many many of them in a session, and they are pretty effective at persuading my hair to grow again after an attack. But there's still the waiting for the grass to grow, so to speak.
• Rob wants me to grow my hair out. I just want to grow hair (in the right places)!
• Last week I had another hair dream. This time, I was surprised to realize that my hair was very long and brown and thicker than ever before. While I had been busy paying attention to other things, my head had turned lush and healthy. I'm hoping it's a good sign.