My aunt (though she doesn't really seem like an aunt, more like a Blogger-buddy!) posted some pictures on her blog of herself and her sweet little girl making faces outside, and I just felt inspired to write something fun and playful. Dedicated to you whimsy, cutesy ladies!
Face the Day
Me and my Mumsy celebrate
When all the rain has gone.
We're making whimsy, goofsy faces
Outside, on the lawn.
Stick out your tongue, bulge your eyes!
Squawkle your hair with your hand!
Make a squeaksy, buzzy noise
The flowers understand!
Bunchy your nose, wiggly your ears!
Scrinch up an eyebrow or two!
Spreadum your fingers, fish-up your lips
Beneath a sky of blue!
Squiggle a lip, scrunge an eye!
It isn't very hard.
We're making whimsy, goofsy faces
In our upside-downsy yard.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I've got sunshine on a cloudy day...
...when it's cold outside, I've got the month of May.
But where have "my girls" gone?
I remember being a young and fantastic child, my head filled with such whimsical ideas bouncing this way and that through my overactive mind. What a time that was, so free of the restraints of life. The ropes of reality hadn't found me yet, that slink through the grass, hissing and slithering until they find your feet and wrap themselves around your ignorant ankles. They make their way up your naive calves, and restrict your creative hands and fingers, that before could paint masterpieces with only two colours of paint and no brushes, and now require a case full of colours to get even close to what you want your painting to look like.
Back in those days, I had so many friends. I wasn't a very social child at school, really. I didn't have many of those sorts of friends. No, I was always surrounded by a different sort, I ran with a much more imaginative crowd. This crowd accepted me for who I was, embraced me for my goof, ran and played with me when no one else would.
They were my girls.
Now, I won't claim to entirely remember them, because unfortunately I can't. I've tried, to recapture them in the deepest parts of my memory, but I just can't seem to find them completely. I've heard about them in the stories my mother tells me, however, and they do seem like an exceptional bunch. And every so often I get a vague memory of the comfort they brought me, or a game we played once, but because I've grown up as society has forced, there is no possible way for me to regain them.
Some would say they weren't real, they were made up, imaginary. But for me, for a six year old girl with radical ideas and knotty hair, a hippie in her own time, they were as real as anything could ever be. They had names, they had faces, they had voices, they had feelings. They were loved, and could love. And they were my very best friends.
I called them "my girls" my mother tells me. She says I used to talk about them so lovingly, I'd go down the list of names, and point throughout the room. Or there were times when only one of my girls would be in the room with us at a time, and I'd have to run off to retrieve another before I could introduce her properly. I could describe their personalities descriptively, and always with the utmost care not to offend in their honourable presence. There were even times when my mother would be walking through the hall with a stack of clean towels in her hands, and hear the faintest little voice coming from my room, as I instructed one of them not to tug on the other's hair, or that it wasn't safe to jump on the bed in such a reckless manner. They may not have been the greatest at conversation, some might say, but they could listen like no one could.
I don't know where they are today. I can almost remember the moment I dismissed them, without wanting to, I did. Not at my parents persuasion, not at my school friends persuasion, but at my own. With my own blossoming womanhood at hand, I took my stick of insecurity chalk and drew a circle around myself, with not even enough space to move. Without knowing it, I had locked my girls out, and locked myself in - trapped by the fear of an unsettling world, bound by the fear of failure, unsure of what I would do to erase my transparent line of chalk and free myself again, dance again.
My girls could no longer reassure me of how beautiful I looked in that dress. They could no longer take my hand when I felt alone. And it wasn't as if I could see them as they paced around my circle, watching and waiting for my escape. No, from within my circle I couldn't even see them anymore.
I'm still working on my circle. You won't be surprised to hear that I haven't erased it, because as a woman you too understand the concept of the circle. You've seen the circle, and felt it, grow and shrink through your hectic and uncertain roller-coaster life. But I'd like to think that right now, my circle is growing. I'd like to think that I am allowing myself room to breathe again, opening myself up to possibilities, making enough room for perhaps two or three people to share my circle with me.
I'd also like to think that one day, when I'm least expecting it, the circle will be gone. Simply from the traffic of people entering and moving on from my circle, the treads of their feet will brush the chalk away. I know that day isn't today, and I know it isn't tomorrow, but I know it's coming. For me, and for you, and that we'd both better be ready because once it's gone, it can't protect us from ourselves anymore. It won't need to.
I know my girls are still out there, whispering magical whims into the ears of some ambitious little girl, coming alive in the drawings of a seven-year-old angel. Letting that knobby first grader win a race or two, and celebrating in her triumph. They're there, and maybe one day we'll meet again.
Thank you, my sweet girls.
But where have "my girls" gone?
I remember being a young and fantastic child, my head filled with such whimsical ideas bouncing this way and that through my overactive mind. What a time that was, so free of the restraints of life. The ropes of reality hadn't found me yet, that slink through the grass, hissing and slithering until they find your feet and wrap themselves around your ignorant ankles. They make their way up your naive calves, and restrict your creative hands and fingers, that before could paint masterpieces with only two colours of paint and no brushes, and now require a case full of colours to get even close to what you want your painting to look like.
Back in those days, I had so many friends. I wasn't a very social child at school, really. I didn't have many of those sorts of friends. No, I was always surrounded by a different sort, I ran with a much more imaginative crowd. This crowd accepted me for who I was, embraced me for my goof, ran and played with me when no one else would.
They were my girls.
Now, I won't claim to entirely remember them, because unfortunately I can't. I've tried, to recapture them in the deepest parts of my memory, but I just can't seem to find them completely. I've heard about them in the stories my mother tells me, however, and they do seem like an exceptional bunch. And every so often I get a vague memory of the comfort they brought me, or a game we played once, but because I've grown up as society has forced, there is no possible way for me to regain them.
Some would say they weren't real, they were made up, imaginary. But for me, for a six year old girl with radical ideas and knotty hair, a hippie in her own time, they were as real as anything could ever be. They had names, they had faces, they had voices, they had feelings. They were loved, and could love. And they were my very best friends.
I called them "my girls" my mother tells me. She says I used to talk about them so lovingly, I'd go down the list of names, and point throughout the room. Or there were times when only one of my girls would be in the room with us at a time, and I'd have to run off to retrieve another before I could introduce her properly. I could describe their personalities descriptively, and always with the utmost care not to offend in their honourable presence. There were even times when my mother would be walking through the hall with a stack of clean towels in her hands, and hear the faintest little voice coming from my room, as I instructed one of them not to tug on the other's hair, or that it wasn't safe to jump on the bed in such a reckless manner. They may not have been the greatest at conversation, some might say, but they could listen like no one could.
I don't know where they are today. I can almost remember the moment I dismissed them, without wanting to, I did. Not at my parents persuasion, not at my school friends persuasion, but at my own. With my own blossoming womanhood at hand, I took my stick of insecurity chalk and drew a circle around myself, with not even enough space to move. Without knowing it, I had locked my girls out, and locked myself in - trapped by the fear of an unsettling world, bound by the fear of failure, unsure of what I would do to erase my transparent line of chalk and free myself again, dance again.
My girls could no longer reassure me of how beautiful I looked in that dress. They could no longer take my hand when I felt alone. And it wasn't as if I could see them as they paced around my circle, watching and waiting for my escape. No, from within my circle I couldn't even see them anymore.
I'm still working on my circle. You won't be surprised to hear that I haven't erased it, because as a woman you too understand the concept of the circle. You've seen the circle, and felt it, grow and shrink through your hectic and uncertain roller-coaster life. But I'd like to think that right now, my circle is growing. I'd like to think that I am allowing myself room to breathe again, opening myself up to possibilities, making enough room for perhaps two or three people to share my circle with me.
I'd also like to think that one day, when I'm least expecting it, the circle will be gone. Simply from the traffic of people entering and moving on from my circle, the treads of their feet will brush the chalk away. I know that day isn't today, and I know it isn't tomorrow, but I know it's coming. For me, and for you, and that we'd both better be ready because once it's gone, it can't protect us from ourselves anymore. It won't need to.
I know my girls are still out there, whispering magical whims into the ears of some ambitious little girl, coming alive in the drawings of a seven-year-old angel. Letting that knobby first grader win a race or two, and celebrating in her triumph. They're there, and maybe one day we'll meet again.
Thank you, my sweet girls.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Brushing away the tangles of life
Something I think I enjoy most about my entire day.
I'll work a long day, up at 6, home by 4, and I'm exhausted. I've been running around, making everyone else happy, scratching my head for ideas, pulling my hair from stress, running my fingers through my hair for comfort, fussing with my hair for cosmetic purposes.
And then I get home and the most magical moment happens when I get to the bathroom and grab that favourite brush. Those teeth stroke my scalp in just the right way, as the brush moves fluidly through my strands...
I hit quite a few tangles from my stressful day, but the brush takes them out with ease, tugging ever so gently on my over-worked head. And I brush, and I brush, until my hair is only comparible to silk, cascading in one heavenly fold over my exhausted, sore shoulders and neck.
I look forward to this moment every day. These are the tangles I can solve in this life. This is the stress I can ease in my day.
And all it takes is one humble brush.
Ah yes. No joy like this one.
I'll work a long day, up at 6, home by 4, and I'm exhausted. I've been running around, making everyone else happy, scratching my head for ideas, pulling my hair from stress, running my fingers through my hair for comfort, fussing with my hair for cosmetic purposes.
And then I get home and the most magical moment happens when I get to the bathroom and grab that favourite brush. Those teeth stroke my scalp in just the right way, as the brush moves fluidly through my strands...
I hit quite a few tangles from my stressful day, but the brush takes them out with ease, tugging ever so gently on my over-worked head. And I brush, and I brush, until my hair is only comparible to silk, cascading in one heavenly fold over my exhausted, sore shoulders and neck.
I look forward to this moment every day. These are the tangles I can solve in this life. This is the stress I can ease in my day.
And all it takes is one humble brush.
Ah yes. No joy like this one.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Buddha Thunk?
We had to prep the apartment for the future mother-in-law's arrival. Already, my stress level was through the roof, and to add to it all the place was a mess, and I was expected to make dinner for the three of us. And that dinner had to be incredible. Chicken curry was the decided dish, though I carelessly forgot to defrost the chicken. Rice, garlic-butter broccoli... sounds appetizing, no?
"We have to get the apartment ready for my mom," the man said, as though I didn't already know. I glanced around the apartment, realizing all the aspects wrong with the room. There was so much to do and so little time. Fortunately this woman is notoriously late.
Our first order of business was to reverse the comforters of the beds in the bedrooms. See, the man and I sort of agreed on a purity arrangement for our relationship, so we have separate bedrooms until we get married. I, being the more beautiful of the two, naturally get the bigger bedroom. And, since the man's furniture is much bigger than mine, it went into the bigger room. Thusly, I am sleeping in the king-size suite with the beautiful new dark wooden furniture, and the man is in the tiny room with the mattress and box spring. This is the natural of order of things, as it has always been.
But we had to switcheroo the comforters. I'm sure it is clear why.
So, now the man's bedroom is the big one, and my bedroom is the small one. For today...
The next step in prepping the apartment was to hide incrimitating articles. Gather the wine, hide it in the mini-fridge out of sight. Rearrange the words on the fridge to form happy-go-lucky poems instead of deep, dark ones. Wonderful.
Next, the items that would not be all-that-bad if it were any other woman.
My Buddhas.
I have two small ceramic Buddhas on my entertainment unit - now don't get me wrong! I have not converted, and do not intend to. In all honesty, I simply find him adorable! And he did say a few smart things, I suppose. He also adds to the sort of cultural flavour of my apartment decor. I have two, and both of them had to go.
Now, the lady is a religious sort of woman. Fire, and brimstone, and all that fun. To give an example, she's always been the sort that would jump to the wrong sorts of conclusions from items such as these, and even go so far as to claim they were bringing negative spirits into our home. She's also always been the sort of woman who would hear news, and then claim to have been told by the Lord only a week prior that this would come to pass. Quite a lady.
"Where should we hide these?" the man asked, holding up the chubby Buddha in the one hand, and the wise Buddha in the other. "I mean, I don't really know where to put them."
"Just put them in a drawer, or in a closet, or something. I don't really care, as long as they're out of sight. " I was far too busy with much more important things, like picking through the carpet on my hands and kness, because we still didn't have a vacuum cleaner...
"Maybe I should put it on the balcony?"
"Do you think that's far enough away that the Lord won't tell her that they're there?"
Buddhas taken care of. Check.
Now, for the finishing touches. Dust, wipe, spray...
The man was sitting in the living room playing some video game when I walked in with what I thought was an appropriate finishing touch. I was met with rolling eyes, and groans.
"Holly. Really, don't you think that's a little over-the-top?"
"I don't think so."
He slapped his forehead as I placed the open Bible on the coffee table.
I left for a moment and when I returned he had removed it. Hours later I would discover that he'd removed the open Bibles from our nightstands too. Even though I'd carefully opened the one in "his" room to the first page of "Matthew." I thought it was funny...
But that's men for ya.
Buddha thunk?
"We have to get the apartment ready for my mom," the man said, as though I didn't already know. I glanced around the apartment, realizing all the aspects wrong with the room. There was so much to do and so little time. Fortunately this woman is notoriously late.
Our first order of business was to reverse the comforters of the beds in the bedrooms. See, the man and I sort of agreed on a purity arrangement for our relationship, so we have separate bedrooms until we get married. I, being the more beautiful of the two, naturally get the bigger bedroom. And, since the man's furniture is much bigger than mine, it went into the bigger room. Thusly, I am sleeping in the king-size suite with the beautiful new dark wooden furniture, and the man is in the tiny room with the mattress and box spring. This is the natural of order of things, as it has always been.
But we had to switcheroo the comforters. I'm sure it is clear why.
So, now the man's bedroom is the big one, and my bedroom is the small one. For today...
The next step in prepping the apartment was to hide incrimitating articles. Gather the wine, hide it in the mini-fridge out of sight. Rearrange the words on the fridge to form happy-go-lucky poems instead of deep, dark ones. Wonderful.
Next, the items that would not be all-that-bad if it were any other woman.
My Buddhas.
I have two small ceramic Buddhas on my entertainment unit - now don't get me wrong! I have not converted, and do not intend to. In all honesty, I simply find him adorable! And he did say a few smart things, I suppose. He also adds to the sort of cultural flavour of my apartment decor. I have two, and both of them had to go.
Now, the lady is a religious sort of woman. Fire, and brimstone, and all that fun. To give an example, she's always been the sort that would jump to the wrong sorts of conclusions from items such as these, and even go so far as to claim they were bringing negative spirits into our home. She's also always been the sort of woman who would hear news, and then claim to have been told by the Lord only a week prior that this would come to pass. Quite a lady.
"Where should we hide these?" the man asked, holding up the chubby Buddha in the one hand, and the wise Buddha in the other. "I mean, I don't really know where to put them."
"Just put them in a drawer, or in a closet, or something. I don't really care, as long as they're out of sight. " I was far too busy with much more important things, like picking through the carpet on my hands and kness, because we still didn't have a vacuum cleaner...
"Maybe I should put it on the balcony?"
"Do you think that's far enough away that the Lord won't tell her that they're there?"
Buddhas taken care of. Check.
Now, for the finishing touches. Dust, wipe, spray...
The man was sitting in the living room playing some video game when I walked in with what I thought was an appropriate finishing touch. I was met with rolling eyes, and groans.
"Holly. Really, don't you think that's a little over-the-top?"
"I don't think so."
He slapped his forehead as I placed the open Bible on the coffee table.
I left for a moment and when I returned he had removed it. Hours later I would discover that he'd removed the open Bibles from our nightstands too. Even though I'd carefully opened the one in "his" room to the first page of "Matthew." I thought it was funny...
But that's men for ya.
Buddha thunk?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
I don't want to set the world on fire
The Man and I had finally decided to take the plunge into the world of "Cooldom" in the nation of "Awesomonia" and invest in a game system. A new game system. The debate began, of course, with a thorough discussion of the pros and cons of the two leading consoles, one being the ever daunting PS3, the other the slightly less intimidating XBOX 360. After weeks of sending friends and aquaintances into heated debates over where their loyalty lay, and Googling the two machines a thousand times, we finally came to a conclusion.
And there are definitely three hundred and sixty reasons contributing to my euphoria.
We picked up the ark of the covenant at Future Shop, where it sat waiting patiently for us at the very top of a stock shelf. The clerk helping us in the store was more than happy to climb the ladder to retrieve it. Turns out the mountain of 360's in the centre of the store was a sham, and only air graced their bellies. As the box was lowered from the shelf, held gently in the hands of someone strong and competent, it sort of glowed. I could see in The Man's eyes that it was twinkling for him as well, though I'm certain if I could hear through his ears I'd have been serenaded by a choir of angels. The harps and organs would have chimed in somewhere around the third game, and the second wireless controller or the 120 gig hard drive would have really driven it home.
We retrieved the Holy Grail of 360 games after what was an extremely long city-wide search, but stumbled upon it at a lowly EB Games in McGillivray. One would think I was talking about Halo, but one would be wrong.
I'm talking about Fallout 3, kids.
I'm not sure if there's anything else worthwhile in my life anymore. The second I turned the game on, I was hooked. I was instantly drawn in to its comforting embrace, the soft green glow of the high-def screen before me lured me with its siren song and I have since been powerless to escape. I've leveled up, accomplished quests, killed super mutants with nothing more than a hunting rifle! I've returned a violin to a lowly survivor of the end-of-the-world nuclear holocaust, so she may have a trade to exchange to other tattered members of what's left of the human race. I rescued an entire village from an active Nuclear bomb in the heart of its walls!
What did you do today?
Everywhere I go, I can't help but hum the beautiful 40's tunes that haunt my dreams at night. While doing the dishes at work, a coworker walked in on the chorus of "I don't want to set the world on fire..." She certainly hoped not.
I'm on a roll, though. Who knows.
I might.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Dye Another Day
I glanced at myself in the mirror, and tilted my head up and to the left, a scoff plastered to my face.
"What? What is it?" the man asked from the bathroom doorway.
"It's my hair, it's gotten all dully," I replied, a disgusted tone in the back of my voice. "I think I'm going to dye it again, all dark and sultry." I shimmied my shoulders and pushed past him through the door. Definitely a good decision, I reassured myself. It was true, my hair had gotten "dully." It wasn't at all shimmery, and had no defining hue at all. As a matter of fact, it was getting dangerously close to my natural hair colour - a mousy light-brown. Mennonite brown.
"What are you talking about? It looks fine! It's not dull, it's pretty!" The man insisted from the hallway, while I busied myself gathering what I'd need for my shift at work. "It's sort of summery, in a way, really. I like it."
"Well I don't, it's got to change. I can't afford to go to the salon, though, I can hardly afford my ruffles chip addiction as it is. I'm going to stop by Wal Mart on my way home and pick up a box of something chestnutty."
"If that's what you want to do, then that's fine. I'm sure Kit or Chels could dye it for you." His voice was uncertain, my friends were always so busy. Neither of us were sure I'd be able to get one of the girls to come down and dye my hair before the wedding I planned to attend in a couple of days. Still, it had to be done somehow, even if I had to do it myself.
That afternoon I found "Cappuccino" on the second lowest shelf in the health and beauty department. Garnier Nutrisse Cream seemed pretty dependable, and the girl on the box seemed quite satisfied with her own hair colouring outcome. I bought two boxes, however, since I've got quite a bit of area to cover on this head of mine. I headed home.
"Guess what you get to do tonight?" I said, feigning excitement, as the man shot me a skeptical look. He could read me like a children's book.
"What..." His eyes narrowed, and his hands rested on his hips as a devious smile spread across my face.
"I couldn't find anyone to dye my hair, so you get to do the honours! Doesn't it sound like fun? It'll be easy, I've done it a thousand times!" I sounded pretty sure of myself, given my extensive acting experience, but he seemed completely unconvinced and a wave of panic spread over his face.
"Oh no, absolutely not! There is no way I'm doing that! That's waaaaay too big a deal, if it doesn't turn out..." He began scratching his scalp frantically, going over the consequences in his mind. "No, no, no. Not going to happen, you'll have to do it yourself."
"Nooo! I need you, bud! I can't see it in the back, and I'll never be able to tell if I got the roots!" After a few more minutes of pleading he finally agreed, under the pretenses that he would not be held responsible should the outcome be less than desirable. Agreed.
The evening finally came and he followed me fearfully into the bathroom where I roosted in my most ugly of clothes on a stool in the middle of the room. He picked at the box with his fingertips, a specialist in the beginnings of difusing a bomb. He carefully lifted the three components out of the cardboard, and pulled the made-for-women latex gloves over his fingers. "Great, this is a good start," he grumbled, realizing the gloves barely reached his wrists, and his fingers were now webbed. "You can still back out," he warned. "I haven't ruined anything yet."
"Nonsense!" I proclaimed confidently. How hard can it be?
We mixed the components and began the science experiment on my head. I instructed him to cover the roots first, and then work his way down to the tips. I told him each hair had to be fully penetrated with the solution, and anything left dry would stay light. As I rambled on about the procedure, his eyes widened and the pressure threatened to break him. But, he soldiered on.
He squeezed the bottle slowly over the part in my hai...
"What are you doing?!"
"What? What?? I haven't done anything yet!"
"You're doing it way too slowly! That's not nearly enough to penetrate the roots! You've got to squeeze more!"
"But I don't want it to run ou..."
"Don't worry about that! There are two boxes! This isn't that hard."
He squeezed more solution over my hair. He gently patted it down into my scalp and...
"What are you doing?! What are you doing?!"
"I'm rubbing it in like you said!"
"You've got to do it more quickly, and harder! You're not painting my hair, you're supposed to be soaking my hair!"
He rolled his eyes, grumbled again, and continued. He squeezed an abundance of solution over a section of hair, and frantically, forcefully, rubbed it in. Good, this was the way. He was learning, slowly but surely. This would be done in no time!
The man got through half my head before I got so fed up I had to put on the second pair of latex gloves and do some hands-on assisting. The partnership actually worked for a while, despite the fact that the concept of not-dying my face never really got through to him. In the end I turned out looking very badly beaten around my hair line, and like I had some sort of circulation problem in my extremely purple ears. But the job was finished, two boxes later, and the man could finally relax. For 25 minutes. The results would dictate his fate in the end.
I stepped into the shower and rinsed the solution out, carelessly spraying red-purple dye all over the white tiles and cream-coloured shower curtain. Suddenly I found myself in a scene from Psycho, and began frantically collecting water in my hands and flinging it onto the walls. I did manage to rescue the bathroom, that is to say, everything but the giant purple smear across the bathroom door. This little souvenier was only discovered hours later, and will be a badge of honour for years to come I'm sure.
I blowdried my hair, and emerged from the steamy laboratory into the living room where a very nervous hair stylist sat, awaiting his doom.
"It turned out!" I shrieked triumphantly. He lept from the couch and lifted his arms in victory, and we danced around the room in our glorious success.
"Don't you ever make me do that again!"
"But you did such a great job..."
"No, absolutely not. Out of the question."
And after we ooed and awed over my delicious new hair colour, we paused and looked each other for a moment of silence.
In memory of those who dyed today.
"What? What is it?" the man asked from the bathroom doorway.
"It's my hair, it's gotten all dully," I replied, a disgusted tone in the back of my voice. "I think I'm going to dye it again, all dark and sultry." I shimmied my shoulders and pushed past him through the door. Definitely a good decision, I reassured myself. It was true, my hair had gotten "dully." It wasn't at all shimmery, and had no defining hue at all. As a matter of fact, it was getting dangerously close to my natural hair colour - a mousy light-brown. Mennonite brown.
"What are you talking about? It looks fine! It's not dull, it's pretty!" The man insisted from the hallway, while I busied myself gathering what I'd need for my shift at work. "It's sort of summery, in a way, really. I like it."
"Well I don't, it's got to change. I can't afford to go to the salon, though, I can hardly afford my ruffles chip addiction as it is. I'm going to stop by Wal Mart on my way home and pick up a box of something chestnutty."
"If that's what you want to do, then that's fine. I'm sure Kit or Chels could dye it for you." His voice was uncertain, my friends were always so busy. Neither of us were sure I'd be able to get one of the girls to come down and dye my hair before the wedding I planned to attend in a couple of days. Still, it had to be done somehow, even if I had to do it myself.
That afternoon I found "Cappuccino" on the second lowest shelf in the health and beauty department. Garnier Nutrisse Cream seemed pretty dependable, and the girl on the box seemed quite satisfied with her own hair colouring outcome. I bought two boxes, however, since I've got quite a bit of area to cover on this head of mine. I headed home.
"Guess what you get to do tonight?" I said, feigning excitement, as the man shot me a skeptical look. He could read me like a children's book.
"What..." His eyes narrowed, and his hands rested on his hips as a devious smile spread across my face.
"I couldn't find anyone to dye my hair, so you get to do the honours! Doesn't it sound like fun? It'll be easy, I've done it a thousand times!" I sounded pretty sure of myself, given my extensive acting experience, but he seemed completely unconvinced and a wave of panic spread over his face.
"Oh no, absolutely not! There is no way I'm doing that! That's waaaaay too big a deal, if it doesn't turn out..." He began scratching his scalp frantically, going over the consequences in his mind. "No, no, no. Not going to happen, you'll have to do it yourself."
"Nooo! I need you, bud! I can't see it in the back, and I'll never be able to tell if I got the roots!" After a few more minutes of pleading he finally agreed, under the pretenses that he would not be held responsible should the outcome be less than desirable. Agreed.
The evening finally came and he followed me fearfully into the bathroom where I roosted in my most ugly of clothes on a stool in the middle of the room. He picked at the box with his fingertips, a specialist in the beginnings of difusing a bomb. He carefully lifted the three components out of the cardboard, and pulled the made-for-women latex gloves over his fingers. "Great, this is a good start," he grumbled, realizing the gloves barely reached his wrists, and his fingers were now webbed. "You can still back out," he warned. "I haven't ruined anything yet."
"Nonsense!" I proclaimed confidently. How hard can it be?
We mixed the components and began the science experiment on my head. I instructed him to cover the roots first, and then work his way down to the tips. I told him each hair had to be fully penetrated with the solution, and anything left dry would stay light. As I rambled on about the procedure, his eyes widened and the pressure threatened to break him. But, he soldiered on.
He squeezed the bottle slowly over the part in my hai...
"What are you doing?!"
"What? What?? I haven't done anything yet!"
"You're doing it way too slowly! That's not nearly enough to penetrate the roots! You've got to squeeze more!"
"But I don't want it to run ou..."
"Don't worry about that! There are two boxes! This isn't that hard."
He squeezed more solution over my hair. He gently patted it down into my scalp and...
"What are you doing?! What are you doing?!"
"I'm rubbing it in like you said!"
"You've got to do it more quickly, and harder! You're not painting my hair, you're supposed to be soaking my hair!"
He rolled his eyes, grumbled again, and continued. He squeezed an abundance of solution over a section of hair, and frantically, forcefully, rubbed it in. Good, this was the way. He was learning, slowly but surely. This would be done in no time!
The man got through half my head before I got so fed up I had to put on the second pair of latex gloves and do some hands-on assisting. The partnership actually worked for a while, despite the fact that the concept of not-dying my face never really got through to him. In the end I turned out looking very badly beaten around my hair line, and like I had some sort of circulation problem in my extremely purple ears. But the job was finished, two boxes later, and the man could finally relax. For 25 minutes. The results would dictate his fate in the end.
I stepped into the shower and rinsed the solution out, carelessly spraying red-purple dye all over the white tiles and cream-coloured shower curtain. Suddenly I found myself in a scene from Psycho, and began frantically collecting water in my hands and flinging it onto the walls. I did manage to rescue the bathroom, that is to say, everything but the giant purple smear across the bathroom door. This little souvenier was only discovered hours later, and will be a badge of honour for years to come I'm sure.
I blowdried my hair, and emerged from the steamy laboratory into the living room where a very nervous hair stylist sat, awaiting his doom.
"It turned out!" I shrieked triumphantly. He lept from the couch and lifted his arms in victory, and we danced around the room in our glorious success.
"Don't you ever make me do that again!"
"But you did such a great job..."
"No, absolutely not. Out of the question."
And after we ooed and awed over my delicious new hair colour, we paused and looked each other for a moment of silence.
In memory of those who dyed today.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
One
You knew who you were meant to be,
But soon enough you'll come to see,
That you you thought you knew before,
Doesn't know you anymore.
But soon enough you'll come to see,
That you you thought you knew before,
Doesn't know you anymore.
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