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grrgoylI've decided July Fourth is my most hated holiday, because it's celebrated every year on the weekend regardless of what day it actually falls on, and hence I always have to work it. Oh, and I have to spend it with dogs every year.
I'm not sure who I hate more: The people illegally setting off fireworks in the neighborhood surrounding the hospital (and we had some real heavy duty ones this year), or the lazy dog owners who leave their precious babies with me on the night(s) of the year when they require the most intensive comforting (I'm not the right person for THAT position). The answer is neither; I hate the people who buy too many rockets and spend the rest of the month setting them off at odd intervals.
Hence I decided if I ever become a millionaire, every year I'm buying up all the fireworks for sale in the city and burying them in an enormous hole behind my mansion. The Grinch Who Stole Independence Day. Bahoo Boris, motherfuckers.
~*~
I decided I couldn't put off my need for a haircut any longer and headed to my favorite Great Clips for the last time (you'll see).
My stylist this afternoon was a middlish-aged woman named Elaine. "Wow," I exclaimed, "Not often there are two of us in the room, huh?" It turned out the similarities weren't going to end there.
I told her I just wanted a basic cut, just clean up the edges a bit. I wasn't afraid of short and I loved lots of layers. I also didn't spend time styling in the morning, just wash and go -- my usual spiel.
"Don't you want to try something different?" she asked, running her fingers through it casually.
"N...ot really," I said.
"C'mon. I think you should try an A-line," she insisted.
"What's an A-line?"
"What I've got. It's really short in the back and longer on the sides. I think you'll love it."
"Ummmmm....okay." I give Tery such shit for never standing up for herself, and here I was agreeing to a hairstyle I was sure I was not going to love.
I hoped my obvious reluctance would mean she maybe wouldn't make it too drastic, in vain. She took it halfway up the back of my head. Gulp. She left the sides almost their current length. Then she started eyeing my bangs.
"Is this your part?" she said a little critically. What do you think, lady? I did it up differently to come see you?
"Yes, that's my part." Straight down the middle, that is.
"Have you ever thought of parting it on the side?" No I hadn't, mostly because I have a deadly cowlick on the right that pretty much rules that side with an iron fist, and doesn't like anyone messing with it. I told her so (maybe not so colorfully).
But she was determined. "I think you should part it on the side." The reason I come to Great Clips is because they promise to "listen to you" and give you exactly what you ask for, not bully you into a complete makeover.
So she trimmed a bit off the bangs and then proceeded to pile all the hair from the left over onto the cowlick. Yeah, THAT was comfortable. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a hairstyle that lets me move my head, you know, if someone chucks something at my face (it could totally happen). I knew it wouldn't make a bit of difference. In 30 minutes or less the cowlick would throw the pile off again, or make it all stick straight up. This woman had never dealt with a cowlick before, obviously. At least not one as ferocious as mine.
But I endured it, I don't know why, just counting the minutes until I could get out of there and do my best to return to the style I liked. She fluffed it relentlessly, pulling out the blow dryer (I HATE the blow dryer. Remember the part where I said I don't do anything to style it normally?) and whipping it into a fondue. When she was done, she stepped back triumphantly. That's when I noticed she had cut it into the exact same style she herself wore, windswept bangs and all. I wondered how many other clones of herself she sent out the front door every day. Like Tery, I forced a smile and pretended to LOVE IT. ("And the Oscar goes to...")
Then the humiliating walk to the cash register in front of the customers in the waiting room, all of whom I'm sure could tell this haircut was nothing at all like me. The casual march to the car, forcing myself to maintain until I could drive up out of sight of the store front.
Then the frantic running of fingers through it, re-establishing my center part, trying to mash down the puffiness just a bit (for some reason I always schedule a trip into a store after a haircut, so I can't rush home if it's a disaster). Now I regret being so hasty I didn't get photo documentation. I tried searching for some images on the net, but the problem is all the women with this cut seem to be happy with it and it suits them, i.e. none of them are a big gruff man-woman who would rather floss with tinfoil than use hairspray.
Not actually me, but pretty close to what I got. This woman looks slightly more elated than I was.
Now, let's take a quick look at what my hair usually looks like, and then ask ourselves why on earth Elaine 2 thought I'd like something so radically different.
Plus look at that goofy expression. Absolutely nothing about me says "glamour."
The only good thing about the visit was when I found my free will in time to refuse to buy the 30-dollar bottle of shampoo she insisted would work wonders with my new 'do. You know, for when I blowdry it and everything. Was she even in the room when I told her my relationship with my hair? Was I?
I got home and started in with the scissors. I absolutely couldn't stand it -- the longer sides made me feel like a basset hound, and I compulsively touched the back repeatedly wondering if it looked as short as it felt. I've been gradually hacking away at it, like a sculptor trying to find his work of art in a slab of rock, looking for the haircut I wanted. I finally think I'm there, but it's going to need a lot of growing back. And now I can never go back to that Great Clips for fear of meeting Elaine 2 again.
~*~
The bulk of this entry was written from the edge of Cherry Creek Reservoir, though you probably can't tell. One of the nicest things about our place is it's about 5 minutes from Cherry Creek State Park, a massive area full of bike trails and picnic spots with the reservoir at its center. I've found a route that works really well for me -- downhill almost the whole way in, where I find a quiet spot to relax for a bit. Then the ride out the same way, which is a gradual uphill that gets my heart pumping but doesn't make me want to spit it out of my throat and collapse on the side of the trail.
This is the nice little beach I found for myself today. It reminds me a lot of the lake I grew up on.
The point is, on the way back this evening I saw three things in quick succession you don't expect to see in a park: First, a woman pushing a shopping cart full of her worldly belongings, I'm going to assume homeless. Sad, but I suppose if you don't have a home there are worse places to shack up than a park. Next, three Mexicans just walking, one of them on a cell phone. I don't want to sound racist, but it's not often you see Mexicans in recreational activities around here like hiking. Third, a cop car creeping along on the trail (the trail where motor vehicles are prohibited, I should add). This was when I thought to myself, "Did I take a wrong turn and end up in da hood??"
~*~
Finally, I leave you with a nice shot of Tery trying to enjoy breakfast in bed with me, but then the animals got wind of it and saw no reason she should keep the delicious cereal to herself:
#34, Camera Phone: Breakfast Menagerie
I'm not sure who I hate more: The people illegally setting off fireworks in the neighborhood surrounding the hospital (and we had some real heavy duty ones this year), or the lazy dog owners who leave their precious babies with me on the night(s) of the year when they require the most intensive comforting (I'm not the right person for THAT position). The answer is neither; I hate the people who buy too many rockets and spend the rest of the month setting them off at odd intervals.
Hence I decided if I ever become a millionaire, every year I'm buying up all the fireworks for sale in the city and burying them in an enormous hole behind my mansion. The Grinch Who Stole Independence Day. Bahoo Boris, motherfuckers.
~*~
I decided I couldn't put off my need for a haircut any longer and headed to my favorite Great Clips for the last time (you'll see).
My stylist this afternoon was a middlish-aged woman named Elaine. "Wow," I exclaimed, "Not often there are two of us in the room, huh?" It turned out the similarities weren't going to end there.
I told her I just wanted a basic cut, just clean up the edges a bit. I wasn't afraid of short and I loved lots of layers. I also didn't spend time styling in the morning, just wash and go -- my usual spiel.
"Don't you want to try something different?" she asked, running her fingers through it casually.
"N...ot really," I said.
"C'mon. I think you should try an A-line," she insisted.
"What's an A-line?"
"What I've got. It's really short in the back and longer on the sides. I think you'll love it."
"Ummmmm....okay." I give Tery such shit for never standing up for herself, and here I was agreeing to a hairstyle I was sure I was not going to love.
I hoped my obvious reluctance would mean she maybe wouldn't make it too drastic, in vain. She took it halfway up the back of my head. Gulp. She left the sides almost their current length. Then she started eyeing my bangs.
"Is this your part?" she said a little critically. What do you think, lady? I did it up differently to come see you?
"Yes, that's my part." Straight down the middle, that is.
"Have you ever thought of parting it on the side?" No I hadn't, mostly because I have a deadly cowlick on the right that pretty much rules that side with an iron fist, and doesn't like anyone messing with it. I told her so (maybe not so colorfully).
But she was determined. "I think you should part it on the side." The reason I come to Great Clips is because they promise to "listen to you" and give you exactly what you ask for, not bully you into a complete makeover.
So she trimmed a bit off the bangs and then proceeded to pile all the hair from the left over onto the cowlick. Yeah, THAT was comfortable. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a hairstyle that lets me move my head, you know, if someone chucks something at my face (it could totally happen). I knew it wouldn't make a bit of difference. In 30 minutes or less the cowlick would throw the pile off again, or make it all stick straight up. This woman had never dealt with a cowlick before, obviously. At least not one as ferocious as mine.
But I endured it, I don't know why, just counting the minutes until I could get out of there and do my best to return to the style I liked. She fluffed it relentlessly, pulling out the blow dryer (I HATE the blow dryer. Remember the part where I said I don't do anything to style it normally?) and whipping it into a fondue. When she was done, she stepped back triumphantly. That's when I noticed she had cut it into the exact same style she herself wore, windswept bangs and all. I wondered how many other clones of herself she sent out the front door every day. Like Tery, I forced a smile and pretended to LOVE IT. ("And the Oscar goes to...")
Then the humiliating walk to the cash register in front of the customers in the waiting room, all of whom I'm sure could tell this haircut was nothing at all like me. The casual march to the car, forcing myself to maintain until I could drive up out of sight of the store front.
Then the frantic running of fingers through it, re-establishing my center part, trying to mash down the puffiness just a bit (for some reason I always schedule a trip into a store after a haircut, so I can't rush home if it's a disaster). Now I regret being so hasty I didn't get photo documentation. I tried searching for some images on the net, but the problem is all the women with this cut seem to be happy with it and it suits them, i.e. none of them are a big gruff man-woman who would rather floss with tinfoil than use hairspray.
Not actually me, but pretty close to what I got. This woman looks slightly more elated than I was.
Now, let's take a quick look at what my hair usually looks like, and then ask ourselves why on earth Elaine 2 thought I'd like something so radically different.
Plus look at that goofy expression. Absolutely nothing about me says "glamour."
The only good thing about the visit was when I found my free will in time to refuse to buy the 30-dollar bottle of shampoo she insisted would work wonders with my new 'do. You know, for when I blowdry it and everything. Was she even in the room when I told her my relationship with my hair? Was I?
I got home and started in with the scissors. I absolutely couldn't stand it -- the longer sides made me feel like a basset hound, and I compulsively touched the back repeatedly wondering if it looked as short as it felt. I've been gradually hacking away at it, like a sculptor trying to find his work of art in a slab of rock, looking for the haircut I wanted. I finally think I'm there, but it's going to need a lot of growing back. And now I can never go back to that Great Clips for fear of meeting Elaine 2 again.
~*~
The bulk of this entry was written from the edge of Cherry Creek Reservoir, though you probably can't tell. One of the nicest things about our place is it's about 5 minutes from Cherry Creek State Park, a massive area full of bike trails and picnic spots with the reservoir at its center. I've found a route that works really well for me -- downhill almost the whole way in, where I find a quiet spot to relax for a bit. Then the ride out the same way, which is a gradual uphill that gets my heart pumping but doesn't make me want to spit it out of my throat and collapse on the side of the trail.
This is the nice little beach I found for myself today. It reminds me a lot of the lake I grew up on.
The point is, on the way back this evening I saw three things in quick succession you don't expect to see in a park: First, a woman pushing a shopping cart full of her worldly belongings, I'm going to assume homeless. Sad, but I suppose if you don't have a home there are worse places to shack up than a park. Next, three Mexicans just walking, one of them on a cell phone. I don't want to sound racist, but it's not often you see Mexicans in recreational activities around here like hiking. Third, a cop car creeping along on the trail (the trail where motor vehicles are prohibited, I should add). This was when I thought to myself, "Did I take a wrong turn and end up in da hood??"
~*~
Finally, I leave you with a nice shot of Tery trying to enjoy breakfast in bed with me, but then the animals got wind of it and saw no reason she should keep the delicious cereal to herself:
#34, Camera Phone: Breakfast Menagerie
