Why You Dont Just Walk Into Any Old Hair Salon

I live an adventuresome life. You know, dentists appointments, poopy diapers, 2 hour births, the stuff of great epics.

This weekends adventure might, however, top them all.

I have never taken my hair too seriously. I get a "real cut" once a year or so but most of the time I just trim it myself. I am also easily bored and a bit impulsive. I've been known to make bad, bad, horrible decisions when I have too much time on my hands and I happen to be holding a pair of scissors. Lets just say I have had my fair share of bad haircuts.

So when I had time for a hair cut this weekend and my usual gal didn't have time for a drop in until later that afternoon, I decided I might as well just run into Great Clips. Like I said, I'm not picky about my hair, and I wanted a simple cut, just a trim and a few layers. A cut I could easily manage myself, but letting someone who could see the back of my head do it seemed a nice luxury.

On my way to Great Clips, however, I saw another beauty parlor. There was a sign that said Drop Ins Welcome and I decided to go there instead. I don't know why. Remember impulsive?

As soon as I walked in, I had the feeling this wasn't going to turn out so well. Let me paint a picture for you. It was the kind of place that has ruffles and small crocheted items everywhere, the kind of place that makes you really give credit to the limitless creativity of an elderly woman with an endless supply of yarn, lace, and time. I remember in particular that the light fixtures had crocheted covers. I took note because I wasn't sure that was particularly fire-safe.

In my memory the whole room was pink, but it wasn't really, it was just the kind of room that should have been pink. There might not have been any pink at all. The entire place was covered in a thick layer of dust. As the shelves holding hair products were made of mirrors, this was a bigger deal than maybe it would have otherwise been. The only person in there, the ruffle connoisseur, if you will, was unsurprisingly a woman that had to be at least 85 years old.

I thought about leaving right there, but I could see a back room and despite the decor I was still holding out that the stylist was sitting back there. Perhaps she was listening to an Ipod? Perhaps she wasn't wearing, nor would ever wear, a single ruffle. Maybe this was her beloved grandmother, you cant blame a person for having a grandmother after all.

Anyways, I couldn't think of a polite way to extricate myself from the situation. What am I supposed to do? Just walk back out? "Oh, sorry, wrong place."

No such luck, by the way, about that back room. Grandma Ruffle, despite obvious surprise and perhaps even confusion at seeing me, sat me down in a swivel chair post haste. There was a wood basin for washing hair right in front of me.

I decided I was being unfairly age-ist. I was suddenly very sure this woman could cut my hair just as well as anyone else. After all, she has so much experience behind her. Disappointed in my judgmental assumptions, I explained what I wanted- shoulder length with a few long layers, it gets rather bushy if I just cut it straight across, I told her smiling.

She started to tie a bib around my neck, asking me what high school I went to, and if school had started back up yet. I told her I was 24, I said that I got that a lot...I don't. Then, with nary a glance at the wood basin, or even a spritz from a water bottle, she started cutting. From the angle of her arm and hand I could tell she was cutting in a 45 degree angle across the back of my head.

I was frozen. This is what the deer feels like, when it sees those two bright lights.

Grandma Ruffle kept talking. She informed me that someone earlier that morning had left their cell phone behind. She didn't have a cell phone herself and was very concerned about it. She thought she should call the police and report it missing. I mumbled that I was sure the owner would come back for it, or perhaps call. She stopped everything she was doing, looked up at me in the mirror, and locked eyes for a full 6 seconds of silence. "Well I don't know about that." she said.

Having cut an asymmetrical line around my entire head (and in her defense, I have worn that look a time or two), she picked up a pair of rusted thinning shears. Rusted. Thinning shears.
I'm not even sure which part of that is worse.

If you have thick hair, as I do, you may have been accosted with this weapon of destruction before. They are scissors with gaps in the blade, meant to cut half of your hair out to thin it. They are no solution to the problem. All it does it leave a ton of short hairs to stick up in all directions as soon as it gets the least bit humid.

As Grandma Ruffle grabs random chunks of hair on the left side of my head, hacking and pulling with the thinning shears, I really start to panic. Do I yell for her to stop? Do I grab her arm? Do I ask to leave, right now, in the middle of the haircut? Does she think this is layering? Does she know that her shears are rusty and are therefor pulling more than cutting my hair?

Before I find a solution, she sets the thinning shears down and states that she is finished. She never put them near the right side of my head but I don't mention it. "Run a comb thru it" she says.

I do, and a wad of tangled hair comes out into my hand. I numbly hand it to her. She informs me that her arm hurts, thick hair like mine can be a doozy to work with. I can only whisper "Thank you", and give her fifteen dollars.

And this is why a good hair stylist has a worth beyond measure, when I slunk into the seat in front of my usual gal later that afternoon she took one look at me, and without even cracking a smile said in her gorgeously thick Russian accent "We make straight and then we talk about it, no?"

How to sleep while pregnant (complete with graph!)

Suddenly I find myself in my 3rd trimester...ok not really...I'm still only 23 weeks but it FEELS like my 3rd trimester. I have constant heartburn, near nightly braxton hicks contractions, keep ramming my stomach into things, and can no longer roll over in bed without a really intricate 5 step program and a lot of heavy breathing (I also sometimes require a break halfway thru).

Uhg. Bed. No longer a haven of warm pillows and blankets my bed is now a battle ground, for yes, the battle of the comfortable pregnant sleeping position has begun. If you've been pregnant you know what I mean, if you havent ever had the joy (or if you are still in a blissful state of non-whale size) then this will be informative for you.

For I found after months of battle in my experience with Zeke the perfect pregnant sleeping postion.

Clue: It involves a lot of pillows.

Here, here is a graph.

As you can see, you are laying on your side (the only medically advised position to sleep in) and involves the following intricately placed pillows:

Two pillows underneath your head. Some people can get away with 1, but few while pregnant I've noticed.

One body length pillow to cushion your stomach (this helps keep the baby from constantly kicking the bed, and your tummy weight from pulling you forward) and also it serves as a bonus to lay your top arm over. Every pregnant woman needs a body pillow. Josh refers to mine as my boyfriend.

One really firm pillow to go between your legs. Some people have said to use your body pillow. Dont listen to them, it's not nearly firm enough to actually support your leg. In fact, I've heard of people sucessfully using a rolled-up beach towel instead of a pillow at all for the firmness. You DO NOT want your legs unsuportted, this is extremely painful and pulls your hips all out of whack. If you get trapped on a desert island and only have 1 pillow this is where you place it.

A final bonus pillow (and this is a trick I learned so late in the game with Z that I'm really only enjoying its full potential in this pregnancy) behind the small of your back. While laying forward on your body pillow you wont use this. Buut if you start to go numb and need to move in the middle of the night you can roll over onto it, thus achieving a 45 degree angle that's ALMOST sleeping on your back.

This bonus pillow is sooo awesome because as we all know, sleeping in one position all night long is really annoying. But like I mentioned, rolling over while you're pregnant? It's near impossible. Not to mention then you have to wake up your husband and force him to build your tower of pillows back around you once you have achieved this amazing roll over. Oh yeah and honey while you are at it could you also pull the blankets back over me? Yeah, the ones that I kicked off in a heat flash about 10 seconds ago.

One thing I learned with Zeke is that if you absolutely HAVE to roll over just wait until you have to go to the bathroom again and then come back and start fresh on your other side. My average time between bathroom breaks for both pregnancys was about 90 minutes so it wasnt a long time to wait. Funnily, getting all the way out of bed is somehow easier than rolling over for me.

Anyways, hope that helps...or at least makes you remember why you pop that birth control pill every morning.

I am a resposible parent

I am a responsible parent.

For instance, when Zeke throws all of his crackers on the kitchen floor at snack time, I don't sometimes just leave them there...you know...in case he gets hungry later.

And I most definitely don't set an alarm some days for 5:00 so I can be sure to get dressed and do all the dishes before my husband gets home from work.

Nor have I put my son on a 2 outfit per day limit and just leave him naked for the rest of the day if he dirties that second outfit. I do as much laundry as necessary.

I also don't ever feed my one year old ramen noodle for lunch. We only eat healthy and organic thankyouverymuch.

And I certainly dont decide I can skip a bath, because after all, I just hosed him off in the backyard. I would never hose a child off in my backyard.

And I can GUARANTEE that I didn't do all of the above yesterday.

I am a responsible parent after all.

Zombie Attack

So I wasted a good half hour today on a Facebook application deciding what 5 items I would want in case of Zombie attack. If you know me well you are either surprised a. that it took me that long, didnt I already know what i'd bring? or b. that it didnt take longer while i researched the matter farther. I take zombies very seriously and am trying not to think about how NOT zombie proof our new house is going to be. Big windows....difficult to collapse stairs...the middle of town..

After a lot of thought I decided I needed A MACHETE. The best weapon for fighting the undead. You see, guns will run out of ammo, also I have no sense of aim so I'd need a machine gun type of gun which I hear get hott and hard to handle. And yes a machete will get dull but as time goes and the zombies rot they will also be easier and easier to chop up. Plus I already own a machete and I look WAY hott with it strapped to my thigh.

I also would want A HOUSE BOAT. It goes without saying this would be a really nice boat. Zombies dont cross water so as long as I got myself to the middle of a big lake I'd be safe to anchor and wait the infection out.

Next I need an INDOOR GARDENING KIT so I could plant a garden on my houseboat. I could basically live off squash and potatoes all winter and in the other seasons have plenty of healthy food.

And a WATER FILTRATION SYSTEM for obvious reasons.

Then I need a TRANSISTOR RADIO, which would work even after internet and phone lines went down.

If Josh was with me, with another 5 items we'd bring a TREBUCHET and some NAPALM, (two items but worth it in case shit really hits the fan. I'll light half the shore on fire if I have to!!) A SPOTLIGHT (ALWAYS useful), a crowbar (classic zombie item) and A SNIPER RIFLE for Josh.

We would both be wearing leather trenchcoats of course. Anyone nerdy enough to tell me what they'd bring?

A lesson and an admission

Today Zeke and I went to Huckleberries. It's an organic store, one I rarely frequent because it is really overpriced. Oh how I miss the Boise co-op sometimes....how I long for a Trader Joes... Anyways, the point is Zeke and I had to go today. Because its the closest seller of homeopathics that I know of. And I was told today that my treatment of Zeke's teething (belladonna and chamomilla) would be made better by adding some arnica. I will try anything at this point. Seriously, I HATE teething. Mostly because my son spends his days looking like this:

Anyways, so there we are at Huckleberries, and like I said I rarely go so I'm looking around a bit. When I find this:I LOVE this company! Yes, I had heard of Ezekiel 4:9 products before I named my son Ezekiel. No, I did not name my son after them. But I will admit that I love their breads and cereals. Oh sooo good. So of course I had to buy a box. And I'm eating it right now warm with milk. I didnt know they sold this cereal at Huckleberries!

I also felt a little foolish when the check-out woman asked what my son's name was....while she was holding my cereal...

Another foolish moment? I was in the homeopathic isle, chatting with a woman, like you do. Or at least like I do. I am always chatting with strangers. I suppose some people arent. The point, however, is that I was telling her that I was making a teething tincture for my son. And she was complimenting me on how wonderful it is that Im not just buying him asperin. I basked in the compliment, feeling like a VERY good mother, and forgetting on purpose the motrin that I gave Zeke only the night before...and have given him MANY desperate nights. My little bottle is almost empty. But like I said, I was forgetting that part.

In fact I was feeling so very bloated in my mommy-pride that when she changed the subject to baby foods I very proudly stated that my son never ate processed foods. I had never bought a single jar of baby food but instead lovingly made all of his food by hand, I said. And she oohed and aaahed me. Telling me what a GREAT mom I was. How healthy my son must be.

And then....well then God decided to teach me a lesson about PRIDE. And maybe also about HONESTY. Because Ezekiel chose that moment to get bored and reached into my diaper bag where he KNEW I kept some Gerber Star Puffs, sweet potato flavor if you must know. And he took the tube out and started trying to open it. Because he knew what was in there. And I knew that he knew. And the woman knew that he knew.

So ok, shoot me. My son eats Gerber Star Puffs.

A tale of peril and woe

I have been called fearless...audacious...bold... I had my wisdom tooth removed; sans anesthesia. I gave birth to a 9 1/2 pound baby; vaginally. I made my husband cut his hair once. I killed a scorpion with a shovel. I wax every summer. Minstrals have been known to sing of me.

But today. Today I almost met my match.

Now those of you that are parents will know what I mean when I say the words "blow-out". Many of you will even ask, as did my husband, "Was it a bad one? Was it a throw-away-the-outfit-and-cut-your-losses-blow-out?" And I would answer no...oh no it was so much worse. This was a burn-your-house-down-and-count-yourself-lucky-blow-out. This was epic. Minstrels will never sing of this day, out of respect, for the dead.

Let me set the scene.

Zeke had just finished eating no less than a cup and a half of applesauce for lunch. It was roughly a half hour passed his nap time and he was still going strong playing underneath the table with a spoon. I was on I.M. with my husband. Probably complaining that Zeke wasn't tired. I don't really remember. My memory right before the "event" is a little fuzzy.

But that is when it happened. And it started with a smell. The words "chemical warfare" came to mind, but then I also heard a noise. Grunting. And something else I don't think I have the stomach yet to describe.

I quickly told Josh I was going to change a diaper and then force Z to take his nap. The naivete! I still didn't know what I was up against.

Panic began when I laid Zeke down on his changing table suddenly to notice there was poop all the way up my arm. My arm! And my shirt! Another white shirt gone.

I breathed slowly. I started repeating my birthing mantra. I took off my shirt. "I can do this," I told myself. Just breathe thru it.

But then I looked down at my son.

It would be more logical to name the places of his body that were NOT covered in feces. But it is more therapeutic to name all the places that were. So it had gone up his back all the way into his hair line, where it looked like he had smeared it into his ear and across his face while I took my shirt off. He was now rubbing both hands in it and I used my last ounce of strength to throw a binky in his mouth before it went THERE. At this point I think I blacked out for a few seconds.

It was only when I came back that I noticed it was also seeping out of both the leg-holes of his jeans. Into his socks. Where is the safe exit point!?! I really started to panic now. Usually if the poo goes down I pull his onesie down, if it goes up I pull the onesie up! I contemplate scissors. I dont think I can carry him into the kitchen to get some. I dont want to touch him at all, to tell the truth. Nor do I want to have to throw away my good scissors.

Meanwhile Zeke is having a grande old time playing with his own poop but is starting to get impatient to get back to the ground. He starts flailing around, which is just splattering it all over the carpet, the walls, me... I have to think fast. Its time for action.

I hold my breath, say a prayer, and as quickly as possible take off all his clothes using only two fingers. The sight I behold cannot be explained in words. Wipes seem ridiculous.

I pick him up, holding him as far away from my body as possible, and carry him to the tub. I resist the urge to physically throw him in and start the water. Soon I have to start washing. I begin with throwing cups of clean water at him from afar. That helps. It gets him at least to the point where I can safely touch him. Soap, water, q-tips in the ears.

Ok, I am breathing. I am able to dress him and put him down for a nap. Then I tackle the mess on and surrounding his changing table. A hero's battles are never done.