The day, in brief…
posted in Miscellaneous, OmegaDotter, OmegaMom |OmegaDad is sick.
I French-braided the dotter’s hair.
The dotter and I went off to the Bounce Haus and bounced our heads off. In other words, the dotter wore me out.
I also discovered that my bladder control is dreadful. There is nothing more quietly embarrassing than realizing that if you jump up and down in a bouncy castle–like you should–that each time you hit the bounce floor, you leak. This is not a realization I shared with the dotter.
The dotter and I went off to the St0ne C0ld Creamery and chowed down on ice cream.
The dotter and I then went to El Cheapo Hair Salon. The dotter who a day ago insisted she didn’t want any kind of haircut now insisted she have a “very tiny” trim.
After months of not having a hair cut–and my hair growing down to my shoulders and flattening out as it always does–I relented and returned to the same ol’ same ol’ haircut I have been getting now for about 20 years. I read bloggers who are going off to hair salons and getting new hairdos all the time. This makes me envious. My hair is thin, wispy, fine, flat. If it’s longer than a few inches, my face starts looking horse-y. If I get a perm to solve the flatness issue, one side will be perfect and the other side will be frizzy. Or else I will end up looking like a poodle.
But hope springs eternal: every few years, I find myself growing my hair out in the hopes that this time, it will morph into a glorious mane, full of body and wave, bouncing enticingly off my shoulders. And every time, without fail, I reach a point where I look into the mirror, heave a heavy sigh, and say, “Oh, dammit, let’s just chop the whole lot off.”
Now my head feels light and airy, and the slightest breeze makes the short hairs stir about in interesting ways. It will take a few days at least before I become accustomed to it.
We will not discuss the ongoing alien effect, wherein what used to be deep mahogany brown locks floating down to bedeck the plastic salon cape are now wildly speckled and striped with white. That’s not related to being forty-mumble years old; it is, obviously, some creature from light years away who is now living in symbiosis with my scalp and sucking the vital juices from my hair follicles for sustenance.
