If you’re going to love me, you should be aware (and accepting) of the following:
I take a really long time choosing fruits and vegetables in the produce section of the supermarket.
I find supermarkets to be cathartic. I love roaming the aisles mid-day. If a stock boy checks me out, all the better.
When I get back from a trip, I have to unpack immediately.
I sometimes eat half a box of cereal late at night. Sometimes twice in the same week. It’s always high fiber varieties. No fruit loops for me.
I’m not a good swimmer.
I tweeze my eyebrows daily.
I think food tastes better when it’s shared.
I begin yawning at 11:00 pm
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. Sometimes I want to go to bed early just so I can wake up and have breakfast.
I think Rod Stewart is the sexiest man alive. People magazine slights him every year.
I’m annoying to trail at a salad bar. If there is a bin of tri-colored peppers, I’ll pick out the red ones.
One of my biggest fears in life is a food allergy.
I hate cats; I think they’re over-sized rats.
Growing up, I wanted to be a gift-wrapper at Macy’s.
I feel spiritual on my hot pink yoga mat.
My dad calls me “Jack” because he was vying for a son.
I was President of the National Honor Society in high school, as well as the President of the National Junior Honor Society in middle school.
I feel beautiful in a shower cap.
The back to school section at Target thrills me.
I don’t like wine. I think it’s pretentious.
I prefer sparkling water to flat.
I have the appetite of a 300 lb. man.
I still think there’s potential for me to grow taller.
I think that harmless lies of convenience are perfectly fine.
I didn’t go to my senior prom.
I’m an emotional eater.
I carry an umbrella, travel-sized lint brush, and mouthwash with me at all times.
I don’t watch TV except for The Today Show. There’s no better way to start the day than with Matt Lauer.
I once dressed up as The Macho Man Randy Savage for Halloween.
Trail mix haunts me. Story of my life.
I have to get each pair of pants I buy hemmed.
I love going to the movies solo.
I think my soul is European.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Hair Mercy
On more days than not, I carry around the mild worry that I’m misunderstood in certain situations (did I seem defensive when yet another project was delegated to me?), that I’ve said too much in a spoken exchange (like when my boss’s son asked how I liked my new job and I replied that I liked it very much, followed by, “but would I tell you if I didn’t like it considering that your dad is paying my rent?), or that I come across as pushy or too opinionated – case in point unfolds…
Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares to You” captures the sentiment I reserve for Lonnie, my hair stylist during college. Since I tossed my cap in the air (but I didn’t really), I haven’t found anyone who can tame my locks with such artistry. Stylists from Brussels to Baltimore are inhibited hair technicians – they ain’t even stylists.
One disappointing haircut after another has freed me from my did-I-step-on-someone’s-toes mindset. By this I mean that I have no qualms about telling those armed with scissors exactly how I want my hair cut.
Razor – No.
Thinning shears – Go for it.
Chunky layers – Do and die.
Chiseled – You better.
Ishmael was the most recent bachelor in the search for my follicles’ “the one.” The book was great. The hair stylist - so-so.
When he said that he was finished, I questioned whether my revised mane was piece-E enough and if there was still too much weight in it.
“No. I fixed the problem.”
Oh, I had a problem apparently.
We went back and forth but the man wouldn’t budge, and since he had a sharp object in a hand planted firmly on his hip, I begrudgingly said “ok ok.”
When I was paying for my unfulfilled service, the receptionist told me that Ishmael cuts her hair and the hairs of her sister. He has an amazing touch and somehow the hair grows back an inch very soon.
Great, so I’m going to need another f’ing haircut in two weeks. Story of my life.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Honeydew Gooder
Now that my new job affords me a better quality of living, I figure I should start purchasing the pre-sliced fruit containers at Whole Foods. “She works hard for the money…so hard for the money,” sends my hips a-sway in the produce section (not aisles) of aforementioned over-priced grocery establishment.
“What’ll it be today, big spender?” I think to myself. I eye the honeydew and consider it a fiscally responsible choice. Change moves slowly for me. The 3-berry mixture? I’m doing well, but not that kind of well. That’s downright extravagant.
I put the honeydew in my cart and roll onward, leaving residual feelings of “I’ve arrived” behind me, along with the woman weighing her organic grapes – a creature caught between the haves and the have-nots. Suckerrrrr.
The next day, the day following my purchase ridden with affluence, I came home to my apartment building where someone mans the front desk 24 hours a day. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.
Front-desk-person o’ the moment, LaShawna, is a sweet woman who always holds my keys behind the desk when I go for a run. I’ve been told they’re not supposed to do this. Perhaps this is a marker of my expanding VIP status. Yeah.
LaShawna tells me she’s not feeling well and has had a headache for two days. I wanted to help her, and my gut inquiry was whether her braids might be too tight. I caught myself before asking (phew) and more appropriately questioned if she eats during her 4:00 – 11:00 pm shift?
“No, not really.”
By golly, I’ve got it; she’s got a hunger headache. Before I even realize what I’m saying, I offer LaShawna the contents of my refrigerator, namely yogurt and honeydew.
She nods when I say “honeydew,” as if there is nothing on Earth she wants more. I walk toward my apartment, carrying the heavy thought of, “what have I done?”
I can afford to better nourish myself, but charity was not something I had prepared myself for. Did I mention that I hadn’t even sampled the honeydew yet? Story of my life.
I eyed the clear plastic container and decided to eat a few pieces before making my non-tax-deductible donation.
She’ll need a utensil, it occurred to me. I don’t have plasticware. All I’ve got is my great-grandmother’s silverware. At this moment, I decided that honeydew could be classified as “finger food.”
I brought the honeydew to LaShawna and on the walk back to my melon-less apartment, I eyed myself in the lobby mirror and thought, “you done good, kid.”
The next night, LaShawna told me that she was feeling better and really liked the “melondew.”
Oh, honey.
“What’ll it be today, big spender?” I think to myself. I eye the honeydew and consider it a fiscally responsible choice. Change moves slowly for me. The 3-berry mixture? I’m doing well, but not that kind of well. That’s downright extravagant.
I put the honeydew in my cart and roll onward, leaving residual feelings of “I’ve arrived” behind me, along with the woman weighing her organic grapes – a creature caught between the haves and the have-nots. Suckerrrrr.
The next day, the day following my purchase ridden with affluence, I came home to my apartment building where someone mans the front desk 24 hours a day. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.
Front-desk-person o’ the moment, LaShawna, is a sweet woman who always holds my keys behind the desk when I go for a run. I’ve been told they’re not supposed to do this. Perhaps this is a marker of my expanding VIP status. Yeah.
LaShawna tells me she’s not feeling well and has had a headache for two days. I wanted to help her, and my gut inquiry was whether her braids might be too tight. I caught myself before asking (phew) and more appropriately questioned if she eats during her 4:00 – 11:00 pm shift?
“No, not really.”
By golly, I’ve got it; she’s got a hunger headache. Before I even realize what I’m saying, I offer LaShawna the contents of my refrigerator, namely yogurt and honeydew.
She nods when I say “honeydew,” as if there is nothing on Earth she wants more. I walk toward my apartment, carrying the heavy thought of, “what have I done?”
I can afford to better nourish myself, but charity was not something I had prepared myself for. Did I mention that I hadn’t even sampled the honeydew yet? Story of my life.
I eyed the clear plastic container and decided to eat a few pieces before making my non-tax-deductible donation.
She’ll need a utensil, it occurred to me. I don’t have plasticware. All I’ve got is my great-grandmother’s silverware. At this moment, I decided that honeydew could be classified as “finger food.”
I brought the honeydew to LaShawna and on the walk back to my melon-less apartment, I eyed myself in the lobby mirror and thought, “you done good, kid.”
The next night, LaShawna told me that she was feeling better and really liked the “melondew.”
Oh, honey.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
New York Plate of Mind
I spent the weekend in New York City (when is it appropriate to call it Manhattan?) determined to satisfy my palate during the 36 hours I masqueraded as a pseudo-New Yorker. I embarked on this caloric journey with a friend, beginning with the precise selection of a morning muffin at Union Station in DC around 8:10 am.
There were two muffin joints to choose from and I had a hunch that the muffins were made by the same muffinista. When I’m not immersed in my full-time job, I play detective and read too much into things, mostly of the edible variety. Friend and I each decided on a coffee-cake muffin (no sharing when it comes to muffs). It took nearly every fiber of my being not to reach into the muffin repository (unassuming white paper bag sans muffin shop logo) as I waited to board the Amtrak bound for “the city” (as seems to be the cool way to refer to the locale that’s not the capital of New York State.)
I so should have taken a nibble because what I found while on board the train would have compelled me to purchase another muffin of a different variety. Important to note that while I rarely discriminate when it comes to muffins, I do not enjoy the flavor blueberry. As I watched friend rip off the top of her muffin (yeah, she’s one of those), I was initially delighted at the sight of dark circular muffin insertions I wrongly thought to be raisins. They weren’t raisins – oh no they weren’t. BLUEBERRIES were in my coffee-cake muffin. Story of my life.
Off to a bad start.
My next caloric intake was a $4.50 slice of Florentine pizza, infused with spinach, feta, and ricotta cheese. Quite tasty.
Next stop: Alice’s Tea Cup, a what-will-probably-take-on-Serendipity-notoriety tea shop known for its scones. I don’t appreciate the 2-scone minimum order. “You can’t just get one?” I thought to myself repeatedly, with a perplexed look on my face as I hoped for a footnote on the menu noting that yes, Washington transplants named Jackie could indeed just order one scone.
I’ll have the peanut butter-banana and almond joy sconeS and a pot of tea (for just me – and I’m a coffee drinker). Why? Because there is a minimum order of $10 per person on the weekends. There went any suspicion that this city was a place for bargains.
Next digestive activity involved glazed cashews from one of the HOT NUTS stands located on every other corner in New York City. Let me note that these nuts (HOT) were purchased after a subway snafu (wrong direction) en route to a broadway show, where friend and I arrived exactly at the 8:00 pm showtime; we wanted nuts (HOT ones) to munch on, and the imminent dimming of the theatre lights was not going to stop us. I ran from the HOT NUTS stand to the theatre without regard for pulsing beings in my way, provoking grazers in Time Square to call out, “What the hell/fuck?”
Following the show, friend and I craved falafel and stumbled upon (I always trip, no matter where I am) fried chick peas in a not so fine establishment on a questionable street – but the falafel maker did wear a paper hat to protect the frying chick peas from any loose locks. Phew.
Then I contemplated an ice cream cone from McDonald’s (I am my mother’s daughter), but friend didn’t seem into it and my thighs thanked her in the morning.
The morning brought a lovely brunch with a childhood friend. More importantly (no offense childhood buddy), the morning bestowed upon my life a mimosa, a basil and goat cheese egg scramble over sourdough with roasted tomatoes and asparagus (goat cheese not detectable….grrr), and a slice of pear pecan crumbcake (thank god no blueberries found their way in).
A new trend in frozen yogurt embellished my afternoon in “The Village” (I think that’s where it was?).
By 5:00 I was really in need of bottled water. Not just water – bottled, folks. Thank you cart vendor on the outskirts of Central Park.
My weekend in New York City culminated with dinner somewhere on Columbia and 83rd, at a cute order-at-the-counter (my favorite style) neighborhood bakery/café. Hello quiche. When do I ever eat quiche? Well, when I’m in a city that sometimes (when people, when??) takes the name of Manhattan. A chocolate chocolate chip cookie to go and friend and I were off to Penn Station.
As for what transpired between bites, does it even matter?
There were two muffin joints to choose from and I had a hunch that the muffins were made by the same muffinista. When I’m not immersed in my full-time job, I play detective and read too much into things, mostly of the edible variety. Friend and I each decided on a coffee-cake muffin (no sharing when it comes to muffs). It took nearly every fiber of my being not to reach into the muffin repository (unassuming white paper bag sans muffin shop logo) as I waited to board the Amtrak bound for “the city” (as seems to be the cool way to refer to the locale that’s not the capital of New York State.)
I so should have taken a nibble because what I found while on board the train would have compelled me to purchase another muffin of a different variety. Important to note that while I rarely discriminate when it comes to muffins, I do not enjoy the flavor blueberry. As I watched friend rip off the top of her muffin (yeah, she’s one of those), I was initially delighted at the sight of dark circular muffin insertions I wrongly thought to be raisins. They weren’t raisins – oh no they weren’t. BLUEBERRIES were in my coffee-cake muffin. Story of my life.
Off to a bad start.
My next caloric intake was a $4.50 slice of Florentine pizza, infused with spinach, feta, and ricotta cheese. Quite tasty.
Next stop: Alice’s Tea Cup, a what-will-probably-take-on-Serendipity-notoriety tea shop known for its scones. I don’t appreciate the 2-scone minimum order. “You can’t just get one?” I thought to myself repeatedly, with a perplexed look on my face as I hoped for a footnote on the menu noting that yes, Washington transplants named Jackie could indeed just order one scone.
I’ll have the peanut butter-banana and almond joy sconeS and a pot of tea (for just me – and I’m a coffee drinker). Why? Because there is a minimum order of $10 per person on the weekends. There went any suspicion that this city was a place for bargains.
Next digestive activity involved glazed cashews from one of the HOT NUTS stands located on every other corner in New York City. Let me note that these nuts (HOT) were purchased after a subway snafu (wrong direction) en route to a broadway show, where friend and I arrived exactly at the 8:00 pm showtime; we wanted nuts (HOT ones) to munch on, and the imminent dimming of the theatre lights was not going to stop us. I ran from the HOT NUTS stand to the theatre without regard for pulsing beings in my way, provoking grazers in Time Square to call out, “What the hell/fuck?”
Following the show, friend and I craved falafel and stumbled upon (I always trip, no matter where I am) fried chick peas in a not so fine establishment on a questionable street – but the falafel maker did wear a paper hat to protect the frying chick peas from any loose locks. Phew.
Then I contemplated an ice cream cone from McDonald’s (I am my mother’s daughter), but friend didn’t seem into it and my thighs thanked her in the morning.
The morning brought a lovely brunch with a childhood friend. More importantly (no offense childhood buddy), the morning bestowed upon my life a mimosa, a basil and goat cheese egg scramble over sourdough with roasted tomatoes and asparagus (goat cheese not detectable….grrr), and a slice of pear pecan crumbcake (thank god no blueberries found their way in).
A new trend in frozen yogurt embellished my afternoon in “The Village” (I think that’s where it was?).
By 5:00 I was really in need of bottled water. Not just water – bottled, folks. Thank you cart vendor on the outskirts of Central Park.
My weekend in New York City culminated with dinner somewhere on Columbia and 83rd, at a cute order-at-the-counter (my favorite style) neighborhood bakery/café. Hello quiche. When do I ever eat quiche? Well, when I’m in a city that sometimes (when people, when??) takes the name of Manhattan. A chocolate chocolate chip cookie to go and friend and I were off to Penn Station.
As for what transpired between bites, does it even matter?
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Unemployed
Day 2 of the respite between the former bane of my existence (first job out of college) and the onset of my new lip-lock with employment. The best part about not working – staying up late. Really late. So late that you are awake during the transition from one day to the next.
I’ve introduced muffins into my cage-free week. I love muffins; they call to me. And with the excusable feeling that I’m on vacation, I’m enjoying muffins without the guilt typically felt from the consumption of cake (that’s really all it is) for breakfast. Yesterday’s muffin was titled “Zucchini Bread Muffin” in the grab-it-yourself bakery at Whole Foods. How could anything be bad for you at Whole Foods, anyway? This morning’s oat bran muffin, purchased and enjoyed on the spot, was from a local café. The thing was loaded with whole grains and nutrients. Who am I kidding – I should have had two.
As I was nibbling on my oat bran muffin and sipping a soy café au lait, one after the other so as not to multi-task with food, save for dipping muffin pieces into the coffee, I read The Late Bloomer’s Revolution, a borrowed read from my sister. I was reckless in my consumption of oats and words, and muffin crumbs fell into the crease between pages 46 – 47. Story of my life.
“[Expletive!]” I muttered to myself, thinking that my sister was going to kill me. Did I mention that named book was also resting in a pool of soy infused caffeine just moments before, when I attempted to squeeze myself into a chair sandwiched between the table and a ‘slippery when wet’ floor sign. The sign wouldn’t budge, so my au lait took a fall. Better it than me.
Yesterday, Day 1 of unemployment, began with a Baptiste yoga class in Georgetown. Then, my sweaty self and plum colored yoga mat went shopping in the pretentious commercial district that is Georgetown. I anticipated a relaxing shopping atmosphere in contrast to a tourist-ridden Saturday spent browsing in Anthropologie. The shops were mainly empty, and while I didn’t have to concern myself with knocking over anyone (except maybe a mannequin) with the plum colored yoga mat slung across my back, I did have to contend with profoundly annoying salespeople.
I don’t like to be approached when shopping; I don’t like it one bit. It’s like a movie – please don’t speak to me during the show, not even the previews; I’ll explain what happened when the lights have come back on. Though, if I have a question, I feel completely justified to pose an inquiry with my movie companion, unless I’m cinematizing solo (best thing ever).
I almost became violent in the GAP. Five people greeted me and three wanted to start a fitting room for me. Why can’t I just hold my things? I just held my body suspended in chatturanga countless times in a room heated to 95 degrees. Dude – I can handle my own khakis.
On the way back to the Dupont Metro station, I ran into a co-worker who said that between me, her, “and the lamppost” she had just gone on a job interview. She then went into a monologue about her gripes with the company, motivations for wanting to leave, and other tidbits I would have paid money to not have to listen to. My first day of freedom and I’m locked into a visit with a former prisoner mate. What did I ever do to you (‘you’ could be a multitude of people/spirits)?
I’ve introduced muffins into my cage-free week. I love muffins; they call to me. And with the excusable feeling that I’m on vacation, I’m enjoying muffins without the guilt typically felt from the consumption of cake (that’s really all it is) for breakfast. Yesterday’s muffin was titled “Zucchini Bread Muffin” in the grab-it-yourself bakery at Whole Foods. How could anything be bad for you at Whole Foods, anyway? This morning’s oat bran muffin, purchased and enjoyed on the spot, was from a local café. The thing was loaded with whole grains and nutrients. Who am I kidding – I should have had two.
As I was nibbling on my oat bran muffin and sipping a soy café au lait, one after the other so as not to multi-task with food, save for dipping muffin pieces into the coffee, I read The Late Bloomer’s Revolution, a borrowed read from my sister. I was reckless in my consumption of oats and words, and muffin crumbs fell into the crease between pages 46 – 47. Story of my life.
“[Expletive!]” I muttered to myself, thinking that my sister was going to kill me. Did I mention that named book was also resting in a pool of soy infused caffeine just moments before, when I attempted to squeeze myself into a chair sandwiched between the table and a ‘slippery when wet’ floor sign. The sign wouldn’t budge, so my au lait took a fall. Better it than me.
Yesterday, Day 1 of unemployment, began with a Baptiste yoga class in Georgetown. Then, my sweaty self and plum colored yoga mat went shopping in the pretentious commercial district that is Georgetown. I anticipated a relaxing shopping atmosphere in contrast to a tourist-ridden Saturday spent browsing in Anthropologie. The shops were mainly empty, and while I didn’t have to concern myself with knocking over anyone (except maybe a mannequin) with the plum colored yoga mat slung across my back, I did have to contend with profoundly annoying salespeople.
I don’t like to be approached when shopping; I don’t like it one bit. It’s like a movie – please don’t speak to me during the show, not even the previews; I’ll explain what happened when the lights have come back on. Though, if I have a question, I feel completely justified to pose an inquiry with my movie companion, unless I’m cinematizing solo (best thing ever).
I almost became violent in the GAP. Five people greeted me and three wanted to start a fitting room for me. Why can’t I just hold my things? I just held my body suspended in chatturanga countless times in a room heated to 95 degrees. Dude – I can handle my own khakis.
On the way back to the Dupont Metro station, I ran into a co-worker who said that between me, her, “and the lamppost” she had just gone on a job interview. She then went into a monologue about her gripes with the company, motivations for wanting to leave, and other tidbits I would have paid money to not have to listen to. My first day of freedom and I’m locked into a visit with a former prisoner mate. What did I ever do to you (‘you’ could be a multitude of people/spirits)?
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
An Ode to 23
It’s been one week since I turned 24 years old, friends (many) and lovers (not a one). No longer of an age that falls in the odd number category, I’m left wondering if I can still lay claim to feeling “odd” at times. My soul is European, so I don’t always mesh with mainstream circumstances – not that that’s my goal. Did you know that I went on a yoga vacation? Me, myself, and my yoga mat.
24 just has this serious/my-head-is straight-on-my-shoulders/I don’t emotionally eat overtone. Well I’m a new member of the 24 and over club, and I’m playful/my-head-was-tilted-toward-my-right-shoulder-squeezing-a-phone-while-I-typed-at-work-for-two-hours-today/I’m eating obscene amounts of granola (story of my life) as I birth this momentary memoir.
Does 24 suit someone who calls her mom on her lunch hour and says that she doesn’t know what to eat for lunch and what does she (mom) suggest?
Would someone who is “even” still argue with her older sister about who sits in the front seat when they’re spending the day with their mom? I swear she starts, though.
Back in the good old days when I was 23 (sigh for seven days ago), I felt like the healthy two year distance from 25 was a validation of my widespread confusion over grad school, meals, selecting produce at the grocery store, and deciding if playing on a kickball league was really something I wanted. Now that I’m itching closer to 25 with each passing day (making a squeamish face), maybe I’ve got to use speaker phone at the risk of upsetting my skull’s posture while multi-tasking at the office and perhaps I should alert the manager at Trader Joe’s that I am not to be allowed to purchase anything suitable for consumption on a hike (trail mix, granola, the like).
If anyone asks my age, I think I’m apt to say that I “just turned 24…like really recently.” For how long can that be an honest statement?
24 just has this serious/my-head-is straight-on-my-shoulders/I don’t emotionally eat overtone. Well I’m a new member of the 24 and over club, and I’m playful/my-head-was-tilted-toward-my-right-shoulder-squeezing-a-phone-while-I-typed-at-work-for-two-hours-today/I’m eating obscene amounts of granola (story of my life) as I birth this momentary memoir.
Does 24 suit someone who calls her mom on her lunch hour and says that she doesn’t know what to eat for lunch and what does she (mom) suggest?
Would someone who is “even” still argue with her older sister about who sits in the front seat when they’re spending the day with their mom? I swear she starts, though.
Back in the good old days when I was 23 (sigh for seven days ago), I felt like the healthy two year distance from 25 was a validation of my widespread confusion over grad school, meals, selecting produce at the grocery store, and deciding if playing on a kickball league was really something I wanted. Now that I’m itching closer to 25 with each passing day (making a squeamish face), maybe I’ve got to use speaker phone at the risk of upsetting my skull’s posture while multi-tasking at the office and perhaps I should alert the manager at Trader Joe’s that I am not to be allowed to purchase anything suitable for consumption on a hike (trail mix, granola, the like).
If anyone asks my age, I think I’m apt to say that I “just turned 24…like really recently.” For how long can that be an honest statement?
And when does the quarter-life crises set in? Is it right at 25, or can I look forward to anxiety and dissatisfaction during the months leading up to 25?
Even numbers are a bitch; they just are.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Strawberry Locks Forever
My AOL screen name, conceived of soon after becoming a double-digit youngster, includes the word “blondy” to capture the natural hair pigmentation of my locks from childhood through high school. As soon as I turned 18, my roots decided to darken and I turned to foil. Yeah. Yeah, I did.
The past six years have included experimentation with highlights – some thin and subtle and others chunky and side-stepping boldness.
New job, new hair, new beginnings – my motto for the summer of 2007.
Poignant, no?
I’ve been contemplating a rendezvous between my crown and shades of red for some time now (my grandpa only dates red-haired women), and I thought that with a new job on my horizon (and a failing dating life), I was ready to go ruddy.
My grandpa often proposed marriage to me as a kid.
“What do you say we go to Vegas, Jackie baby?”
I’d laugh and say that I wasn’t ready and he was silly. Boy was I a dumbass.
Had I known the dark shades of dating, I would have enthusiastically accepted and changed my hair color way sooner.
And we’re red…
Four days after my hair changed color (via an obscene amount of money), my grandpa was to arrive for a visit (damn I plan well). We were to spend my birthday together - worthwhile usage of the ever-prized PTO. Grandpa didn’t feel well and cancelled his visit.
“Mom, wait a second…did you tell him I’m a red head (strawberry blonde) now??”
I don’t get it; I’m finally ready to commit and he gets cold feet. Story of my life.
I want to say that the switch from blonde to a shade o’ red or any darker hue is indicative of maturity, good character, individuality, a step on the salon pathway less traveled – and that the switch from dark hair to blonde is easy, customary, exuding the familiarity of the red/white/blue striped rotating cylinder typical of barber shop storefronts. (How soon one forgets where she came from.)
People with strawberry pigmented locks are mysterious creatures poised for creativity and capable of anything – attempting to seduce their own grandfather, publishing books, leaving footprints all over the world, and helping others to find peace in their own circumstances (contemplating an MSW one day) – or at least I hope so (I’ll let you know in a while.)
The past six years have included experimentation with highlights – some thin and subtle and others chunky and side-stepping boldness.
New job, new hair, new beginnings – my motto for the summer of 2007.
Poignant, no?
I’ve been contemplating a rendezvous between my crown and shades of red for some time now (my grandpa only dates red-haired women), and I thought that with a new job on my horizon (and a failing dating life), I was ready to go ruddy.
My grandpa often proposed marriage to me as a kid.
“What do you say we go to Vegas, Jackie baby?”
I’d laugh and say that I wasn’t ready and he was silly. Boy was I a dumbass.
Had I known the dark shades of dating, I would have enthusiastically accepted and changed my hair color way sooner.
And we’re red…
Four days after my hair changed color (via an obscene amount of money), my grandpa was to arrive for a visit (damn I plan well). We were to spend my birthday together - worthwhile usage of the ever-prized PTO. Grandpa didn’t feel well and cancelled his visit.
“Mom, wait a second…did you tell him I’m a red head (strawberry blonde) now??”
I don’t get it; I’m finally ready to commit and he gets cold feet. Story of my life.
I want to say that the switch from blonde to a shade o’ red or any darker hue is indicative of maturity, good character, individuality, a step on the salon pathway less traveled – and that the switch from dark hair to blonde is easy, customary, exuding the familiarity of the red/white/blue striped rotating cylinder typical of barber shop storefronts. (How soon one forgets where she came from.)
People with strawberry pigmented locks are mysterious creatures poised for creativity and capable of anything – attempting to seduce their own grandfather, publishing books, leaving footprints all over the world, and helping others to find peace in their own circumstances (contemplating an MSW one day) – or at least I hope so (I’ll let you know in a while.)
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