This post was going to be all about my hair, but I've decided to start off on an entirely-unrelated tangent (what else?).
I'm at The Beanery coffeehouse in Blue Ridge, on my first date with Tim since ... oh, I'd say July. (And by date, yes I do mean we are without Isaac.) Our date-of-choice involves coffee, our laptops or books, and some kind of location wherein I can people-watch and eavesdrop (my favorite bad habit. I have no intention of quitting, either. In fact, if I ever get published, I'll essentially be making my living off of it).
I forgot how much I love this place. And not just because the building used to be a bank and still has the walk-in vault, but because the food is oh-so-good. You've never had tomato soup until you've been here. Also they have quiche.
Some old lady at a nearby table just said: "Those people over there are eating breakfast. Eggs and things. If you want to have breakfast."
The coffee isn't bad either. Plus, I think I know the barista. He wasn't working here the last time I came in, so it's got to be from somewhere else. This is really going to bug me.
And now, at the risk of making myself sound like a weirdo, I've got to ask: Do you ever see a complete stranger and, for whatever reason, find yourself unable to stop staring at them? (Of course not, you're completely normal.) Regardless, it happens to me. Today, in fact. The most beautiful woman I think I have ever seen is sitting opposite us, having breakfast with her husband. I cannot stop watching her.
(There's a Whitney Otto quote I wish I could remember. Something about how women must watch other women. Which is completely true. Women are always watching other women. I have a theory about this; remind me to tell you about it later.)
She is probably in her mid-thirties; tall, fit, with facial features that remind me of both Audrey Hepburn and Lena Olin (if you can imagine that. Where's my camera when I need it.). Tim doesn't find her particularly attractive, but then, we never agree on this topic. He said if I'm going to keep staring like this I might as well wink at her. He's probably right. I should stop staring. Also I look completely retarded when I wink. It's just one of those things I can't pull off with a straight face.
She has The Best Hair. Which brings me back to the original post topic. My hair.
I neglected it for a solid six months while in Denmark, so it was in dire need of help. First off, I hate getting my hair cut. I like it long, layered, and free. Cutting it ruins the effect. But like I said, it had to be done. And then yesterday happened.
Fiasco ... is the word that comes to mind.
My mom and I went to a nearby hair-stylist. Somewhere in the back of my head I thought I might try gypsy shag bangs, but naturally that didn't happen. And I say naturally because there's this weird thing that happens to me every time I go to a hair stylist. As soon as I sit in that little black swivel chair and she clips the tarp-thing around my neck, I turn into a robot and say: DO WHATEVER YOU WANT.
No, actually what I say is something like this: Look, it's frayed and split and sad. I need a trim, but keep it as long as you can. What they don't tell you is that this is actually code for do whatever you want.
The stylist says okay, and I get this vague premonition that she isn't really listening to me. Naturally I ignore it, because, like I said, I'm a robot now. And then she starts clipping away at my hair, and before I know it there's a good three inches of my mane sitting on the floor.
My hair is now the shortest it's ever been.
At this point I usually pay and leave, and then whine about my hair until it grows back out (six to eight weeks of whining. Poor Tim). But yesterday, for whatever stupid reason, I decided to have her dye it. I'd used some kind of wash-out dye earlier in the year and it never actually washed out, so she matched the dye to my roots. So far so good, right? Then she says, "I'm going to give you a few highlights that are a shade up from your natural color. That way you get some variety in your hair, but when it grows out you won't be able to really tell." Sounds perfect, right?
Two hours later, I had orange highlights. Orange. Orange. Orange. ORANGE! (I matched my kid.) I really don't want to tell the rest of this story (oh yes, it gets worse). Suffice it to say: two boxes of hair dye, a bottle of wine, some tin foil, and ten hours later, my hair was looking somewhat normal again. (I'm shocked to say that it still looks incredibly healthy, despite all the ammonia.)
Here's a washed-out-and-blurry photo of me smirking (taken this morning):
(Unfortunately my camera and my mirror have completely different ideas of what I look like. Yes I did read that somewhere on Pinterest.)
And guess what?! It just hit me who my barista looks like. Dane Cook. Shorter, younger, with a buzz cut and green eyes. No scratch that. That's completely wrong. This is really going to bother me.
And now, unfortunately, we have to go to Wal-Mart (all dates must come to a bad end in Wal-Mart). We fly home on Tuesday, so today we are stocking up on all bathroom-related things (minus toilet paper) to take with us. Toiletries, makeup, shampoo, lotions - it's all significantly cheaper here. Also, I know what brands I like and the labels are in English.
Happy New Years Eve!
Speaking of ... They already celebrated New Years in Australia. Weird thought, huh? They beat us to 2012.
P.S. The Monday Amenities post this week is scheduled for Tuesday.