H is for Horrible Hairstyle

Hair is important to me. If you're a woman reading this, you're probably saying, "It's important to me, too! Isn't it important to every woman?" My husband says it's way too important to me. Our youngest son says, "Yeah, anyway, it's just dead cells, Mom!" (This from the child whose idea of brushing his hair means slapping water on it and pasting it down with his hands.)

I've been scrolling through my mind, trying to remember all the hairstyles I've had, for better or for worse. I will share the worst haircut ever. I wish I could say it when I was a kid ,but it wasn't. I was 23 years old. I had a 13-month old son, and a 3-week-old daughter. That's right. Two babies in 13 months. I felt homely, haggard, and housebound, and desperate for change. Post-partum depression was starting to take a deep hold on me. There was not much I felt in control of--not my anger, not my tears, not my children's digestion.

Only two things could I change easily--diapers and my hair. With a friend's graduation-from-law-school party coming up on Memorial Day weekend, I went for my cut on payday--May 15th. Money was tight, but I knew if I went to the Hair Cuttery, they'd ask me what I wanted and I'd walk out with the same-old, same-old. I wanted someone with professional and creative experience to tell me what would look good, not me plop down and tell them what I thought.

So I went to a "real" salon (read: expensive). The receptionist asked who I wanted, and I said it didn't matter, I was new here. So I got assigned one. It was the first time I'd ever had a male stylist.

He ran his fingers through my wavy, brown, shapeless hair, lifting and tossing and massaging and all those things that make you say, "I don't care what else you do, just more of that, please!" He said all the right things in his exuberant, flamboyant way to the hermit housewife in his chair. "You've got great texture and color. I just think if I do this, this, and this, it'll give you more volume, accent your eyes, and really make people take notice!" Then he proceeded to snip. And snip. And snip.

He cut out every last semblance of curl and femininity I possessed on my head. He parted the hair on the side, tapered it in back, cut out the ears, and then spun me around to look in the mirror.

"What do you think?" he asked, obviously proud of his art. I took one look and gulped. I ran my fingers through the top--the only place with much hair left--and gasped to myself I was too polite to tell him how I really felt. How could I have given him carte blanche! It's horrible! I look so....butch! What will Paul say? Nauseated and fighting back tears, I handed over precious money in a sum I had never forked over for a cut. It felt like a double whammy, having paid with hair first!

Well, Paul's reaction was worse than I expected. He really didn't get verbal about it. He did say, "Kind of short, isn't it?" For the next five weeks, he didn't touch my head. Before that, I had grown so accustomed to his gentle stroking of it at night that the abrupt absence of "hair affection" made me pick up his hand and place it behind my head. He quickly pulled back. I asked what was wrong. He then answered in words I only remember in staccato, "'sorry...can't...touch...stubble." I rolled over and just let the tears flow. And flow. And flow. He felt horrible, but it was an honest moment that I've never forgotten. I had let a total stranger have his way with my hair, and now my own soulmate couldn't even touch it.

Never again, I vowed. Never again will I give free rein to someone with scissors.

Valentine's "Day" in Pictures

I put "day" in quotations because it started Friday and ended the following Wednesday .


On Friday evening Sarah, Steve, and Ambrey cooked Chicken Marsala for their parents. We had Cheryl and Marion over and just let the kids serve us. What a blast! They had done everything from scratch--the marsala, twisted breadsticks, Olive Garden style salad, linguine (from a box), and banana pudding. Everything was delicious and we loved getting to know Ambrey's folks. I regret not getting pictures of our special occasion, but things were a bit hectic!

So many good memories I have stored up in my mind and heart this year! Here's a montage...


MONDAY


Steve had this vignette ready for his sister and mama on Valentine's morning. How
sweet. (Ben was in New Jersey with his girlfriend, spoiling her.) Joel got the day off
because Feb 14th is his birthday. He put this 1,000 pc Lego battleship station together in
7 and 1/2 hours . I helped him for 45 minutes for starters, to help organize pieces.
The necklace from my kids...
Can you see the image? Mother dancing with her four children. Perfect.

I'll leave out the part where I had a doctor's appointment. Doesn't every woman want to see her
gynecologist on Valentine's Day?


TUESDAY, after we'd all gone to bed...

Steve set the table and prepped the waffle iron and ingredients for the next day's brunch.

WEDNESDAY

He and Ambrey made Belgian waffles, and she gave Joel a gift --a huge Hershey's kiss
and his choice of little gifts . He chose a plastic frog that he says looks like a Democrat.
But then he said, "No, actually, he looks John McCain.Seriously! Look at his mouth!"

We laughed at ourselves for being such fashionistas. I was so stylin' I couldn't be seen
in pictures. Don't wanna make someone jealous. Ask me how to put together a man's white turtleneck brown ankle-length skirt, grey socks, and furry slippers.



Sneaky me, I snapped a shot of Steve & Ambrey warming up for a run.



Flowers for Sarah .We love her so much.


The ring on top was my ultimate, uber romantic gift from my generous husband.





Stunning tulips from my daddy. I'll plant them somewhere special as soon as I can.

Woops--more MONDAY memories!

Found all this at my place on Valentine's morning when I came downstairs.







I made each child a big pancake.






I highly recommend what Paul did: bought a dozen plain red balloons.
We were able to personalize them with a blue Sharpie--Steve to Ambrey, and
me to my folks.



Steve heading out, bearing many gifts for his lovely girl, Ambrey. He put
together a veritable treasure chest of her favorite things: an aquamarine
necklace, a polka-dotted puppy, Swedish fish, Lindor truffles, pink Gerbera
daisies, a Wawa cappuccino, and a card picturing two Golden Retrievers snuggling.
(She has a female Golden and we're getting a male Golden in 2 days!)

Man on a mission. Made my heart sing.


I gave my parents a few little gifts to remind them of when their love was new.
After all, their love is the reason I'm here.




Daddy looking forward to opening the KU loot bag with Mama at home. (She was in bed with
a bad chest cold. He was just getting over it.) The bag itself was a thoughtful gift from
Laurie, my blogging friend in Kansas. I was painfully aware that Laurie and her family were,
on Valentine's Day, at her mom's funeral. My heart was breaking for them.


Daddy gave Sarah a box of chocolates, and both of us got a sweet card. The
boy is being his usual photogenic self. UGH! You can pick out a 9 year-old boy in any picture, can't you?





Pappaw (Lyle Dauber) and Joel Lyle (or as Joel said, "the two Lyles")


I finally got a new 'do at the end of the week.

For so many reasons, this year's Valentine's celebrations made me rejoice. How great the Father's love for us, how vast beyond all measure!

Hoping My Dreams Don't Come True

Last night I had one of those dreams you just know comes out of what you've been dwelling too much on. (Okay, that was a lousy sentence, but so what? I'm the author and finisher of very bad grammar once in a while.)

I'll admit up front, I'm hair-obsessed. But I haven't met a real woman yet who isn't, so I won't feel bad that I think about my next haircut right after getting a recent one. I think about changing my color. I think about what it would be like to have long, thick tresses or short, straight, course hair.

I've also been thinking about a concept used in martial arts about pulling your opponent toward you rather than resisting him. This concept has nothing to do with hair, unless I stretch the analogy, which I won't. It was just something I read in a book related to an area of struggle I'm trying to find a new way to deal with.

Combine those two thoughts with ice cream before bed, and you have the making of a wild dream.

In this dream, I am sitting in a hairdresser's chair.

She: So what do you want done with your hair?
Me: A change.
She: What's bothering you about the way it is?
Me: It's too choppy in the front. It's uneven.
She (slicing through my hair with pinking shears in about four seconds): There! Now it's choppy all over. What else is bothering you?
Me: The color. It's mostly a brown I like but there's hints of grey. Can we get rid of the grey?
She: (pouring bottles of liquid I can't see, through my hair. Spins me toward the mirror): There! Grey's gone!
Me: But now it's striped with green and yellow!
She: You asked if we could get rid of the grey. We did. Anything else bothering you?
Me: The texture. It's always soft, which is good, but I wonder if I could get more volume in it somehow.
She (taking my index finger, starting to plug my finger into the electric socket below the blow dryer cord):---


That was it! I bolted awake , upright and decided to give thanks for my sort of uneven, brown, somewhat/sometimes grey-tipped, soft-but-not-voluminous hair.

The Good News is, I Have a Heavy Bottom

Not the best of days today. Impulsive me decided on Friday I just couldn't stand my hair anymore, so I called Ruth. She's my friend who started out as a Creative Memories consultant, and everything she touches turns to art. And she knows my hair. It's a lot like hers in texture, curl, weight, and all.

But she lives a good half hour away without traffic, and she only does hair as her schedule allows.

So on Friday, as I was pinning my hair up once again like this pooch, I yanked the phone off the hook and called her, getting all sweet in the voice before she picked up.

"Hey, Ruth, it's Zoanna..." and we exchange niceties about her trip to Cancun and how much better she feels and I segue real quick into, "Well , I always feel better after you cut my hair. Can you do it Monday morning? It's my only day before the ladies' retreat that I could get down to Middle River." She peeks at her calendar and we set the appointment.

I drive there today in the rain--a cold, dreary, grey morning. Bye, bye, weekend lovelies of 77 degrees. I have skipped my quiet time to get my hair done. Not a good thing at all. It gets me all of out of sorts not to take that hour after Joel leaves for school to spend alone without interruptions with the Lord. But at least there will be fellowship with Ruth. It's not like I'm skipping coffee with Jesus and going straight to the bar.

Not only had I skipped out on God in the morning, I had stayed up way too late trying to find on the internet a picture of what I wanted my hair to look like. Kim Basinger's long wavy look was my choice. Not that I think I'm Kim Basinger, but Paul ruled out my first choice: a 1940s bob of Rita Hayworth.
Come on, you don't like her victory rolls?

I told Ruth I was still trying to grow out my hair, so she didn't take much off. Really. Not enough. I could tell she had sprayed it and curled it and made it a nice shape, but I could've measured maybe a third of an ounce of hair actually gone off my head. I came out of the bathroom, having inspected it front and back in the mirror. I liked it, but I wanted it to be noticeably different.

Came out and said, "You really didn't take much off, did you?"

"No," she said. "You want the sides to catch up with the back, so I snipped the ends a little, rolled the long layers under so I gave you a heavier bottom."

"You WHAT?! Oh, Ruth, that's just what I DON'T need! A heavier bottom. My bottom's already heavier than a World War II cannon."

She laughed and back-pedaled with, "You know what I mean,"-- but I gave her more grief.

" I did not drive all the way down here in the pouring rain, miss an exit I've taken a hundred times, panick over early-onset Alzheimer's, turn around in Dundalk, of all places, just to be rewarded with a heavier bottom ! And I suppose you expect to be PAID for it, too?" I rolled my eyes and plunked two nickels on the counter.

I mean two bills.

Got to school two hours later and no one noticed. None of my co-workers, none of my students, not my Joel. That's such a let-down.

But at least I have a heavier bottom.

Peek into Others' Nests this Christmas

Looking for inspiration or just love to be invited into others' homes, especially at Christmas? Then check out The Nester. Her philosophy is just dandy: "It Doesn't Have to be Perfect to Be Beautiful." A lot of bloggers have joined the Christmas Tour of Homes already, and I love it. Click away and enjoy the scenery.

I've decked my home but haven't uploaded the pics yet. I hope to get to it between picking up Joel from school and keeping a hair appointment. (I'm so nervous about the appointment because my friend Ruth, who usually cuts it in her kitchen, was working too much last week at the ER (woman of many talents) and can only cut it this week on her day off, which is my fullest day, so I said no. (Besides, she lives in the next county and when we get together, it's a girl fest with coffee and chit chat. ) Can't wait another week: I already look like a Papillon when I put my hair up in clips in the morning without brushing it. Anything to keep it out of my eyes. I've already done the Llasa ApZo look. I'm thinking of submitting a head shot to the American Kennel Club and see if they can ID me. Maybe a subcutaneous chip in my thigh would bring me home in case the GPS fails?

Anyway, this post was about the Christmas Tour of Homes, but I can hardly see the screen for the mane. Time to turn my hairdon't into a hairdo.

If you've decked your halls, or house, or whatever, please let us know. I'm a nosy neighbor.

What's a Girl to do with her Hair?

I need advice. My hair is at that "in-between" stage, supposedly between old style and something new. Trouble is, I don't know what I want. I can't stand it in my face. It's wavy (curly in the humidity), soft, and fine. When shorter, it has more body. It's got just a few strands of grey. Paul doesn't want me to color it because he says I'll be forever coloring it if I start. That's the story I hear from other friends, too. It's pretty forgiving of a bad cut (it grows fast and the curls hide woopsies). I really like my hairdresser and have developed a relationship with her to the point I'm also ready to invite her to the next round of Alpha meetings, and I don't want to risk offending her by going to a different stylist. She is artistic (photography mainly) but conservative with changes, at least in my experience. And best of all, the cut still costs only $18 at this place. (I don't pay to have it blow dried unless it's a bitter cold day or I'm switching styles altogether, which has been a long, long time.)

I want to find a style that's a bit different, without going drastically shorter or having to keep growing this mop. I'm of the opinion that most women over 40 should not wear long hair; there are exceptions, but I'm not going to be one of them.


So, what to do? I have a three-fold dilemma. First, I'm reluctant to go back to my stylist because she hasn't ventured beyond my own suggestions even when I've said, "You're the expert. Try something new." Second, I don't want to risk offending her by going to someone else who might be experimental. Third, I fear of the result of letting a pro I don't know do something terrible in the name of creativity.

The last time I did that was when Sarah was three weeks old. Ben was 13 months old. My world measured the square footage of two cribs and stunk like a dairy farm. I was postpartumly depressed and had been postpartumly housebound with ugly hair. I told this guy, "I trust you." Well, he made me feel wonderful with words like "lift" and "volume" and "pizzazz." Then he started cutting. And cutting. And cutting. He nipped out all the curl, parted my hair on the side, and razor tapered it at the neck. Paul was speechless. He wouldn't touch my butch head for five weeks. (I counted.) I spiraled into a really deep depression. I'm sure it was all hormonal, but I'll never forget the feeling of never wanting to trust someone again with my hair. I've just told them what to do. And now I'm really, really bored with it.

What should I do? It's not just about hair.

Oh! Did I mention school pictures are tomorrow, teachers included?