Thursday Doors: Sea Me

ThursdayDoors DSFI had forgotten what a letdown the days after meeting a huge challenge/goal can be. After all that preparation and anticipation of singing my solo in choir’s concert, I deflated like a balloon a couple days after the party ends. Seeing how busy the calendar was going to get soon (at work, blech), I decided that respite (and reward!) by the sea was required.

It was just long enough.

It’s never long enough.

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Friday Fhoughts: Folume Sefen

Friday Fhoughts - BlackI’m starting to think not only am I at the mercy of the moon but also the weather. It rained for what seemed like never-ending eons, during my not-as-happy-lately time. The sun came back just as I was starting to feel better.

It could be a coincidence or it could be related. It could be correlational but not causational. I don’t think I can actually use those words that way, but I just did, so there.

OR was EVERYBODY feeling a bit glum, including Mother Nature, and we all just went through it together? That’s a big no, but I digress.

The aforementioned unofficial science-y thoughts officially begin FRIDAY FHOUGHTS, FOLUME SEFEN!

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Friday Fhoughts, Folume 3

Friday Fhoughts - BlackWelcome to Friday Fhoughts, Folume 3.

I randomly wrote a few things — you know, fhoughts — a few Fridays ago. Now, in its third week, it’s a thing, y’all.

Welcome to the randomness of my brain at the end of another work week (sorry, weekend workers!).

Just imagine as you read what it must be like to be in my head all. the. time.

… … …

Anyhoo, a few random Friday Fhoughts:

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Salon, farewell (I wish)

 

I hate the entire experience.

I hate waiting, flipping through magazines with hair styles I neither like nor have the patience to pull off, or the latest copy of whatever gossipy mags lay about. I hate sitting in the chair, looking at her looking at me in the mirror, discussing what to do with my hair, even though it’s always simple. I hate the always too-tight, uncomfortable, and unattractive smock. I hate having my hair washed, usually by a gum-snapping curly-haired girl. I hate looking at her armpit, clothed or not, while she scrubs bubbles then takes an eternity to get all of them out of my tremendously long tresses. The water’s always too hot, but after three wrist tests and upside-down inquiries, it’s faster, I think, to just go along.

I hate being back in the chair anticipating the small talk I can’t stand. I never go to the same cutter twice (I go to cheapie places since I just need trims) — I don’t want to know about their kids, their vacation plans, or how awful they think the news story that’s blasting on the TV at the back of the room is. I dislike small talk in general, but it’s definitely not fun while trapped in a chair with clips holding my mop on the top of my head as it’s trimmed layer by layer. Besides, I worry when the stylist chats away that her view will skew and my hair won’t be even. Since it’s straight, that’s kind of important, ya know?

I hate the clips that aren’t strong enough to firmly hold my heavy wet hair in place, the smell of Barbicide, and locking eyes with the person two chairs over in the mirror between us, her head slightly down, as her short fuzzes are shorn off her neck. That’s never been done to me, I think. Why do our eyes meet? Because one can only look at themselves and the woman cutting their hair in the mirror for so long, and closing my eyes seems weird.

Wet, cut. Blow dry? No, thanks. I don’t have that kind of free time. Plus the 30 minutes this ordeal takes is long enough. I’d trim the two (to however many) inches off my long locks myself if I could. See: age 13, bangs, promise to never do that again.

Of course, all that’s not why I don’t go to the salon the way some people do (monthly, for hours, gleefully gossiping, and surfacing — engaging only in pleasantries). I don’t have to go that often because my hair is long, which I love. Except when I hate it. See: humidity, mostly.

At this point, it’s the longest it has been in decades, and that’s the question: how long should it be? Just below the shoulder blade — meaning a visit three times a year or so — has been the standard for a while (especially since a shorter, layered disaster in 2010 that I’ll never repeat). But now it’s just below the waist of all my pants. I’ll be able to sit on it soon!

Big girl pants, party of one. Your salon chair is ready… and waiting…

The Spider I Named Lazarus

Either the counter was moving or something was on it. Upon closer inspection, I discovered a teeny tiny spider crawling along. He ended up walking on my most recent grocery receipt — perhaps an accountant spider? I wanted to throw it away, though, so I picked it up and gently tapped the edge on the counter, hopeful Mr. Spider would simply slide off.

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