I had my hair cut and colored on Monday. I'm now a saucy redhead with a "mom" haircut. Talk about an identity crisis.
The colorist who made me red assured me that she only saw one gray hair. Up until now, I’ve only ever found seven gray hairs. I plucked them all and put them in my change purse. I have no idea why. I think I may have contemplated taking them to a dungeon and torturing them.
They all came from the exact same spot on my head. I envision their creation like this: When something stressful happens and I have the “Oh shit, I can’t handle this” thought, all the stress juice shoots up to that one hair follicle, and out pops a gray hair. Much like you get a gumball when you stick in your quarter, I get my reoccurring gray hair.
I find comfort in that.
My QVC make-up came. I guess I ordered the kit for dummies.
Who knows where I might have put that if they hadn't labeled it.
Junior had tubes put in his ears this morning. I had thought they'd look like straws, but they're actually the size of pencil tips. The doctor said he had what they call "glue ear" (when the ear fluid is extra goopy). I think that will make for a really special entry in his baby book.
While Junior and I were on the recovery floor, a harpist played music. Not too shabby for the Mulletville hospital. When it was time to go I almost said "No thanks, I'll stay here a little longer. And could someone bring me a cup of coffee and some fluffy slippers?"
I found comfort in just imagining that.
I think Chuck, Junior and I should get frequent flyer miles from the Mulletville hospital—or at least a commemorative plaque. Between Junior's birth, Chuck's ass and kidney stones, my sprained ankle and busted neck, we must have earned two tickets to Hawaii by now? Or at least a roll in the hay with the harpist?
Hah! That's so my hair color talking.
