Desert Magnolia

I haven't wasted too much energy boring you all with yet another decision to grow my locks out again, because I seem to do this on a regular basis and the process is maddening. There are the phases..endless strange moments as the very short pixie layers grow out a bit. There was the decision to highlight again because, as it turns out, I am NOT ready to be just silver and dark brown yet. There is the goal setting..'this is the look I'm shooting for..I think..at this moment in time but my mood/vision could change at any moment and we might have another target entirely'.....idea...Erika the Great has a photo on file of the first look I declared to want for this particular growout. She brings it out to show me where we're headed, and fortify me for one more stint of 'just working through the middle layer growout, which is usually the hardest...' She's amazing. I am, however, having a hard day. I usually shower, wash my hair, then just brush it an...

Hair. Long, short, in between, highlighted, dark, shot with gray. No matter what stage it's in, or its current tone, it can make me very very happy or make me want to stab myself in the eyeball with a dull instrument. Maybe a butter knife. The 'logic' goes something like this, on a bad day: Hair, being its strong-willed self, decides to be both big AND in my face, which is a bad combo even on a good day, let alone one when the demigods of hormones have been partying in my bloodstream and emotions for a few hours...and I'm feeling crabby and fragile and mostly like no matter what damned stage my stupid 'do is in, I just want it to comply. On some level. Which guarantees absolute chaos. And makes me text Erika the Fierce and Wonderful stylist who is not afraid of either my hair's nor my moods, which means she is a keeper in the most fundamental sense of the word. Erika knows to ignore said text, which flew at 6 p.m. after a long, hot day fighting with...

I did. Today. And I realized that it was the unexpected shock of a weird turn in a haircut that resulted in my going with a super short pixie in lieu of 'growing long layers into a bob.' Because sometimes, when layered on top of all the other crap that's going on, even if it's good crap? Enough is enough. The good news is my stylist and I worked through it all, just fine. I have supershort hair for my trip abroad, which may not be a bad thing anyway. So really the crying? Wasn't about the hair so much, as the shock of the new look, coupled with the realization that I'm leaving the country in one week (ONE), coupled with the knowledge that I have a butt ton of work to complete before I leave just so things stay moderately on track, coupled with my fear that I've forgotten at least one something significant but not knowing what that might be, of course, which simply adds another item to couple with the rest. And I think I may have just misused the t...

I've lost count of those moments in my life when I realize I am simply not cool, at least I'm not as cool as the people I'm hanging around at the moment when I come to the not cool conclusion. When I think back on my life, I recall feeling pretty cool most of the time. Really. But in reality, I may have been deluding myself. Which is my prerogative, I suppose, and a delusion under which many of us labor. Moments in which am acutely aware of being uncool: Late night gathering in Son's dorm room with his peers, who brought wine and snacks and wholly modern perspectives and their passionate arguments and wow....these kids are dialed in and ready to change the world and I both envy and admire them. The future, if they have their way, is safe indeed. Shopping with Daughter, whose sense of style is classic and elegant, yet in spite of that timeless quality and our similar views of clothes, she must dissuade me from repeating fashion faux pas after fashion faux pas......

Cheesy poetry, just for you. No charge. Which is good, because, really??? These last weeks have been interesting, and full of drama (unwanted) and relief (embraced) and the awareness of distance. Serious distance. Daughter is on the other side of our continent. That's a long way away. At a minimum it takes 8 hours travel to get to her. And that's with all flights leaving on schedule, etc. That means that if something unthinkable happened to her and she was rushed to a hospital and we were called it would take an entire day to get to her. 8 of the longest hours ever. Son, well, he's halfway around the world. That's a really long way. At a minimum, it takes 28 hours travel to get to him. And that's with all flights leaving on schedule and no unplanned revolutions occurring en route. That means if something unthinkable happened to him and he was rushed to a hospital and we were were called it would take almost two complete days to get to him. And there is c...

With Farrah's recent passing I was catapulted into nostalgia as I remembered how much she had impacted my life. Yes, mine. No, we weren't buds, but her influence resulted in me being cool for the first time in  my life. How? My feathered Farrah 'do, that's how. I had super thick hair that loved to flip sassily...and for the first time I looked 'styled' vs, well, you know, kinda ruffled. Suffice to say my Mom had cut my hair my whole childhood (with one exception that ended up in my looking much more like Dorothy Hamill than anyone had thought possible but fortunately that grew out).  It was awesome. I was content to have great hair, though, naturally I secretly yearned for the curves to fill out a bikini the way she did, as well. Hairstyles have changed through the years, and mine has gone from Farrah flip long, to pageboy length, to chin-length bob, to super short spikey. I'm now growing out a short cut, and am chafing. Seriously chafing. Here's...