Hairy Situations

A few weeks ago I took my son to get his hair cut. This was not only momentous, but timely, since the awards assembly was coming up. It was important that he would be able to see where he was going when accepting his awards. As I was wating for him to be finished, another  hair stylist came in and asked if I needed to be seen. Disclosure: we were at Sports Clips. I smiled and said no, that I was waiting on my son. She smiled and said that if I needed to have my gray taken care of, she could recommend a salon for me.

I was not amused….

Approximation of gray, not of beauty. Scars not included.

I politely said thank you, and left it at that. But after a few weeks, it came to mind that some people are rather presumptive over women’s vanities. True, we get bombarded by Madison Avenue’s version of what a woman should look like and act like. Some advertisers are moving away from the “triathlon-gourmet-supermodel” template, like Dove™ and their Campaign for Real Beauty. And though I admit to dyeing my hair over a decade ago, I have to say, I do love my gray, and embrace it like spun silk, even though it tends to feel like wiry wool. I like to think of them as God’s Highlights, and I know for a fact I earned each and every single one 😉

In Remembrance

In honor of those who have died protecting our liberties.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

For the brave men and women who died while in service to this great country.

Cheers to Life

A friend of mine is in the hospital, fighting for her life. She is strong, and I pray that she pulls through. I have no doubt God is holding her in His loving arms right now. But a while back, she had spoken of several family members who had passed away, and had made a request: she asked several friends that when her time comes, everyone who attends her funeral must wear their most comfortable robe, PJs and slippers.

Y’all know I wouldn’t fail at honoring this request.

But it got me to thinking…. what would I want at my memorial service? I say memorial service because I wish to be cremated, at least, whatever is left after donating organs and so forth. I just want a big party with plenty of food and booze and for everyone to wear something red, and the gals to wear red lipstick, and the kids to have a petting zoo complete with goats and ponies, and maybe a llama, and a band that plays Big Band music.

A llama??

Well, yes. One of my fondest memories is driving up to Hubby’s grandparents, and passing a beautiful dairy farm. The kids would get all excited and yell “COWS, MOMMA!!!” and Hubby would say, “Not cows…LLAMAS!!!” And the kids would look again, and look at him like he was an idiot, and say, “Daddy, those are cows. Llamas have long necks.” And he would say, “Llamas drink beer???” And they would just die laughing at him.

And that’s why I would want a llama. Because the best way to celebrate someone’s life is to recall fond memories. Hubby would probably say it would be easier to just dump my ashes in a river. I would be ok with that, too.

As long as there’s a llama!!!

Redneck With Class

Last month I was shopping for Christmas gifts when I ran across the funniest thing to ever scream “BUY ME!!!!”:

Yep, I ended up buying a few for gifts as well. And before y’all ask, no I didn’t drink wine from a box last night.

It was bottled, with a screw top 😉

Where’s My Aqua Net??

You would think hairspray is a staple in her dressing area.

A Study in Contrasts

On the left, Benjamin Netanyahu. On the right, Barack Obama. Both of them in their twenties:

Who is the true leader???

The Price of Beauty

Back in November, my sister asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I had told her I wanted an 18 inch long machete. She thought I was kidding, so she went out and purchased a gift certificate to the local mani/ pedi/ facial place. She put a lot of thought into that gift, because she is always at a loss when it comes to gift giving to her older sister. I think my whole family has the same issue. For the life of me, I don’t understand what is so hard about getting me knives or ordnance. But I digress.

The one and only time I had a facial was back in 2001. Hubby very kindly purchased a complete spa experience for me, to include a massage, lunch, facial, and haircut and style. I spent the entire day there, and completely enjoyed it. But it had been a while since I had been, so I went thinking this would take about 40 minutes.

I was wrong…

It started out innocently enough. I was told to wrap myself in a towelwrap and lay under the steam. I lay under the full force of hot clouds for ten minutes. Thank goodness I am from the tropics. Next, the specialist placed some cleansing lotion on my face and neck, letting it sit for a few minutes, before applying a scalding hot towel on my face, impeding breathing, and crying. Once that was done, she applied some majikal stoof that was based with peppermint oil. OMIGAWD!!! MY SKIN IS ON FIRE!!!!!!!!111ELEVENTY!!! I am whimpering by now, and the specialist asks if I’m doing ok. And of course, I said I was fine. She proceeds to place another hot towel, which I barely notice because of the peppermint zinging through my pores.

Next up, instruments of torture. Now, I don’t have the most perfect skin. But really, did she have to take a freakin’ RAKE to it?? She began with my nose, which does have nerve endings on it, along with a host of blackheads and imperfections. She is at this for almost thirty minutes. Then she begins on my cheeks and chin. The longer she does this, the more I realize how totally deformed my skin must be. I am patiently waiting for her to finish, and feel my body relax when I hear her put away the rake. I take a deep breath, and BAM!!! Another hot towel on my face. By now, my pores can be sold off as condos. I figure she is done by now, and ask what is next. She replies, “Now is exfoliation.” How bad can it be?

After the assault on my pores, and the peppermint oil, the answer is, pretty fucking bad. She takes some scrub that is formulated to be “gentle” and begins to grind it into my face and neck. She grinds for a few minutes, making sure to really get it into the wrinkles, I imagine. When she is done, I breathe a sigh of relief, which ends in a small yelp as yet another freakin’ hot towel is draped on my face. She wipes the sand away ( I assume it’s sand), and begins to lightly apply another concoction on my face, this time a cooling one. By this time I realize my entire body is completely tense, so I force myself to relax. Just in time to get a hot towel plopped on my face. By now, I am praying to God to let her forget to finish the facial, or for the place to lose electricity. She then begins a “massage” on my neck and shoulders, and by massage, I mean her hands are crushing any and all resistance by my muscles. Finally, she tells me she is done, and I get up rather wobbly, my left eye trying to adjust.

For the record, I don’t have a low tolerance for pain. After all, I gave birth twice without the aid of an epidural. I do have a low tolerance for strangers digging into my skin. I think I will make sure to give my sister a gift certificate for a facial for her birthday. Unlike me, she would love it.

Oh, and did I mention the specialist was Chinese? That should explain a lot 😉