I Am Not My Hair...Or Am I?

One of the toughest tasks for any newcomer is replacing services. So after our move, I set about systematically replacing my beloved vet, cleaning person, and hairdresser.

Ow. I'd like to think I'm not my hair. That I am me, and if my hair turns white (which it sort of did) or turd-murkle brown (which it definitely was), that my happy place won't disappear.

But it did. Golly, did it ever. See, my first venture to a hairstylist gained me excellent color, but the stylist/owner fobbed me off on an employee who got angry and burned my scalp repeatedly while drying my hair. Even when I complained, she kept on applying the heat.

Next, I went to a lady who decided my hair should be brown. She did a wizard cut--which can be hard on curly hair--but brown? Ugh. But the cut was really, really good, and she did offer to lighten it up. So I went back to her and said that it was, indeed, too dark. So she put the coloring on my hair, redecorated her salon (no lie, she was futzing around with the Christmas tree and the wreaths and the ornaments on her shelves), and then we had the following exchange:

Me: You've lived here a long time. Do you know the Salahis? The husband and wife who crashed the White House State Dinner?

Hairdresser/Salon Owner: Yes, I do. I've been on their yacht. You know, he was a perfectly nice young man. Very sweet. Good to his parents. And then he met that...that...that BLONDIE!

Need I tell you that my hair color was pretty darn weird? Like a bleached out lemon rind.

So I went to another hairdresser. (Are you counting? If I haven't left anyone out, we're up to four in four months now.) This salon kept sending me invitations as a "newcomer" to try them out. The place proved almost impossible to find. The stylist was nice...but she added so many low lights, my hair was back to...ugh...some disgusting shade of mud.

I went around all week avoiding mirrors. My husband said, "It's not too bad." Which is code for, "I won't divorce you."

Finally, in desperation, I went to a salon in the mall and threw myself on their mercy. "Can anyone here help me?"

And a nice man did. Then, because we were BOTH worried about the color, he dried my hair. The stylist made my hair straight, as you can see from the photo of me and Debbi Mack at a signing at The Little Professor Book Center in Eldersburg, MD.

It's still not me.

I'm a curly girl.

But it's close.

De-Stress for the Holidays, Part IV

Note: Last year I asked my scrapbooking friends to tell me how they de-stress during the holidays. I received some AMAZING responses. Be sure to stop back at this blog on Dec. 23 for the final installment.--Joanna

Stress? Too much to do? You betcha! When things get crazy during the holiday season I remind myself of a couple of lessons I learned, one from my dad who died almost three years ago and one from my daughter, who was 12 at the time when she educated me.

From my Dad : In his last 5 yrs. of his life, dad was oxygen dependent, either tethered by clear tubing to his noisy machine at home or to a tank on a cart when he was out and about. He no longer drove which was a relief to my brother and I, but he missed his daily drives where he wandered the back roads to see if the deer were still hanging out in the patch of woods, if the builders had made much progress on that new house, how high the river was, etc. In his last years, most of his life was spent in the Lazy Boy recliner by the front window napping, staring at the TV, watching the comings and goings of the neighborhood, or listening to music on the radio. I visited Dad as often as I could, given that we lived 650 miles apart and I work full time, have two teens and a husband. During those visits I came to realize how very important it was to Dad any time someone waved, said "hi", came over with a plate of cookies fresh out of the oven, sent him something in the mail, visited him, etc. It didn't matter if they dropped off a container of chicken noodle soup (which by the way, he hated) or a container of mixed nuts that he loved. He was thrilled that someone thought of him and went to the effort to visit or call or write. It didn't matter if their was a gift involved, Dad just really enjoyed the surprise and the human contact. When I am stressing over figuring out or affording the perfect gift for someone, I flash back to Dad and I remind myself that the perfect gift is often times in me, not in the mall or a mega store.

From my Daughter: A few years ago on a mid December evening, my then 12-year-old daughter Angela was in the car with me as I drove home, my head full of thoughts about what was left to do before the big day. Angela asked me what i was thinking about and I told her that this was the time of year that I go a little nuts, worrying about disappointing her and her older sister. In an incredulous voice, Angela asked me how I could possibly disappoint them. I told her that I am not very organized and I start to worry that one of them will get way more gifts than the other or maybe one will get more fun things or I will have forgotten to get a gift that they really want or any of a number of things. Angela turned to me and said with wisdom that surprised me, "You know Mom, Christmas is about more than just getting presents. It's about having everyone over and playing with our cousins too".

So I can think Angela for reminding me that I am not the center of the universe and that the success or failure of Christmas does not rest on my shoulders. How uplifting to let go of that burden! I can thank both my Dad and Angela for pointing out to me and demonstrating that it is human kindness that counts, not how much money I spend or how many times I do the expected thing. When life gets too busy, I remind myself that it is the human touches, the warmth and the caring that matters, not whether I fashion a bread basket out of bread sticks, glaze it with egg whites and bake it until it is shiny and brown. When I feel overwhelmed and stressed, I figure out how much of the things going on really are important from Dad's and Angela's point of view, and let go of the rest.

Sue