Hair Raising

I'm certainly not the first to point out that many aspects of a marriage require trust. First and foremost, the decision to marry requires that huge level of confidence that you will spend your life with this person. The decision to have children requires enormous trust, devotion and perhaps that third margarita. But of all the moments in my marriage where trust has been absolutely crucial, I am convinced that none has required a greater leap of faith than asking my husband to cut my hair.

It's messy but it's free.

Now I am not talking a simple straight across trim of the bangs or a quick clip to even up the split ends of shoulder length hair. My hair is short and I like it that way, mainly because I am exceedingly lazy about certain personal grooming rituals. Cutting my hair requires the artful use of scissors to create layers and texture. It also requires the use of barber shop style hair clippers with the number three attachment to buzz the back and sides.

When we first got married and were leaving for Peace Corps, I feared I’d look like Troglodyte woman. Not knowing whether our remote island community of Western Samoa would even have hair styling facilities, or sharp scissors for that matter, I began to panic. I’ve tried to grow long hair and it is not a pretty sight. My patience ends when my hair barely creeps over my ears and I immediately run screaming to have it chopped off. So knowing my husband was a tad bit on the anal retentive side, I thought he’d be the perfect candidate to learn the application of scissors to my head.

My stylist, who had cut my hair for years, offered to teach him the tricks of short hair styling. I was impressed when he brought a notepad, asked questions and drew sketches during his lesson. Just to be safe I had my hair cut two days before leaving the country.

Fearing that he might have to cut my hair with a machete, I purchased the As Seen on TV home haircutting kit. I figured it the cuts were too horrible for human viewing, I’d wear a baseball cap for two years. So dreading the day, and once again contemplating growing out my hair, my hair as grew fast and unruly as the banana trees in our backyard in the tropical heat. Humidity, while exceedingly kind to my skin, was not kind to my hair. And I'm happy to report during that time period, I only had one bad 'do that we dubbed the Stare Cut.

Upon our return home, I thought about visiting the salon.  But truth be told, I kind of liked having on demand, in-house hair care.  The other truth was, I was saving lots of money this way.  Short hair is high maintenance.  And I am cheap.

Maybe he can duct tape all my chins up when he's finished.

Twenty-one years later, he's still cutting it although it's a much less hair raising experience.  Now if I could just get him to do my quite neceassary monthly application of 5G Medium Golden Brown, I probably wouldn't spend one week a month looking like Gorbachev.

Kickin' Asphalt

This column apeared in today's Bozeman Daily Chronicle:

It started as a mere snicker. A tee hee that morphed into the kind of laughter that suggests a Depends might be in someone’s future. And it was coming from the backseat.


I should have kept my mouth shut. Since I’m not known for that, I naively asked, “What’s so funny?” Little did I know it was me.

“Mom,” Older Boy said, in between spasms of laughter, “have you SEEN your arm?”

I then asked stupid question number two. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It sort of just hangs there,” Older Boy said poking it. “You have, like, an arm goiter.”

Younger Boy chimed in. “It’s like tether ball,” he said. “Let’s smack it and see how many times it goes around!”

Charming.

Now I will admit I’ve been lax in my fitness efforts. After getting a brand spanking new resurfaced hip last year, I babied it. I pampered it so much it wouldn’t have been surprising to see me wheeling it around town in a Bugaboo Stroller singing it lullabies.

Actually, I was terrified to use it. And I was under strict orders not to. Not by the doctor but by The Husband. “If I ever see you running again I’ll tackle you,” he told me. But what’s the point of having a new hip if you’re not going to use it?

Since Older Boy took up running, I’ve been a little antsy to lace up my shoes again. But I knew it would have to be on the sly and I’d have to fake a hot flash if busted. I looked forward to everything about running again but one thing: starting over.

It would be just like the day I joined the running craze of the early 1980s. Armed with my copy of The Diet Pepsi Guide to Running, I was twenty-one and ready. The book covered all aspects of becoming road ready – eat plenty of carbs, fat grams are your sworn enemy and hydrate with plenty of, you guessed it, Diet Pepsi. I laced up my pristine white Nikes with a red swoosh and opened the book to the training schedule: Day 1: 3 minutes. Surely that was a mistake. Only three minutes? That was the dumbest thing I could imagine if I wanted to be a Real Runner. I was going to Really Run, for a Really Long Time. And I took off down the street like Usain Bolt.

It was the first and last time that I ever ran that fast.

Two minutes and forty-seven seconds later I was lying on my back in the front yard red-faced and gasping. But I got my first taste of those brain tingling endorphins – the runner’s high. And I was hooked.

Then I got up the nerve to enter my first race. And I was slow. Really slow. A three-legged dog beat me. Old folks outside Dosker Manor Nursing Home offered me hits off their oxygen. They were rolling up the chutes when I got to the finish.

One race under my running shorts, I decided my goal was to run a marathon before I was impossibly old at forty. I beat my self-imposed deadline (the only thing I’ve ever beaten) by a mere three weeks.

At thirty-nine, I was trying to outrun what I thought was the first mile marker for middle-age. At forty-eight, it’s a lot more complicated because now I’m trying to outrun arm goiters, a meno-pot and the occasional hot flash.

But I’m going for it.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be fast. But I don’t care; I’m gonna kick some asphalt anyway. At least until I get cold-cocked by my arm goiter.

These running socks were apparently designed by and for the peri-menopausal woman.

Naughty by Nature

I had a change of heart regarding my Speaking in Tongues - Part I post and will put it back on the blog in the very near future.  Isn't the purpose of a blog to have a forum to say exactly what you want? 

I am naughty.  A little potty-mouthed.  Downright bawdy at times.  Extremely sarcastic.  A friend once told me (you know who you are) "you are funny because you see the world through smart ass goggles."  

So this is my place to be an even bigger smart ass.

Virginia Woolf needed a room of her own.  I need a place to say the f-word, or any other combination of  words I choose. 

So there.

It's just like my theory on television and censorship - if you don't like it, you can always change the channel. Or turn it off. 

But I'm really hoping you won't.