Is doing “things” hard for everyone?
Now of course, I know that almost everyone is dealing with some sort of BIG SHIT right now. I’m not talking about dealing with BIG SHIT. That’s hard for everyone. I’m talking about dealing with “things.”
“Things” are tasks. “Things” are to-do lists. They are oil changes, dentist appointments, phone calls to Comcast, and the occasional trips to Aldi. “Things” are the dishes you make to bring to pot-lucks.
“Things” are hair color appointments.
Of late, I’ve been sporting a conventional (safe) blonde hair style, the 101 version that they teach at Pivot Points across the country. I have gone through a lot of change in the last two years, and the blonde was a jumping off point, a leap away from the doo-doo brown color I had been pouring onto my head from L’Oreal boxes while still part of a “We.” But Blondie 101 wasn’t really… me. (In fairness, I was still trying to reacquaint myself with who “ME” even was..)
And then a few days ago, in a flash, I just knew what my hair should look like. It should be two-toned, kind of rawky wild, lil bit schizophrenic, and would take an evil genius to execute.
I got a recommendation from a highly trusted hair god in the city. “Bobby, who in all of Chicago can make THIS happen?” I asked as I pointed to the THREE three pictures that I ended up emailing to the suggested colorist a week ahead of my appointment. I arrived at the salon on time, and we talked about it in person for no less than fifteen minutes, me using hand gestures, multi-syllabic long vowels WITH hand gestures (“like…EEEEEEE-YOOOOO, like that”) I described what I didn’t want, and finally reached a point where I thought, “I think we got this.”
And today, I have green hair. (You see it, right? No, it is. It’s green…)
This is not a vengeance/slander piece. There will be no colorist/salon named because he/she is awesome and cool and I have already alerted them that we might need to "go back in." This isn't about the colorist.
THIS IS ABOUT WHAT HAPPENS TO ME WHEN I DO “THINGS.” I rarely accomplish “things” in one attempt, and either have to settle with the mess, or take more time to fix what I did. All the time, y’all. Here are a couple more examples:
Getting out of a company van seems like a very simple “thing,” right? Well, how many of you have accidentally run their company van into their own car???? (looks out into the crowd, shading her eyes from the sun, straining to see if anyone raises their hand) No one? No one has accidentally knocked a big ten-passenger van’s gear shift from PARK into DRIVE, then watched the van roll 2 miles per hour into their car, unable to do a damn thing to stop it, and then had to alert both work insurance AND their own insurance because, well, “It’s a very unusual thing to happen. These are not normal circumstances….we are not sure how to proceed.”
No? No one did that? Okay, ‘cause I did.
Ordering food at a restaurant: also a “thing.” More often than not, I tell the waiter my order, and then when the food is put in front of me, I go, “Whaa? I didn’t order that.” Then I read the description, and see that yes, yes I DID order that, but THAT is not what I thought I ordered when I ordered it. “Oh..flatbread is PIZZA. Now I know.” So I eat it, whatever the hell I ordered.
Going on a date is a “thing.” As I sat on the Macaroni the other night, I looked out at literally thousands of hands clasped in unity, all on “dates.” And these people made it look easy! For starters, they were holding hands, (blech) and looked well groomed. No one’s shirt looked like it had been picked up off the bathroom floor, and shaken really hard to get out any cat litter “just in case.”
Even the conversation “things” I overheard seemed easy! It wasn’t the painful nightmare I’ve known it to be: “So, um, when is your sister’s birthday? Yeah? And, um, is she older or younger than you?” GAH! Nonnathat. These people were enthusiastic about fusion cuisine, laughed about Twitter links, and were “so glad” that the Gaylen Gerber exhibit was going to be around until the first week of September. (Meanwhile, I sat by myself on a giant plastic macaroni, pissing off drunk girls.)
(Okay, I’m gonna own up to the real stretch just now about “dating” being a “thing.” It’s more like BIG SHIT. But I just wanted to talk more about what I saw that night from on top of my macaroni. ‘smy column.)
Green hair is not a big deal. It’s gonna get fixed. I also realize it’s a very high class problem to have, I really do. I just want to know if, sometimes, you guys get just as tripped up by doing “things” as I do, or if I am a big cosmic weirdo who happens to have green hair today.
Thanks for reading, and carry on..
Old Single Mom
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