Showing posts with label Blue Hair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blue Hair. Show all posts

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Vacation Blues

It's 11 am and I'm on vacation, sitting in my motel room and eating my English muffin, waiting for Boyfriend Extraordinaire to wake up and the rain to stop. Despite the fact that the sky is gray for as far as the eye can see, I'm guessing the rain will stop sooner than my Schwee will wake. To give him some credit, he hasn't slept well. I was smart enough to pop in some ear plugs when I went to sleep, but they worked so well, I didn't hear the alarm go off for a full half-hour. He tried to ignore the blaring alarm, but I'm sure he didn't sleep a wink. Why he didn't wake me up to tell me to shut it off or shut it off himself, I'm not sure. I suppose he deserves that sleep deprivation. However, he did not deserve the early risers in the rooms next to us and below us, who all seemed to congregate in front of our room to laugh, chat and plan their day, loudly, at 7 am. Who the hell gets up and is out the door by 7 am when they're on vacation? Maniacs. I'm sharing the Upper Peninsula with maniacs this weekend.

My other conundrum is that my hair is blue and it's raining out. My last vacation led me to lose my favorite raincoat and I never replaced it, so unless I want blue streaks dripping down my neck and back, staining my clothes and skin, I cannot go out and play until the rain stops. (All that prepping and I didn't bring anything hooded, either.) I have consulted weather.com and noaa.gov, and they both are in agreement that there is no rain here and it should be sunny and 50 degrees outside. Clearly they are smoking crack. Big, boulders of cracky crack. And yet, I'm no less stuck in my motel room. Maybe the local Dollar Store has one of those garbage-bag parkas I could buy for, well, a dollar. Marina suggested a plastic bag, and I'm not sure if I should be offended that my friend suggested I put a plastic bag over my head. Probably. But I am considering it, still. The drawback is that other tourists (including B.E.) would likely be shooting pics of the garbage bag lady at various locations. "Here's the garbage bag lady at Miners Castle, and here's garbage bag lady at the city dock." Do I want to be Garbage Bag Lady? Not really.



The colors here are fantabulous! I could not have timed this trip better, but that was all luck on my part. Now if only the sun would come out, my luck would be complete.

Oh, and if Boyfriend Extraordinaire would wake up. Maybe it's time to check for a pulse.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Take Cover!

Let the ‘roid rage begin! Again!

The day after I called an ambulance to the house because my mom was dying of an overdose, I woke up with some big, red spots on my legs. I figured they were bug bites, even though they didn’t itch. That was the end of June. They never went away, but grew in size and became more and more painful.

Something else terribly personal and tragic happened in the beginning of July, and as it was happening, as I was sitting there, awash in emotions I couldn’t even begin to deal with, I noticed more red spots erupting on the tops of my feet. I remember thinking, “Fucking spiders,.” even though I never saw one. However, these bumps never itched either, but became quite painful the next day, and they also have not gone away.

I remember sitting at work and researching spider bites between helping patrons, and for some reason, I was still convinced it could be a brown recluse trying to kill me with multiple bites. I was in denial.

In the end of July, another insane crisis blindsided me, and the following day, I woke up with more red bumps on the soles of my feet, right in the arches, and my feet and ankles became so swollen that I had to forego socks and most of my shoes. I’m down to having only three pairs of shoes I can stretch over my feet. That was when I realized this was no spiteful, venomous spider.

The sarcoidosis has flared up something awful, giving me hideous erythema nodosum all over my legs, and it’s starting on my arms now. Today, I found myself in my doctor’s office, crying my eyes out and begging for help because I can’t sleep from the pain, and I can hardly bend my feet at the ankles anymore. Help, for me, comes in the form of 40 mg of prednisone daily, which means I’m about to embark on some fun times of mood swings, food binges, and insomnia, the likes of which could lead to me disowning my friends and family (which I have done before), redecorating my room at 3 a.m., or spending all my spare change on chocolate bars, only to eat them all in one gluttonous sitting. We shall see how this episode unfolds.

Meet my left foot.



You know it’s serious when your favorite doctor, who has been treating you for 12 years and is the only one you trust to help you in this time of need, brings in his partners to gawk at girl with this rare and severe case of E. nodosum. And what did they all say?

“Oh, I’m so sorry for your condition. Is your hair BLUE? WOW!”

So, even though I have what looks like elephantiasis of the lower legs, my blue hair is still what people see. I guess that’s good. Let’s just hope that’s not how I’m identified in security footage at a local convenience store after throwing a steroid-induced tantrum over a lack of Nestle Crunches one night.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

It Ain't Easy Being Blue

About six months ago I happened to be in Kenosha, Wisconsin (I say “happened” even though I spend an abundance of time there) and waltzed into a hair salon to get a trim. My former, long-time stylist had, six months prior, given me a Mrs. Brady shag hair-do that I hated-hated-hated, and I waited a half-year before I was willing to let anyone else touch my locks. Finally I was so frustrated with the overgrown bush that sat atop my head that I didn’t care who cut it, but I needed it cut. And what happened? I fell a little in love with the lady who cut my hair. Now she’s the only one I’ll allow to touch my noggin and I have to go all the way to f’ing Kenosha whenever I need my hair cut or dyed.

If you live anywhere in Illinois or Wisconsin (perhaps even Iowa or Michigan), you are aware that there was psychotic weather that blasted through Kenosha today, with three tornados that had been spotted around 3 pm.

At about 3 pm, I was leaning back in the chair at the sink, having the blue dye rinsed out so that she could finally give me her artistic cut, when someone came running into the building and announced that the tornado sirens were going off.

I fully expected her to stop what she was doing and assume whatever position she was trained to assume during an emergency, but she just shrugged and said, “I’m busy.”

Have I mentioned that I love my stylist?

No one stopped doing hair. No one ran out into the street to check out the sky. No one turned on a radio or checked the weather. It was business as usual.

I said, “I’m so glad the storm held off until my hair was blue again. I don’t care what happens now, if I’m flying through the air for miles, as long as I have blue hair again.” I was kidding, of course, but I was relieved that I was blue before any tragedy would hit. Is that vanity or is that just good time management?

She said, “See? That’s why you’re one of my favorite people!”

Really? Oh gee!

I thought she only liked me because I tip her $20 whenever she does my hair. I feel so awful for her because I watch the schmucks who go in and get a $30 haircut and tip her a few singles. Even the women who get elaborate dye jobs tip $5. It makes me a little sick. I did the math and realized that in the three hours it takes her to bleach, dye, cut and style my hair, she likely could have cut and shampooed six people, and if they each tipped her $3 (which is low, but typical), she’d have gotten $18 in tips in the time it took to do my hair, and for me to give her $5-10 seemed unfair. She always acts like I hand her a diamond tennis bracelet when I give her the twenty, but it only seems right to me. Even if the entire cost charged to me for the three hours of work only totaled $60, I don’t base it on a percentage of the total charge but what I think her time should have been worth, and then I feel guilty for only giving her $20.

While I was there, I witnessed a slew of personal tragedies, without even considering that we were working through a tornado warning.

There was a terrible car accident where a deliveryman had crashed into the car of one of the stylists, so the police were called and a huge to-do was ongoing because this was the second time this deliveryman had hit a car belonging to one of the stylist’s, and he continually blamed them for parking in the parking spaces where they were supposed to. Uh-huh. That made no sense to the police, either.

A teenage girl came in and there was a collective gasp when the stylists saw her. She had that horrendous orange tan that announced loudly to the world that she spends an abundance of time in a tanning bed or swimming in sweet potatoes. But the most shocking thing was that she had clearly bleached her own hair, which was naturally dark, and it had taken on that nauseating orange-yellow color that’s as unnatural as her tan. Her hair looked downright scary. And what was even worse was the bleach hadn’t been evenly applied, so she had dark spots like a jaguar all over her head.

I’ve seen some freakish people before. Hell, some I see almost everyday, but I could not stop myself from gawking at this mess. The stylist who drew the short straw and was responsible for giving her a real hair color again was so terrified of this girl’s hair that they had to have a mini-meeting in the back to discuss what could be done and what colors might actually give her the blonde hair she was looking for.

Once we were out of earshot, my stylist, who is probably only about 25 herself, laughed quietly at the teenager and said that her friends liked to call people like her a rotisserie chicken because of the all-over orange look they seem to think looks good. I giggled. What is it about the beta-carotene look that is appealing to them? I liked the rotisserie chicken reference, too, but it made me hungry.

A family came in and I realized something quickly: it’s summer. Part of why I hate summer is because there are more kids out and about, raising hell and wreaking havoc wherever I go.

There were two boys between 6 and 8 years old, a younger girl of about 4 or 5, and an older girl of about 9 or 10. The girls got their hair cut first, and the guy cutting their hair was not having any of their nonsense. The boys grew impatient and began running around the salon side-kicking things, including hair dryers, women’s purses, chairs, and their own mother’s legs. She, of course, did nothing.

My entire body was tensing up, and I glared at the boys as if my Librarian Stare of Death had any kind of strength this far from my power source. It did not. They ignored me.

Finally, the stylist who was working on their sisters had enough. After the boys grew bored kicking things, they began bombarding him with rapid-fire personal questions and I think this was just too much.

He said, “HEY! You don’t get to talk! I get to do all the talking. You’re paying for my time – I’m not paying for your time. You don’t get to ask questions. You don’t get to do anything. You’re here to get your hair cut and that requires you to sit still and shut up.”

Dude! If he wasn’t gay, I’d kidnap him, marry him, and have no children with him for many happy years.

The mom took the boys out to the car to wait their turn and the girls didn’t make a peep for the entire rest of the time they were in there.

Usually this is a busy but quiet salon and I’m not sure that summer is going to be good to them.

My intention when I went there today was to get blue hair again and sorrowfully announce that this would be my last blue. The cost is just too much, and I have been unsuccessful doing the re-dye between seeing my stylist every 6 - 8 weeks. It was going to be sad, but I need to pay some bills off rather than make my hair blue.

But, as with all my good intentions, I not only didn’t make this announcement to my stylist, but I committed to a future appointment. AND, as if that’s not enough, we totally bonded today and I actually think we’re friends now. We laughed, we cried, we shared deep, dark secrets, and when I left, there was this awkward thanking of one another for being so wonderful, and I thought she was going to hug me. I probably would’ve hugged her back, too. I almost invited her to our Kool Kids gathering this evening, but it was a long drive for her and she worked until 9. It’s too bad. I think the girls would’ve liked her. She’s this extremely tall, extremely thin, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous girl who spends her time reading and hanging out with friends. Sounds familiar. You know, because we’re all tall, thin, drop-dead gorgeous chicks. (Ahem! *cough* *gag*) Whatever. We read, too! So, now that we’ve bonded and made plans for my next visit, I couldn’t bear to tell her that I can’t afford her anymore.

Eh, what’s more important? Having awesomely blue hair and a stylist who makes me cry, or paying my car insurance? CLEARLY the car insurance will be sacrificed! I mean, really, was that a choice at all?