I got my haircut the other day and the stylist got a bit distracted telling me about her new diabetes diagnosis, and she wasn’t paying attention to what blade she had on the shaver and suddenly, instead of "taper it up slightly from my ears to the mop on the top" like I'd asked, I had a shaved-to-the-skin all the way around the sides of my head to the mop on the top.
Husband has been calling me Kriss Kross since.
ME to Husband: I miss you. I don’t feel like I’ve seen you all day.
HUSBAND: Did you get excited when you saw me?
HUSBAND (as he raises his hands up, up to the ceiling): Did it make you want to “Jump! Jump!?”
Or he'll catch my eye when we're walking through a store and raise his hands up up while mouthing, "Jump! Jump!"
Or he'll pull me into a sweet hug, hold me tight for a moment and ask -
HUSBAND: How you doing, Kriss Kross?
Saturday, I went out with a new very young friend and her very young guy friend. I told them the story. She laughed. He said he would have called me Chris Kirkpatrick.
Then, last night, Husband showed me a picture on his iPad - of a Kenyan woman from the Samburu tribe with a baby on her back, holding a goat, her the sides of her head shaved as short as mine with braids forming the mop on top. And he snickered as he compared her haircut to mine.
To sum up - with my current haircut, I have been compared to Will Smith, Kris Kross, Chris Kirkpatrick and some poor tribe woman holding goats...
I’d like to go back to being mistaken for Robin Roberts. Please?
Last night was the Golden Globes and I watched, as I do each year, with fascination and total awe. It’s like having an inside seat at the popular table in High School, a place I never sat. It’s got the Pretty Blondes and the Pretty Brunettes in both sexes saying charming things to each other during the commercial breaks that we, the audience can’t hear, but make the other Pretty and Charming people laugh with their shiny white teeth and shake their luminous carefully colored manes.
I will never be one of those people – not that I’m not charming. I can be. And not that I’m not ‘pretty’ - I am after all Robin Roberts at least twice a week - but I don’t seem to have a few things figured out that they seem to have mastered. Like their smooth, hairless underarms. And their lack of sweat stains. Or fuzzy jiggly bits that seem to pop out of any type of Spanx I put them into.
After watching the Pretty Charming people wave at other Pretty Charming people in their very expensive dresses and nary a hair or shadow of a hair was spotted, I went online to look up laser under arm hair removal. Unquestionably THE WORST thing to do before you go to bed is to look up some type of surgery and then click on the things that could go wrong pictures. And let me tell you, there is A LOT that can go wrong. And I am one of those people that will keep looking - eyes squinting, nose crinkled in disgust but still looking. That was some nasty stuff that could go wrong - that HAS gone wrong for some people.
So, laser hair removal is out. Good-bye prepubescent underarms.
And, did you know that when you look at pictures of laser hair removal gone wrong, they could lead to looking at pictures of plastic surgery gone really wrong? Well, you do now.
Husband and I talk about plastic surgery a lot. A lot for two people who really put little effort into how they look. Or rather, put some effort into how they look but look like they put no effort into how they look. I can hear Husband saying I should speak for myself but I call his wearing a hoodie from Old Navy over a t-shirt from Target ‘little effort.’
Back to the plastic surgery, Husband likes to say he has no chin. Well, that he has a chin but it starts from his belly all the way up to his lips. If he could get plastic surgery, he’d get a chin tuck or, to quote him “the fat sucked out of his neck”. He also says he’d get liposuction from his belly. He likes to say that when we’re eating out and the waitress asks if she can get us anything else. Husband likes to say, “Yes, I’d like some liposuction please.” And she’ll laugh at his pretty charming accent and bring him another diet coke.
I, myself, have never really considered plastic surgery at all. The pain and suffering is enough to put me off but the not looking like your self after really skivvies me out. I will say I did ask, albeit jokingly, the doc to do a tummy tuck while she was removing my baby maker but the reality is it would have all come back since my eating habits are still the same. Bad. Like lately I've been pretending that this chocolate orange counts as my fruit intake. Bad.
Sorry. Squirrel. Last night, after watching the Pretty People with faces that looked a bit ‘off’, followed by pictures on the internet of horrible things that should only be seen in the bright light of day - if ever - no plastic surgery for me.
Although, as I attempted to get dressed this morning and found yet another hole in my sock where my stupid big toe that curls up towards the sky tried to make a break for it and made a hole instead, I will say I am reconsidering that decision. I bet the Pretty Charming people have Pretty Charming feet that aren’t in Clown Size Large because of their weird big toe. I bet they don’t have a drawer full of socks that have holes in the left corner of every sock. I bet that when they wear pretty sparkly sandals in summer, their brother doesn’t make comments about their hobbit feet. I bet…
Dare I Google toe removal?
The after Birthday/Christmas/Birthday blues hit me yesterday. I’m also fighting the head cold becoming a sinus infection. And I kind of zipped through a pedestrian walkway on the way to work, not seeing the blindish man and his dog waiting to cross. In my defense, the sun was in my eyes and the street was wet so there was no recognizable crosswalk and the sign saying there was one was rightwherehewasstanding and I couldn’t stop in time.
Anyway, Sunday. Blerg.
AND THEN I GOT HOME TO AWESOME!
Husband’s friend came over and helped him finish up bits of drywall in the ceiling AND then stayed to do the first layer of spackle over the screw holes.
If this sounds like nothing, you’ve never done a DIY project with your partner. You’ve never had arguments about the quality of your spackling, the fact that you’re doing a sloppy job on purpose and then been fired half way through. Husband’s friend, “Bob”, saved me a grumpy afternoon and saved Husband a week or more of a very bitchy wife.
So, instead of discussing the merits of up and down verses sideways applications of spackle, and the fact that I “missed a spot here and here and here…” I spent the afternoon dismantling our pitiful display of Christmas and trying to pack everything back into the boxes they came out of. Without fail, they never go back into the same box. Never. Why is that? Why can I get the reindeer out of the same box as the ceramic Santa’s and they refuse to get back in three weeks later. The only explanation is the same one I’m experiencing with my pants – too much cake. Frustrated, I had to buy another box for stuff that wouldn't fit and try and get everything into that. I quit before taking the lights off the tree. It's too depressing to take them off at night.
THEN AN EVEN MORE AWESOME THING HAPPENED!
Robin Roberts came out. That's not the awesome part - though I'm very happy for her. The awesome part is what my friend posted on my Facebook page:
Now that Robin Roberts has come out. How will it affect ej's free drink situation in Nashville.
And then another friend posted this:
I, too, came to comment on your recently announced lesbianism. I see I was already beaten to the punch.
And my Birthday/Christmas/Birthday/Sunday/DIY blues turned into to sunshine. Yea for Robin Roberts and yea for me for having the good sense to have all these lovely friends with twisted senses of humor. (Read this if none of this makes any sense.)
And now Monday... and the last two days of the year/EIGHT to TEN DAYS left till kitchen is installed and we still have to spackle, sand, paint, lay floor, varnish floor three times and have countless discussion about my techniques and Husband’s attitude. What wonders will the day bring me and my spackler thing...?
When we first moved here, there was point when I’d walk into a room here that I can tell I've been spotted and they think that I'm Robin Roberts. I’d get several furtive looks filled by hushed whispers and subtle pointing. Or there would be nudging and blatant stares followed by heated discussions. My head was shaved and we’re both mixed race so I must have been her, right? Most of the time, no one would approach me and ask. There would just be a point where they decide that I'm not her. That Robin Roberts wouldn't be in that restaurant or grocery store or bar.
Sometimes they’d ask. One guy actually said to my face, “Hey! Aren’t you that lady dying of cancer?”
And once, I was followed into a restroom where a woman started a somewhat awkward conversation with "Do you know who you look like?" as we stood in the open stall doors, and continued talking while we were doing what one does in a bathroom and on through the hand washing. An odd beginning but I'd made a new friend(ish). To this day, she calls me Robin when she sees me and I call her Diane. I call her Diane because someone told her she looks like Diane Sawyer. I don’t see it but I don’t remember her real name. Awkward, since we're such good friends.
My hair is funky now – short on the sides with sort of dreadlock twists on the top. I don’t get "You must be Robin Roberts" looks anymore. I still get the furtive glances now but they are more - “You must be someone...but I don’t know who…” But then, like when I was Robin Roberts, I can see the point they decide that if I were “someone” I wouldn't be in that restaurant or grocery store or bar.
I’m sorry to disappoint them. I’m working on it. I’m working on being someone.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me