I have come to a crossroads regarding my hair. Yes, I know that sort of scintillating opener is what makes my blog my blog and not, say, a cracking page turner on the New York Times bestseller list, but if you can't indulge in a little navel-gazing on your own website, where can you indulge in it, you know?
The issue is regarding my bangs. I had them cut for the first time six weeks ago, and they are now at the point where they need to be cut again, which is only an achievement in that it's three weeks later than my stylist told me they'd need to be cut again, which means, if my estimation is right, that I put off spending ten bucks for an extra three weeks, hurrah! Yay for me! Doing my part to save money in the recession!
The situation, however, is really now quite serious. I haven't seen my eyebrows for weeks---which has been quite refreshing, actually---and I often have to shake my head like a wet dog just to get the hair out of my eyes, which has the unfortunate effect of making me appear as though I suffer from some sort of nervous tic, and always happens in front of some important person, like the company VP or the flight attendant who asks suspiciously if you're willing to open the exit door in the event of an emergency. At this point, I have put up with these way-too-shaggy bangs for approximately ten days longer than I should have and the decision to take some sort of action is finally reaching a peak, considering that next week, in the span of several days, I will have to:
a) Appear on live TV several times in the state of New York and parts of Connecticut.
b) Attend Sean's high school reunion and meet a whole bunch of people I don't know, up to and including EX-GIRLFRIENDS, and not just ex-girlfriends but FRENCH EX-GIRLFRIENDS which are the scariest kind of ex-girlfriends of them all. (Honestly, I don't know why. I just picture French ex-girlfriends to be super stylish and really well-moisturized and smelling permanently of expensive Chanel perfume. But, you know, just really faintly. Not, like, overwhelmingly. Just a trace of it trailing in their midst when they leave the room. )
So, that said, I think it is fairly obvious that I can do neither of these things looking like this:
Table for two, please! Oh, just me and my bangs. Nope, no-one else will be joining us. They have their own zip code, you know.
So basically it's time to get off the pot or....you know. Do the thing you do when you're on the pot. Which is to say: I need to decide what to do with my bangs. They've been a fun little experiment---something to demarcate my Hair Before The Wedding and my Hair After The Wedding, which was for some reason important to me in some way---but I just don't know if they're really me.
I mean, could be that I'm just more of a side-swoopy kind of gal, you know? And yet if I am, however, I need to start growing these suckers out right now, which means pushing them (awkwardly?) to the side for the whole On Live TV/French Ex-Girlfriend thing. And if I'm not, I need to get them trimmed, like, immediately so that they've grown just enough that I don't resemble myself circa 1985---unfortunate experiment with the kitchen scissors as a five-year-old, way too much forehead showing---by next Monday.
Wow, first world problem or what? Now, let's talk about these diamond-encrusted shoes I just bought that are lined with hundred-dollar bills. They're awfully uncomfortable.
In other news, I went down to San Diego this weekend to see my parents, which is something a lot of people don't understand. "Did you have to?" they ask. "Did they make you?" Nope, the simple fact of the matter is that I really love hanging out with my parents, and I know that makes me singularly uncool but there it is. The way I tried to explain it to Sean is that most people spend their whole lives trying to get away from their parents, but I've spent mine just trying to get nearer to them. Every minute I can spend with my parents is one that makes that awful goodbye in Hong Kong Airport, December 1991, fade a little further into the background. Plus, they're just a whole lot of fun.
So we spent the whole weekend eating and drinking and watching HGTV---that's three of my favorite activities right there, particularly when the eating is mac and cheese with bacon, the drinking is leftover wedding champagne, and the HGTV is House Hunters International---and then when I left at 5am this morning (that's how much I love my parents) (or maybe I should say that's how much my parents love me, considering my dad had to drive me to the airport), my mother filled my carry-on bag with various tupperware containers of leftovers, ensuring neither Sean nor I would have to cook for the following week.
One of them contained a portion of one of the tiers of our wedding cake---this one was chocolate with Baileys frosting---which, if you remember, my mother made herself, apparently not content with the stress generated by moving into a house in APRIL and throwing a wedding there in SEPTEMBER. And oh my god, was it good. Neither Sean nor I had a single bite of wedding cake on the day itself---I was too busy cutting a rug on the dancefloor; he was too busy having his cheeks pinched by aunties he hadn't seen in twenty years---and so this first slice we had together tonight was our first proper bite of wedding cake. You know, aside from the bit you have to feed each other for the photographs on the day itself which, by the way, future brides, you will discover is MAJORLY UNFLATTERING when you get the pictures back, HONESTLY, DON'T DO IT.
I'm not sure where I was going with this, except to say that it seemed sort of meaningful, in a way, to finally get to eat our wedding cake together---without any pomp or ceremony, mind you; we just crashed out on the couch in front of a DVR-ed episode of Parks and Recreation---a whopping 72 days after our wedding. (Uh, don't worry, it had been frozen.) So hmm, yeah, I guess that's kind of all I wanted to say in this post. If you don't count the sixteen paragraphs about my bangs.