I woke up sick this morning. And it's a miracle I still have all of my hair. It was a close call yesterday, let me tell you.
I think I'm sick because…heck I don’t know—it could be the after-effects of stress from the holiday, sleeping with my hair wet in a freezing cold room that is that way because Desiree has to repeatedly open the window to let out the damn cat who will otherwise paw our shades off the window, or it could be perhaps that my body is freaking out over the enormous mental and emotional stress of cramming for a stupid exam in three days that most people spend three months or more studying for. Or it could simply be that someone sneezed on me. Whatever the reason—I feel awful. And not just in my body.
Yesterday, before I was physically sick, I let my mind deteriorate into a stinking heap of “I hates”. I guess that should have been a warning sign that I was coming down with something for a generally congenial (albeit nuts) person like me.
The other warning sign might have been my sudden urge to cut off all my hair and dye it another color. I think I sent my sister sixteen emails requesting the name of her salon. I’m fairly certain she knew something was wrong with me yesterday before I did. All I knew is that I had been in a meeting, glancing at my dim reflection in the window, when suddenly the “urge” came upon me.
I have had problems with this before. Starting two years ago, I began getting this urge every few months. When it happens I take my sister’s shears, cut off large chunks of my hair, and then have to go get it fixed a few days later. Two months ago I did this, and even tried dying it (oops- the same color) and I never did go get it fixed. For two months the right side of my head has been a different length than the left side. I used it as a way to think about what length I would like both sides to be next time I cut it—as short as the right? As long as the left? Perhaps somewhere in the middle?
Since I couldn’t decide, I just let it keep growing so I would have more hair to hack off just as soon as I felt the urge again.
Whenever I’m confronted with the question of “what makes you think you can do this to your own hair?” I quickly respond with “well, at one time I worked at a salon.”
I was the receptionist—but who really needs to know that?
The miserable heap of “I hates” began with my work and plummeted clear down to my finger nail beds. I usually like work—but with this illness so painfully affecting the glands in my armpits—it suddenly became the worst thing in the world. I couldn’t even appreciate the mahogany book shelves next to my cubicle—and I love bookshelves. Even if they are filled with books on tax, employment and other mundane topics of law.
Everything began to snowball to the point where I sat staring catatonically at my computer repeatedly thinking “everything sucks”, but knowing somewhere else inside me, that I was being ridiculous.
I only realized how ridiculous I was being when I passed by one of the cemeteries that stretch on for miles on my drive to and from work. Yes, another tidbit from my small strange life is that the only natural foliage I see each day exists amongst two mortuaries.
Some days I pass people camped out at their loved ones’ gravesides—having a freaking picnic of all things. Some days I see caskets abandoned on a pedestal seemingly on the verge of sliding off and then swooping down to the road. I often wonder what it would be like if a casket came tumbling down into the road in front of me—would it pop open if I hit it? How would you explain something like that?
“Hi insurance company, yes, I was in an accident today. No, it wasn’t my fault. I hit someone. No, not a car. Yes, it wasn’t my fault. Because the person came out of nowhere. They’re dead. Already. They were dead when I hit them….er…I mean their casket. Well…you see…”
Some days when I pass the graves I remember that remarkable individuals like Daniel Pearl are interred in those cemeteries and my mouth claps shut for a moment of silence.
Last night a service was being held in the large, ornately decorated funeral hall of one of the mortuaries. I drove by slowly, staring at the shadowy individuals dressed in black and clouding the light draining from the doors and windows of the building. I sighed. I wasn’t at a funeral at the moment. I didn’t have a reason to be. How fortunate am I? I immediately thought to myself as I considered the mourners.
My life doesn’t suck—it’s just touched by the flu. And I didn’t cut my hair.
Yet.
I think I'm sick because…heck I don’t know—it could be the after-effects of stress from the holiday, sleeping with my hair wet in a freezing cold room that is that way because Desiree has to repeatedly open the window to let out the damn cat who will otherwise paw our shades off the window, or it could be perhaps that my body is freaking out over the enormous mental and emotional stress of cramming for a stupid exam in three days that most people spend three months or more studying for. Or it could simply be that someone sneezed on me. Whatever the reason—I feel awful. And not just in my body.
Yesterday, before I was physically sick, I let my mind deteriorate into a stinking heap of “I hates”. I guess that should have been a warning sign that I was coming down with something for a generally congenial (albeit nuts) person like me.
The other warning sign might have been my sudden urge to cut off all my hair and dye it another color. I think I sent my sister sixteen emails requesting the name of her salon. I’m fairly certain she knew something was wrong with me yesterday before I did. All I knew is that I had been in a meeting, glancing at my dim reflection in the window, when suddenly the “urge” came upon me.
I have had problems with this before. Starting two years ago, I began getting this urge every few months. When it happens I take my sister’s shears, cut off large chunks of my hair, and then have to go get it fixed a few days later. Two months ago I did this, and even tried dying it (oops- the same color) and I never did go get it fixed. For two months the right side of my head has been a different length than the left side. I used it as a way to think about what length I would like both sides to be next time I cut it—as short as the right? As long as the left? Perhaps somewhere in the middle?
Since I couldn’t decide, I just let it keep growing so I would have more hair to hack off just as soon as I felt the urge again.
Whenever I’m confronted with the question of “what makes you think you can do this to your own hair?” I quickly respond with “well, at one time I worked at a salon.”
I was the receptionist—but who really needs to know that?
The miserable heap of “I hates” began with my work and plummeted clear down to my finger nail beds. I usually like work—but with this illness so painfully affecting the glands in my armpits—it suddenly became the worst thing in the world. I couldn’t even appreciate the mahogany book shelves next to my cubicle—and I love bookshelves. Even if they are filled with books on tax, employment and other mundane topics of law.
Everything began to snowball to the point where I sat staring catatonically at my computer repeatedly thinking “everything sucks”, but knowing somewhere else inside me, that I was being ridiculous.
I only realized how ridiculous I was being when I passed by one of the cemeteries that stretch on for miles on my drive to and from work. Yes, another tidbit from my small strange life is that the only natural foliage I see each day exists amongst two mortuaries.
Some days I pass people camped out at their loved ones’ gravesides—having a freaking picnic of all things. Some days I see caskets abandoned on a pedestal seemingly on the verge of sliding off and then swooping down to the road. I often wonder what it would be like if a casket came tumbling down into the road in front of me—would it pop open if I hit it? How would you explain something like that?
“Hi insurance company, yes, I was in an accident today. No, it wasn’t my fault. I hit someone. No, not a car. Yes, it wasn’t my fault. Because the person came out of nowhere. They’re dead. Already. They were dead when I hit them….er…I mean their casket. Well…you see…”
Some days when I pass the graves I remember that remarkable individuals like Daniel Pearl are interred in those cemeteries and my mouth claps shut for a moment of silence.
Last night a service was being held in the large, ornately decorated funeral hall of one of the mortuaries. I drove by slowly, staring at the shadowy individuals dressed in black and clouding the light draining from the doors and windows of the building. I sighed. I wasn’t at a funeral at the moment. I didn’t have a reason to be. How fortunate am I? I immediately thought to myself as I considered the mourners.
My life doesn’t suck—it’s just touched by the flu. And I didn’t cut my hair.
Yet.
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