Confessions


A client confessed a secret to me the other day.  It was a secret she had never admitted to anyone, ever, in her life.  Brace yourselves.

She had, in fact, cheated during a high school pep rally while trying to hit a pinata with a bat.  You see, she could see through the blindfold.  Instead of smashing the pinata with her secret sight, she hit one of her teachers, on purpose, in the stomach!

Talk about a gut buster!

She said she didn’t hit her hard enough to really hurt her, but enough for it to be really funny.  She never even told any of her friends from high school that she did it…probably for fear of having rumors spread and getting in trouble.  And she held that secret up inside her for maybe 15-20 years just to tell me.

I feel quite privileged to accept that information.  It must be how a taxi driver sometimes feels.

It also reminded me of my husband finally admitting to me that he cheated on a male/female smell test in high school.  They were testing to see which sex had the keener sense of smell.  My husband admitted to me that he, too, could see through the blindfold.  He completely ruined all that data!!  He really had no reason to even admit it to me…because what the hell do I care?

It’s as if these secrets and lies just work themselves out sometimes.

 

Hair is art. Art is hair.


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I’m an artist.  I’m a hairdresser.  I’m proud of it.

After himming and hawing back and forth for my so-far 10 year career, I can say confidently that artist and hairdresser are one and the same.

There was a time that I thought one was better than the other….or that one meant something different.  I thought that one was ok to do for a while.  Maybe it’s because I learned more about ‘art’ and ‘artists’ first or maybe because of the stereotypes that sometimes ring true.  Artists are deep, pensive, and thought provoking, right?  Hairstylists are blonde, dramatic, and self-absorbed, right??  Are these true anymore?  Absolutely not.

I’ve never really talked about my job on my blog…or rather, my career.  I suppose I’ve only written about art and ideas and inspiration for creative projects.  I never quite wanted to overlap what I do with who I am.  See…the funny thing about being a hair dresser, beautician, hair designer, cosmetologist, barber, service provider, wonder woman…is that, for me, it is more artistic and creative than sitting alone with a painting…THAT is what makes it so difficult and painful at times.  It is a constant collaboration with the public and it is intense and extremely gratifying.

I take care of people while I’m on the clock.  I am a care-taker.  It doesn’t end when I clock out, however.

With the evolution of my place in this industry, I want to strive for more artistic insanity.  I want to make beautiful, terrible, simple, extravagant, frightening images.  I want people to say ‘what the fuck?‘ or ‘that’s pretty funny.’  I’m at a point in my career where I’m ready for change and challenge.

I thought I needed to completely change careers.  Certain events have proven that it isn’t time for that to happen.  I think what I really want is to explore all the education that I can and absorb the amazingness of this industry.  I’m at a place where I can do that.  I work for a wonderfully supportive salon.

I can put bread on a girl’s head and it’s hairdressing and it’s art.   Boom, mothafuckas.

sometimes motherhood blows


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Well, what do we have here?  It looks like a tasty easter egg treat all tucked away in the grass, doesn’t it?

Right.

This here is the top of a blow pop sucker nestled in a fuzzy little fluff of carpeting.  Yeah, it’s green apple.  Isn’t green apple the best flavor of blow pop?  And yeah, my carpeting is green.  It is unfortunate and something I’ve been planning on replacing for the past 5 years that we’ve lived in this house.

For those of you that may still be wondering just what in tarnation is happening, let me fill you in on my morning.

It began much like any other day off:  my eyes blinked awake when they were ready.  It was later than a typical day since I had a bout of insomnia the evening prior and was awake until after 4:30.  My intentions for the day were to prepare the kids’ area for a few girls that are sleeping over this weekend.  I wouldn’t want these 10 year old girls thinking that we live in a dirty house and are unorganized.  No.  After fetching a morning coffee, I began the always daunting task of cleaning their toy/play area.

I gathered up 4 bags of plastic toys and dumb shit that they don’t play with anymore or that is broken….and also toys that I think are annoying.  It’s true, I’m a mother that secretly gets rid of toys.  Let’s be honest…they never even know.  I loaded them up in the car ready to be donated to Goodwill.  I managed to make it out of there with only one bag of trash as opposed to the usual 4.  Despite arming their room with 2 garbage cans, papers, beads, wrappers and goldfish crackers always ended up on the floor and all over the place.  Savages.

I made it through the session without flipping into a maniacal cleaning madwoman.  I get angry when I clean.  I do.  I curse and bitch.  I ask questions to my invisible family like ‘Did you know we own a garbage can? Have I not given you the tools to pick up after yourself? Are you fucking kidding me??’

I made it all the way through today.  I did!  It was impressive!  My finest hour!  Until I moved the couch to vacuum and saw this green eyed beast staring at me.  Oh, what’s this?  Oh…huh…oh, it’s stuck to the carpeting….Oh man…Fucking A!!!  What the fuck?!?  A Fucking blow pop?

It sent me over the edge.

It was so lodged in there…pressed in further by the couch leg.

I had to slice it out with a razorblade.  It felt good.  Maybe now we can get new carpeting?

hypocrisy


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Ok, so I didn’t get a pedicure before going on vacation.  I thought I might treat myself to one while away, but I didn’t.  I didn’t feel the need.  Why bother?  Who cares?  They’re aired out for three days and then they get wrapped in warm swaddling socks until summer.

I didn’t anticipate my toes being in any pictures…you’ve all seen those annoying vacation photos of the girl’s perfectly pedicured toes in the sand.  Yeah, I thought so.  We know you’re on vacation…stop taking pictures of your feet and take a picture of something pretty!!!  Or something boring like your dessert of creme brulee.   I would rather see a million photos of the water and the waves and the sand and anything else.

I didn’t even take a picture of myself on my trip!  Wait…now that I think about it, I did take a picture of my bangs sticking straight up one morning.  I also had my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.  What can I say, Danger is my middle name.  Yeah, baby!

My toes were not supposed to make an appearance in this picture…and I neglected to crop them out.  And now, it has taken over my whole train of thought….because as I type this, those fat little cheese sticks are wiggling hello at me.

 

France. We come from France.


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Cone shaped cabbages?  Just what in the world (more like out-of-this-world) is going on here in California?

It’s a touch of the bizarro, I tell ya.

We stepped into Whole Foods, only to be greeted by little green, alien, conehead cabbages!

I didn’t buy one…I didn’t trust it.  I figured it would surely attach itself to my vacuum cleaner and consume all of the dirt and debris.  Wait, that’s not such a bad thing at all.  Consume mass quantities!

 

Am I turning into my character?


Who out there in writing land has felt as though they turned into their characters or one of their characters?

I realize that a lot of what we write, we take from our own personal experiences.  I get it.

But my character has been creeping too much into my head lately…and too much into my life!  Yes, she was initially inspired by me…because that’s what I know.  After exaggerating her personality and thinking about her life and thought process and adding new idiosyncracies, I feel as though I am taking on her traits.  It is consuming me…which is either a great thing for writing or an awful thing for my brain.

Is this how method actors feel?  How do they become like someone else and then snap back into themselves when their movie/show/whatever is over?

I AM Abraham Lincoln, dammit.

Is method writing a thing?  It must be…everything is a thing, it seems.

The silver lining…is that I created this person.  I can make her into whatever I want.  So if I need to improve my disposition, I’ll just improve her disposition.  I’ll have her turn into the sweetest, funniest, friendliest mother fucker I can think of and change everything about the whole story.  Because I can.

Hell, maybe the prize patrol will show up at her door with a giant check and balloons!!!  Maybe then life will imitate art??  Right?