Looking for a Good Friday

It’s been quite a week.

Whenever a holiday rolls around, it seems like time moves twice as quickly and my list of things to accomplish is twice as long. In the case of this week, we are down a day as well. I really enjoy Easter for a number of reasons, and look forward to it all winter long.

I wanted to be mindful of the religious meaning of this week; to take things in stride and be flexible when something popped up. But for some reason, it was the “Let’s See How Much Shit Sarah Can Tolerate Week”. Unfortunately, I didn’t get that memo.

Monday to Thursday was filled with tests and challenges. Kids who were seeing how far they could push each other, and me; days at work that went from slow and monotonous to being assigned a mountain of work; barely speaking to my husband, and not because we didn’t want to talk, but because he was just as busy as I was. Trying to sympathize, empathize and take the high road.

A friend of my was caught in a bind regarding the care of her horses, and being faced with no alternatively, I offered to help her out. It was something I found myself looking forward to! Which did help somewhat with the ongoing frustrations of the week.

Each time I looked at these events as challenges I could deal with. The kids were tired, and coming down with colds so I tried to get them to bed sooner. Well, I tried – they argued and resisted and ended up going to be a the regular time. I tried to think of improvements at work that could fill my down time and worked efficiently when the work load suddenly doubled. I gave a lot of thought to how we could accommodate the various schedules over the Easter Weekend so that everyone was happy.

That’s when things really started to hit the skids.

Every now and then, I find I go through a couple of days, or in this case – a week, where I could say “Hey, How are you today?” and the person I’m speaking to would hear “WHAT THE F— IS YOUR PROBLEM?” I’ve been told this is a problem for Virgos, so when I saw it starting to rear its ugly head, I made a point of gearing down and measuring my words. Sympathize, empathize, high road…… Rinse and repeat.

Yeah, that bombed.

So by Thursday afternoon, two people thought I was a Grade A bitch, ironically, the two people I had gone out of my way to accommodate. Massive FAIL. In both cases, the exchanges ended with me removing myself from the conversation so I didn’t say what was really on my mind.

On Thursday afternoon, I’m fighting my way through the throngs of people. People who leave their cart in the middle of an aisle in a grocery store so they can look for FRIED ONIONS THREE FREAKIN’ AISLE OVER! People banging in to you, and your cart, which is overflowing. People who think the day before a long weekend is the BEST time to catch up with their neighbors, five feet inside the store doors.

Throughout my tour at the grocery store, I noticed two women; one about my age and her daughter, who would be the same age as First Born Son. I noticed them look at me in the meat section. Then again in the frozen foods. I could feel someone looking at me a couple more times, and thought I was getting a complex.

Finally I navigate the humanity that is a grocery store at 5 p.m. on Maundy Thursday, and I end up in the line behind these two women. They look at me, look at each other, and then START WHISPERING.

Folks, I nearly lost my mind right there. After trying so hard to not feel negative, to try and look at things from other peoples’ points of view and trying help out friends and family who have need help throughout the week – only to get slammed, I was ready to put my fist through their carton of eggs. Very. Ready. “WHAT THE F— IS YOUR PROBLEM?” was on the tip of my tongue – and I would have meant to say it!

As we crept toward the cashier, and I started unloading my groceries, when the mother spun around, leaned in towards me and said,

“Your hair ROCKS! I LOVE it!!!!” with the biggest smile I had seen all week. The daughter, behind her, was smiling and nodding vigorously.

In a instant I felt horrible for being such a mental bitch to her, combined with a mix of feeling flattered and pleased, because one does not expect to receive compliments, never mind in public. I gave her a big smile and said thank you. She and her daughter continued to converse, but now I could hear some of it, “awesome” came up a couple of times.

Once I got in my vehicle, I thought about how things can spin on a dime. All week I had worked so hard to make everyone else happy, and  not a single person recognized me for it, or in fact, told me I had made things worse. Here, I go about doing my own thing, and a complete stranger comes up to me and gives ME a compliment; something that I myself have made a habit of doing to other people.

And the hair….

2013-03-28 17.11.51

 

Totally ROCKED!!!!

Happy Easter, Happy Passover!

 

 

 

Fifty Shades of Silver AKA A Hair Raising Situation

I have had a love/hate relationship with my hair for a long time.

Growing up, I had long hair. Think waist length. My parents loved it. Both Little Sister and I would go years between trims and I can remember how  exciting it was, that I might get a hair “style”, but no. It was just a trim of dead ends. I begged for shorter hair like some of my friends. I was told I could cut my hair when I was “older”.

Well…that wasn’t Grade 8…

Lookin’ like I just fell off the buggy….

Hair as thick as a horse’s tail and would give me a headache when it was up in a ponytail. My friends had adorable shags, bowl cuts, perms. I had brown-blonde hair. Although my mother will swear on a stack of bibles that I am a blonde.

I enjoyed some relief in Grade 9 when I was sophisticated enough to trim off some length.

WHOO – HOO. Trimmed all the way up to my shoulders. Daring!!!

I must have forgotten to book my back to school trim, because I have a mane full of hair again the next year.

Holy Nelly, the girl has bangs. Or is that fringe? Or just a sad excuse of….oh forget it. Like those “bangs”.

In fairness, I should mention, I did have braids, the occasional bun and was the proudest owner of the largest barette collection this side of my sister’s room.

At some point in my later secondary school career, I sported the Wilson Phillips; that is the same chop job sported by Chyna Phillips. Somehow, I didn’t look as good as she did. Now I know it is because she has fine, thin hair, and mine, uh, isn’t. So it grew back out once more and by the time I was in college, it was long. Again.

I waited until after my graduation photos were taken, and hacked it off again. The only thing that consoled my father was that he had the photo of me with “normal” looking hair.

Not long after that, I became engaged, and thought long hair sure would be helpful if I wanted to sport a bun with the very chic and simple veil and headpiece I had in mind. Two years later, I had the hair I needed. Two days after the wedding, I step off a plane in the Caribbean and my hair went up four dresses sizes. I couldn’t do anything with it. I had also neglected to pack a trunk for all my barettes.

With my new husband in tow, I found a fellow passenger whose coif I fancied and asked her to help me. We found a hair dresser and he cut off my hair. From that point on, the honeymoon was a blast and I needed A LOT less conditioner.

My return home was less smooth, as Little Sister, who had just completed her training as a hair stylist, was severely annoyed that I dared to let someone else tame my tresses. She finally forgave me when I agreed to let her put highlights in my hair.

“Don’t do it!” my mother warned. “You’ll end up coloring your hair!”

I scoffed. A couple of well placed touches of sunlight couldn’t possibly hurt. Two years later, I’m blonde. Like the blonde my mother thinks I’ve always been. Like, Marilyn Monroe and I finally have something in common.

In the years following, the longest I got my hair was to my shoulders. I couldn’t imagine letting it grow any longer. My hair was a rainbow of colors from red, to black and even blue. When I worked in the entertainment business, my hair became somewhat of its own persona. People discussed it, admired it and actually anticipated seeing me again, just to find out what color it would be. In my current position, my coworkers could give a rat’s ass what color my hair is.

Over the summer, with my “blonde” look matching my sunny disposition with the warmer weather, I watched my roots grow out. I wondered what colour my hair was, exactly. After another trip to see LS, this is what we got…

Something special in here!

Perhaps you can’t see it on this side, or the blonde tips are blurring your vision. Let’s try again.

I don’t like to call it “grey”; I prefer “platinum”!

When I was 19 I noticed a patch of grey, which obviously spread and took residence on the rest of my cranium. Reaction to this new do has been mixed.

The Big Guy doesn’t get a vote. I told him that since I don’t get a vote on whether or not he loses hair, he doesn’t get to comment on my silver follicles.

First Born Son was very supportive. He liked the idea that this was my “real” color. He thinks I should keep it like this.

Second Born Son, however, thinks it ok. He doesn’t want it to be a permanent move though.

“You have to color your hair, Mom!” he declared.

“No, I don’t, actually,” I replied.

“But your hair, it’s your….THING!” he said. “People know you because you color your hair!”

While he most definitely overstates this, I can’t help but think it might be novel to actually move away from coloring my hair and just stick with what I “am.”.

Who knows, maybe the next thing will be waist length locks!?

Highly unlikely.