Bad Hair Years
I had a bad hair day yesterday.
I went to my nephew’s wedding. And no, I didn’t wear the fringed slip. But I did wear a low cut, tight black dress, and danced “Shout” with abandon.
But my hair — not so hot.
My bangs, which often torment me with a life of their own, surprisingly behaved themselves. But I had a rather flat spot in the back, and a sticking-out piece on the right side.
But bad hair in 2011 is so much better than it used to be.
I am grateful every day for the important scientific advances known as PRODUCT.
Yes, that’s what the hairdressers call it. Product. There’s so much variety, and you can get just about any result you want. Soft and shiny, no problem. Hard and spiky, you bet. High, slicked, curly, big, rasta, ethereal.
All this Product works. Just not every day; or all day. For me, anyway.
But I’m still grateful. Because of how bad it used to be.
I have thin, fine hair. But not smooth fine. No – it’s fine with cowlicks.
And in the face of yesterday’s minor hair ideosyncrasies, I am reminded of those nightmare hair years called High School.
In high school, I had only three products to choose from:
Hair Spray. And this wasn’t the natural, light mist of today. No; this was shellac. There was a TV commercial (I think for White Rain) with two ladies, one shellacked and one natural. And they drove these ladies in a convertible through some combination of wind tunnel and car wash. And the force-fielded lady still had her bouffant hairdo after the monsoon.
Dippity-Do. This was like today’s gel. Only it wasn’t really. It was really glue. And glue that turned into an inch of dandruff — sort of like a light November snow.
Beer. Yes, you could set your hair with a little beer. It stiffened your hair enough to make it take the form of your rollers. But oh my dear, how those rollers hurt. They were hard wire things with brushes sticking out to catch your hair. But those little bristles also stuck in your scalp. Try sleeping on those.
My father would obligingly agree to have a beer in the evening, so I could have a few tablespoons as my setting lotion. Then I would wind up my hair on those nasty rollers, usually with at least three bobby pins on each one. And I’d go to bed. I had a cat years ago who used to sleep on an old radiator, and I marveled at how he could sleep on those curvy, iron lumps. Because I couldn’t. By midnight, I’d have torn most of the rollers out.
And I’d have very weird hair by morning.
It didn’t matter though, because by the time the bus came, it had all fallen down anyway.
But I did get a break. Halfway through high school, Twiggy became the hot model. So I went short, and the hell with the rollers. Of course I looked like hell too. But I slept.
Come to think of it, my wedding hairdo yesterday was fabulous.
High School Hair
Not Quite Instant Karma
When I was eleven, I stole an idea.
It was 1962, and I was hospitalized briefly for a minor problem. Not being really sick, I was very happy to be in the hospital, where I could get all kinds of attention and sympathy. I was enjoying myself tremendously.
The girl in the next bed had broken her leg. She was also not seriously ill, and like me, was having a very good time.
As we were competing for the nurses’ attention (which they smartly refused to give us), we started to compete in general. Who had better grades, prettier clothes, worse brothers and sisters.
Connie (not her fictitious name) told me that she was a wonderful writer.
“So am I,” I said immediately.
So she told me about a story she wrote for school, and for which she had received an “A+”. She wrote about keeping an elephant for a pet–how much it ate, and how much room it took in the house, and the effect on the neighbors.
I pronounced that story as very silly.
I was discharged the next day.
Back at school, however, when it was time to write our monthly composition, I wrote the same story. I had an elephant for a pet. I kept it on the porch, and walked it around the block, and shocked the neighbors.
You may think that, at eleven, I didn’t really understand that this was wrong. But I knew. I knew it was cheating to copy someone’s paper, and I knew it was cheating to copy someone’s idea. When the teacher was delighted with my story, I was ashamed.
Sometimes Karma is patient.
A few years later… (forty years to be exact):
It was 2002. I was still working in television at the time. I had a lot of good years at my job, but 2002 was not one of them. So I was job-hunting.
I had an interview at Court TV. You may be of the opinion that Court TV would not have been classy enough for the likes of me. But let me assure you that I can be as lowbrow as it takes. Television pays well, and some of the most lowbrow networks pay very well indeed. (Of course, Court TV has now become truTV, home of “World’s Dumbest”, so maybe now it might challenge my sense of sophistication slightly.)
Anyway, the executive who was interviewing me asked me about my creativity. They didn’t want a financial executive to be just a numbers person. They expected all of top management to contribute creative ideas. So he asked me if I had any.
And I did. I gave that guy two suggestions that I thought could be moneymakers for Court TV. One was, I thought, a great idea, and one was only passable. My lesser proposal was a show starring forensic scientist Henry Lee. Dr. Lee was the head of forensics for the State of Connecticut, where I live, and he had become quite a celebrity for his participation in the OJ Simpson trial, among others.
The rest of the interview was pleasant, but I didn’t get the job.
About eighteen months later, as I am channel surfing, I come upon Court TV and a show called “Trace Evidence: The Case Files of Dr. Henry Lee”.
Imagine my surprise. This show was the idea I offered to a Court TV executive in order to obtain a job that I didn’t get. The Idea got the job, I guess. I wondered if that executive got a nice bonus (that maybe should have gone to me).
But I didn’t sue. I didn’t even call the sneaky dude to protest or demand my cut. I knew it was my karma for stealing Connie’s idea forty years earlier.
And besides, the show was a flop. They made only seven episodes that I don’t even think registered a blip in the ratings. So maybe the sneaky dude got fired. I like to think so.
As for my other idea… I still think I have a winner there. And I’ve atoned for my childhood idea-theft. So this one is all mine.
So excuse me, Mark Burnett, but ‘Survivor’ is getting pretty old. So if you are out there trolling the blogs of middle-aged women: Call Me. We’ll do lunch.
Power Hungry
My home has now been without electric power for five days.
We have some power, as we have a good size generator, so we are been better off than some folk. The generator powers the heat, hot water, refrigerator, and a few lights – and what is most important – the well. Not being able to flush is an unfortunate experience. So hurray for the generator (and my husband who installed the monstrosity.)
I miss:
- The light over the stove (we have a gas stove, but it’s hard to see what you’re cooking)
- The garage door opener
- “Dancing With The Stars” (my guilty pleasure)
But there are some things I like about this prolonged outage.
MY TOP TEN NO-POWER PLEASURES:
10.
The wood stove. I hate our oil bill, so we never have the heat on very high. With the wood stove, it gets up to around 80 in the office. Toasty.
9.
Cuddly pets. Our cats are always snuggled up with my husband. When we shut down the generator at night, and the house gets cool, the kitties will even cuddle with cold-blooded me.
8.
Dinner by oil lamp. The food looks more appetizing by the soft flickering light. So do I.
7.
The quiet.
6.
A new use to justify the expense of my iPhone. Alarm clock app.
5.
No Housework. Not only can’t I vacuum, but you can’t really see the cat hair either.
4.
Stars. With no ground lights, the night sky is amazing.
3.
The bathroom outlet. We don’t have the generator hooked up to many outlets, but my husband did make sure I have a working outlet for my hairdryer. I can tolerate many hardships, but not bad hair.
2.
My Mother. She had no power either, so she spent the last three days with us. I loved seeing her every morning at the breakfast table, and saying goodnight to her at the end of the day.
1.
No Kardashians!
It’s My Own Stupid Fault
I complained with vigor two weeks ago that men can’t find anything. (“Where’s My Hat?” Asked Waldo)
Almost everyone agreed that it’s true. Men have no “looking” skills. But now I must confess – that at least in my case – it’s my own fault. I have created my own unseeing monster.
I married when I was forty. Up until I met my husband, I had never even had a relationship that lasted longer than a few months.
I was actually pretty happy being single, and it was quite an adjustment for me to not be single. Mainly because he was ALWAYS around. I waited for him to go home at night. I had to remind myself that he was home. I thought seriously about taking a second secret apartment for some alone time.
Then a weird – weird and good – thing happened. After about five months, I started to LIKE having him around. I began to look forward to coming home at the end of the day and having someone glad to see me. And I was glad to see him. Weird, huh?
And I started to get into the whole domestic scene. I started to bake. I kept my house clean. I bought pretty sheets. (I warned you that it got weird.)
It was very nice after all those long, busy traveling-woman-executive-years to enjoy the traditional homemaker role.
I liked having someone to take care of.
So I took care of my husband. And without any children, I continue to take care of him. And mostly I like it. But I’m afraid he likes it too.
It’s been twenty years now, but only recently did my (and his) complete transformation really hit me.
One evening, getting ready for bed, I dried my face with a handtowel that was all full of scratchy little beard hairs.
“Yuck,” I said. “What’s this?”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said. “I trimmed my beard and used your towel to wipe the sink. I forgot about it.”
Now I am a very nice wife. Really. A saint. Really. Because I said,
“That’s all right. I’m glad you cleaned up. But next time, after you wipe the sink, throw the towel in the wash and take out a clean one.”
He said, “Okay.”
Then there was a long questioning pause. And here’s where I knew I had only myself to blame.
He said, “Where do you keep the towels?”
The linen closet that he built.
TV Highbrows
My mother always told me never to make fun of someone’s appearance.
However, I feel that if they are celebrities, they are fair game. Don’t you agree? After all, they are putting their faces out there for us to look at. It’s only normal if I feel a comment coming on.
So, in celebration of Halloween (which we didn’t have in Connecticut because of ‘you know’ –I can’t even speak about it), I am announcing my nominations for the creepiest people on TV. And wouldn’t you know it…they are on the SAME SHOW!
The nominees are … from “CSI- New York”:
Gary Sinise
And Sela Ward
And what makes them so creepy? It’s the EYEBROWS!
They have the same bizarre eyebrows.
In deference to my mother, some people cannot help their eyebrow weirdness. But these two have ‘people’ taking care of their image. What kind of stylist thinks that pointy eyebrows are attractive?
And why do these actors vaguely remind me of someone?
This weekend it dawned on me – thanks to a Halloween costume I saw on the internet.
And once I made the connection – It’s so OBVIOUS!
The makeup artist for “CSI-NY” graduated from the Ronald McDonald School of Cosmetology!
Eye Of The Beholder
I love Halloween.
I loved it when I was a kid, as it was the only time except for Christmas and Easter when I got to dress up. And I loved dressing up.
I didn’t outgrow it. I especially loved Halloween as a ‘youngish’ single. I am naturally pretty shy. But on Halloween, I didn’t have to be shy. I could be wild – because I was someone else.
But everyone has her own definition of ‘wild’.
One Halloween I went to the bar at the local Marriott Hotel (which was THE hot spot at the time). I was dressed as a roaring twenties’ flapper. I had made my costume out of a very skimpy black slip, and a whole lot of fringe. Not much else.
I was risqué. Or so I thought.
I stopped in the ladies’ room to check my makeup before my grand entrance. An old lady was there. (I say ‘old’, but I wonder if she was perhaps the age I am now.) She regarded my get-up, smiled, and said, “Are you going to a wedding?”
I thought she was insane. But now – unfortunately – I’m so there. With the way kids dress today, I’d have a hard time telling a costume from a wedding outfit too.
Or perhaps…
Maybe the old lady was right. Maybe I looked marvelous.
Maybe I should be more daring. Years ago, my Great-Aunt Loretta wore a feather boa to a wedding.
Maybe I should wear a fringed slip to a wedding. My nephew is getting married next week. I could wear a fringed slip to his wedding.
But all I have left of that fabulous costume is a fringed purse.
My nephew will be relieved.
**********
Note: This piece was created for the website Vision and Verb (http://www.visionandverb.com), a network of women from around the world who contribute their images and ideas.
My Ghost Makes Crank Calls
Many years ago, my husband and I bought an old house. Built around 1840, we didn’t know too much about its history.
We did know about one lady who lived there. Her grandson, now our age, was our neighbor. She must have been a pretty nice Grandma, because Jim didn’t really want us to change a thing about the house. Or the porch. Or the driveway. Or the sidewalk.
“My Grandma always had her refrigerator on THIS wall,” he told me once.
As mildly interfering as he was, when we had trouble with the well, Jim walked over to a spot in the yard and said, “Dig here.” And sure enough, there was the well.
When we first moved in, we noticed something odd about the phone. Once in a while, instead of all the phones in the house ringing, only the extension in the kitchen would ring.
Most of the time, there would be no one there when we answered. But once in a while, there was a garbled voice, as if we were listening in on someone else’s call from a distance.
After a while we learned that if only the kitchen phone was ringing, we shouldn’t bother to pick it up.
But that’s when the phone started to speak.
It would ring and ring, and we’d ignore it.
And then it would start saying, “Hello? Hello?”
But we hadn’t picked it up.
I began to think that Jim’s Grandma was trying to speak to us. The house had a lot of owners in all those years, but most of them wouldn’t have been familiar with telephones. Maybe Grandma wanted us to put the refrigerator back on the south wall.
I’m not into creepy movies, so I don’t know that much about ghosts. But I figured it would be wise to be polite.
When the phone would start to say “Hello? Hello?” I’d just say aloud, in the general direction of the ceiling:
“I’m sorry. But I’m really busy, so I just can’t talk right now.”
After about a year, she stopped calling.
We moved away several years ago – into a house we built ourselves. No feng shui ghosts.
But our old neighbors don’t particularly like the family that moved in. They wish those new folks would move out.
Maybe Grandma could make a phone call.
wikipedia image, public domain (altered)
Meanies
So….My last post was my most successful ever. ‘Ever’ meaning three months.
I had a surprising number of views – and I am even adjusting for the new weird way that WordPress seems to be counting views. I think their new methodology may be akin to every kid getting a trophy at T-Ball. But whatever. If they think they will make me happy by saying I am very popular…well, yes, they will. I am that needy.
But on the other hand… my fabulously popular post was the one with the HORRENDOUS photos of me trying on glasses.
Oh yeah, folks just clicked and clicked. I think maybe some of you guys came back three or four times. And you clicked on the photos to look at them nice and big, too.
A few weeks ago, one of my blogger friends was expressing consternation at not being able to figure out why some posts are successful and some are duds. I shared with him my philosophy: “When my blog post is successful, I think I am a genius. When it flops, I think there must be something wrong with WordPress.”
So how am I supposed to feel about a successful blog starring Me Looking Bad?
My ego is extremely confused.
But I have decided to interpret this in my own special self-centered way: “You like the way I write, but you’ve been jealous that I was so gorgeous. So now you like me more knowing that I’m almost like a regular human. I have bad hair days too. Bad face days, actually.”
But here’s another wrinkle (no, not on my face). Just last week, a sweet friend who is a very talented professional photographer offered to re-do my blog photo. She thinks I could look better. Now it’s wonderful that she believes I am prettier than my ‘good’ photo. And it’s so tempting to think I might someday have a photo where I may possibly even look beautiful. And if anyone could perform this miracle, she could. But she also said that my current pic doesn’t capture the real me. That it doesn’t look like me. Now that is a dilemma.
Because I think I like that picture – a lot – because it doesn’t look like me.
***
Not Picky, Just Discriminating
This is the bravest post I’ve published so far.
Because I am displaying eight (!) photos of myself, all unflattering. In none of these photos am I the oh-so-young looking, semi-adorable sixty-year-old. No, I’m just your average sixty-year-old. Way too average.
But in my defense, I was just out running errands with my husband. It’s interesting how every time I run errands with him we end up at the Italian bakery. But I digress. I digress from the subject of ME. Anyhow, I wasn’t dressed up, my hair wasn’t washed, and the lighting was harsh. I’m really very cute. I really am. For sixty.
We had stopped at the optician to see if they could make prescription sunglasses for my husband. He’s smitten with sunglasses with a blue mirrored tint. So while he was haggling mightily (which is his third favorite thing after blue mirrored lenses and Italian cookies). I tried on glasses.
I wear contact lenses. I wear them from when I step out of the shower until I am ready for bed. I never wear glasses. But I like to try them on. I could one day stumble on a pair of glasses that will make me look stunning and smart. I would love a quirky, nerdy-chic look. Because I have a girl-crush on Diane Keaton.
I tried on quite a few pair. Some styles I loved and some I hated. There were hundreds of different frames to choose from. I took out my cell-phone and hit that little reverse thing on the camera and took pictures of me with the various styles. I figured I could look at the photos later and determine objectively if there was a style that would make me want to wear glasses again.
But here’s the crazy thing. When I got home and checked the pictures, they were ALL EXACTLY THE SAME!
I swear every pair was different. I swear that I loved some and hated some. There were good ones and bad ones. But how am I supposed to know what glasses to buy, if I can’t even tell the good ones from the bad ones?
Not My Dream Job
As I wrote in my last post, for a very long time (too long to call it a childhood fantasy) I wanted to be on TV.
Well, it sort of turned out that way. I worked for TV. Though not as an actress playing the heroine. I was in Finance.
But although I was preparing budgets, it was still TV. Indirectly, still sort of glamorous.
And I did pretty well. Several promotions and my share of recognition. Some very nice perks. And because it was the entertainment business, many of the perks were lots of fun.
On the business side, the perks included many “offsites”. The executives attended frequent meetings in upscale settings. I’d pack my suitcase and go somewhere warm and expensive to talk about the future of television. A tough life. (Actually, the non-glam parts were very tough. I worked extremely long hours in a crazy competitive climate. But the retreats were nice.)
I can pinpoint the exact moment I knew I was in the wrong job. It was at a retreat.
We spent the day discussing television. We were supposed to be discussing how the new technologies would affect our business. But as usual, we mostly discussed how special we all were. Television is a very good career for big egos.
After the formal meeting, we went across the hall to a beautiful big room with a spectacular view for a private cocktail party.
And I stood there with the other executives, making small talk. They spoke about their vacations. This surprised me, because I had a shitload of vacation time that I was always too busy to take. Other people actually took their vacations? But then I realized that they probably didn’t. Not without cellphones and laptops and blackberries anyway.
And the conversation veered west. Which do you prefer? Vail or Aspen?
And it hit me.
I am an actor after all. And I’ve walked onto the set of the WRONG MOVIE.
Aspen versus Vail? I used to slide down the local hill on a flattened cardboard box.
As a kid, I loved a good debate. Bonanza or The Big Valley? Mustang or Camaro? Hot Dog or Hamburger? But Aspen versus Vail?
I looked around the room, and I thought about these thirty or so people, waving their crystal wine glasses. Odds were, half of them must have been raised like me. Maybe more than half. They didn’t grow up spending their summer vacations in Saint Tropez. They spent their summers with playing cards clattering in their bike spokes.
I won’t say that they were phonies. I think they truly enjoyed how far they had come from their childhoods. I just happened to love my childhood – just the way it was. And I didn’t want to “come far”. I didn’t want to leave it behind. Wherever I was at as an adult, I was taking my fabulous but ordinary childhood with me.
After dinner, when the group went to the bar for their cognacs, I went home.
I stayed on with the company for several more years after that. But I knew I was miscast.
And just the other day I had a conversation with my current coworkers. A debate on the merits. Jif versus Skippy.
notquiteold 