Microfiction: Asses and Assets

Good Monday morning to everyone!

Today is the first day of school here in Georgia, and my youngest daughter is a senior this year. How did that happen? Just yesterday she started kindergarten and I was not an old bagger. Today she embarks on her final year of high school and I am, well. . .yeah, an old bagger. *sigh* I know I'm an old bagger for reasons that revolve around general female wackiness and the laws of gravity, i.e. extreme chocolate cravings and bathing suit phobia.

And another thing: Hair.

Yes, buttercup, hair. I'm not talking about silver at the roots and the fact that the Walgreen's clerk who sneaks me L'Oreal Preference coupons is my new best friend. I'm talking curls! They're back! How did that happen?

When I turned 40 my straight hair went curly on me, like I'd just had a perm. I embraced the curls, figured out what to do with them, and wore it au naturale for about five years. And then my hair went straight again.

"Ha, ha!" It said. "We hair follicles laugh at your silly efforts to tame us!"

Straight, for five years. Now--bam!--curl city again. **WTF?  I'm suddenly back to being a hair product junkie, hunting for the perfect blend of gel, mousse and cream to keep my curls from poofing into a Phyllis Diller do.

I actually think I've figured out the best hair goop combo (curls that stay put but stay soft, not crunchy or sticky), and I'm liking my curls again (the secret is my husband's old tee-shirt---that's a story all by itself, and unless you have naturally curly hair, you don't want to hear it), but for those days when my loops,waves and spirals rebel, I pull out the big guns: the straightening iron. Ha! That'll teach the little buggers.

Okay, I've finished my rant, and you now know more about my hair than you ever thought possible. As a reward for your patience, I'm heading you into microfiction territory.
 
Grandma's Goulash graciously hosts Succinctly Yours, the wonderful meme for those of us addicted to microfiction. The trick is to write a story in 140 characters or less using the photo below as inspiration. To add to the challenge is the word of the week, "oblivious."  My stories are below.

“Love them big beads,” Hal leered. 

Fay acted oblivious, but thought:  

Ready for Rhett, but stuck with a clown on a bike. 

Story of my life! 

(139 characters)

“Where’d you stash the loot, Marge?” He whispered. 

“Don’t you worry, hon. This hoop skirt is good for something 

besides hiding my assets!” 

(138 characters)

Thanks for visiting. I hope I've helped bring you a Monday smile.  See you Wednesday for the naked truth about. . .something!

Lisa

**WTF (What the Follicle!)  You thought something else? Hey, this is a G-rated blog!

Hair's An Idea!

My hair suffers from multiple personality disorder.  This is a new twist on an old dance between me and my mop-top, and I want to whine about it.

For years my hair stayed straight without the benefit of a hot iron.  By the time I hit 41 curls erupted and I deemed au naturale a mighty convenience.  The closer I climbed to 50, however, the more my hair rebelled and the multiple personalities emerged.  Some sections of my hair are straight, some curly and others wavy---all at the same time and in no particular order.

I also dye my hair, the natural shade of which has not seen daylight for over a decade.  At this point, I'm terrified of not coloring because, geez, who knows what real color is sprouting? Am I salt and pepper, gunmetal, or shimmery silver? What percentage of my locks are, you know, that G-color? Ten percent? Fifty? Gulp! One-hundred?

I know a lady in her early sixties who never colored her hair and doesn't do more to it after a washing than let it dry, and whichever way it goes is a mystery until it happens. She isn't prepped for the Hollywood red carpet but you know what? Neither am I in spite of my hot-ironing and coloring. People routinely mistake me for younger than my nearly 50 years, but does that really matter in the grand scheme of things? May it be counted a true compliment since it isn't achieved without chemical enhancements?

I think, as I sit here typing (with Clairol Hydrience #36 seeping into my head), that I waste an awful lot of time fussing with my hair. I ponder what might be accomplished if the time and money I spend on my hair were directed to more worthy pursuits. Maybe I ought to find out.

Yeah, and maybe I'll win the lottery tomorrow and retire a millionaire.

Fat chance, buttercup.

Til next time -
Lisa

Clip are courtesy of hasslefreeclipart.com.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

When I was twelve my picture was in the dictionary displayed alongside the definition of "unibrow". King Kong was envious of my brows. I spent half my life pluck-pluck-plucking just to be presentable in public. It seems a cruel joke that middle-age convinced my once lush brows to desert me. Where have they gone? I haven't needed tweezers since 45. I light incense and pray to the eyebrow gods every night before bed, but my begging goes unheeded. In fact, the eyebrow gods toy with me. While I'm asleep they pull what little hair does sprout from my eyebrows and plant it on my chin. I wake up in the morning looking like Billy Goat Gruff.

Okay, okay, so I'm exaggerating. A little. The point is, I want my eyebrows back!

When I was in high school back in the 70s, thin brows were the fashion, unless you were Brooke Shields. No one that I knew had thick brows, and a lot of girls shaved off their brows and drew on new ones. I never went that far, but I did pluck my brows into oblivion. Well, they are having the last laugh. After decades of rejection they have gone into semi-retirement. At least they aren't turning gray. Much.

I think what worries me is that if my ever bountiful eyebrows have flown the coop, what will be the next to go? Or worse, what will be the next to grow? Yikes! Shouldn't have had that coffee milkshake at Marble Slab Creamery. Or maybe...maybe all that calcium and vitamin D will infuse my eyebrows with new life!

Ahh...I love being a positive thinker.

Til next time,
Lisa

It's a Hairy Situation!

Have you ever been in a situation where you would like to say something, but diplomacy and tact are twin screws securing your tongue inside your mouth? I think we’ve all been there. Sometimes we might pop off a verbal faux pas, but as adults we’re pretty well trained to be tactful or shut up. Still, I love it when a kid comes out with an honest observation that makes adults gasp, even when I’m the adult at the receiving end of the comment.

I recently left the house with my hair au naturale, i.e. I did not take the straightening iron to it. Without the straightening iron, my hair is curl city. Not gorgeous Nicole Kidman curls; oh, no, no. Think Phyllis Diller after two hours in a wind tunnel. I don’t usually leave the house with my hair like that, because I don’t want to frighten small children. On this particular evening, however, I broke my rule because I was—dare I admit it?—too lazy to straighten my locks just to run out for half an hour. So there I was, in all my frizzy glory, when the daughter of one of my friends spotted me and came running over, her face aglow with joy and enthusiasm.

“Miss Lisa!” She cried out, obviously thrilled from head to toe just to see me.

“Amanda!” I responded, opening my arms for the requisite hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” She gave me a squeeze and looked up at me with her impossibly blue eyes and said: “You know your hair looks terrible, right?”

Who but a kid (or an older sibling) would say something so honest? When I stopped laughing, I told her she’ll be the first one I call when I need a truthful opinion on my next bathing suit. That kid will tell it like it is. If she gives me a thumbs up I’ll know I’m ready for the beach.

Honesty usually gives way to kindness as we hold our tongues to save someone from embarrassment or hurt. That, too, is a lesson that kids have to learn. Still, there is something refreshing about an honest opinion, given with no malice or mean intent.

It is also terrific motivation to plug in the straightening iron.

Til next time –
Lisa