Her Crowning Glory

The grey-haired geek is no longer grey. I colored my hair yesterday, something I’m in the habit of doing only once or twice a year. As a result of my inattention to the upkeep of my coif, I usually sport a disturbing mixture of dark new growth, blonde ends, and wiry grey rebels.

I’ve used blonde hair dye since I was in my teens. Since six inches of dark roots are usually visible before I get around to doing anything about them, I’m reasonably certain my natural hair color is medium brown. In an attempt to further prolong the time between dye jobs, I decided to switch to a shade closer to my growing-in hair. Completely taken in by their advertising campaign, I settled on a brand called “Perfect Look”.

Wrestling the latex gloves from my youngest daughter, who desperately desired to include them in her toy nurse’s kit, I plastered the clear goo on my head. Reclining in my favorite chair, laptop in place, I waited for the dye to do its job. Middle Son arrived and circled me quizzically, tilting his head and stroking an imaginary beard. “Knock it off. I’m dying my hair,” I scowled.

“I see that, Mom. But . . . purple?” he asked, incredulous.

“It’s not purple. It’s medium brown,” I informed him. “Now, go away and leave me alone.” (He’s fifteen and accustomed to verbal abuse.)

“Looks purple to me,” he commented. “Honest, I’m not kidding. Your hair is bright purple.”

He sounded convincing, so I decided to take a look. After swiping at a blob that was dripping down my forehead, I peered at the goo on my hand. It had definitely turned purple.

“Well,” I remembered hopefully, “The instructions said Color of solution does not indicate color of hair.” That alarming purple worried me, though. I decided to rinse it out a few minutes early.

As someone in the family feels compelled to do every time I’m in the shower, Middle Daughter peeked behind the shower curtain. “Mom!” she exclaimed. “Your shower water is PINK!” Now I was truly concerned. Hurriedly finishing my rinse, I leaped from the tub and looked in the mirror. I really couldn’t determine the color of my dripping wet locks. A few minutes with a hair dryer revealed the truth. My hair was NOT purple. It was green.

Eldest Daughter appeared. “Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights,” she offered helpfully. Alas, the mirror in my incandescent-lighted bedroom told the same story.

So here I sit with what someone apparently thinks is my “Perfect Look”. I beg to disagree. Not only did the purple dye turn my hair green, but the included conditioner did strange things to the texture. (Too late, I read the purpose of the conditioner: To maintain your new color’s brilliance . . . )

The appearance of a few dark roots would be cause for celebration today.

What’s That, You Say?

I didn’t recognize the number appearing on my caller ID, but I answered my phone anyway. “Am I speaking to Kelly?” the caller asked.

After confirming that she was, indeed, speaking to the right person, she identified herself as head of a contest I had recently entered. The task was to design a logo for a newly-created community program. The winner would receive a cash prize and, of course, the satisfaction of seeing their creation in use around town.

Delighted, I felt little tremors of anticipation in my limbs and my mind begain to race. There’s only ONE reason she would be calling me! How much was that cash prize again?

“We REALLY liked your logo entry,” she gushed. “It was very unique!”

I blushed. I had actually been quite proud of it myself.

“We received so many LOVELY entries!” she continued. I began congratulating myself. Yeah, but you’re calling ME, lady, so mine must have been the BEST!

“We have such talented people in our town!” she carried on, as I smiled modestly at the phone receiver.

Her next words took a minute to sink in. “Unfortunately, we could only choose one winner, and we chose someone else’s entry. I’m calling all of the entrants today to let them know.”

WHAT?! So I didn’t win, after all. Okay, I’m a good sport. I don’t expect to win every contest I enter, or even MOST of them. But, this was certainly an unconventional way of letting down a “loser”. Whatever happened to a politely worded form letter?

After swallowing a gulp of disappointment, I thanked the woman for letting me know and started looking for humor in the situation. (It’s usually there somewhere, if you look hard enough.)

I began thinking about other times people didn’t stop to consider the impact their initial words can have on another’s emotions.

I once accompanied my husband to a youth camp, where he was to be camp nurse. Each student was supposed to have a medical release, which allowed my husband to treat their splinters, mosquito bites, and homesickness. One boy appeared at our cabin in the wee hours of the morning, complaining of a headache. Unable to find his medical release, my husband was forced to call the boy’s mother for permission to give him Tylenol. I realized hubby had reached an answering machine when I heard him say, “This is Andy’s camp nurse. Please call me as soon as possible.”

Horrified when I saw him about to hang up, I began jumping up and down and waving my arms around wildly. “Tell her he’s OKAY!” I insisted. “She’s going to WORRY!”

Since I was seven months pregnant at the time, my husband stared at my antics in disbelief for a moment. Finally comprehending my concern, he hurriedly turned back to the phone. “It’s a headache . . .” he managed to fit in before the answering machine cut him off.

I take credit for receiving a perfectly calm return call from Mrs. Andy’s Mother a few minutes later.

Working in a hospital emergency room, I often witnessed telephone calls made by patients receiving treatment for a cold or other minor illness that began something like this:

“Hi, Mom? This is Jill. Jack and I are here in the emergency room.”

In the interest of minding my own business, I had to restrain the impulse to jump up and down to get their attention. (I was almost always pregnant during those years, too.) I suspect a few of those calls were intentionally worded that way to provide a moment of drama for someone bored enough to seek treatment for a stubbed toe at 3 a.m. Most of the callers, though, just hadn’t stopped to think about the reaction of the person on the other end of the line. I am certain they stopped initiating phone conversations that way once they became parents themselves.

I have also been caught off guard due to things NOT said. Years ago, I reluctantly agreed to accompany a friend to an aerobic exercise class. Arriving at her home, I found the front door opened wide and a pool of blood on her front porch. Telltale spatters trailed to the street in front of her house, where her car was nowhere to be seen. No one answered my tentative knocks at her door.

This was pre-cellphone era so, greatly concerned, I hopped back into my car and drove to the nearest hospital E.R. I arrived just in time to see my friend’s husband help her back into their car, looking quite pale. Knowing the hospital wouldn’t tell me what had happened, I turned around and drove back to her house, where I learned she had cut her hand washing dishes and, “Boy, did it bleed a lot!” It was a very minor injury, requiring only a butterfly bandage. I quickly forgave her for worrying me because, after all, she was wounded and too panicked to think about leaving a note.

Besides, I had been looking for a good excuse to miss that exercise class.

It’s Mine, All Mine

One of my blog posts has surprised me, receiving more views than any other and generating a lot of email. It’s A Satire, a little story I wrote that compares the public school system to a fictitious public nutrition system.

Unfortunately, many people have emailed to say they’ve “read it somewhere before” and hinted (or outright accused me) of plagiarism. Now someone has left a tactful comment to that effect.

I assure you, that story originated in my own head. (I am not boasting about that. It’s not always a good thing!) I didn’t even get the IDEA for it from someone else’s work. It’s a comparison I’ve used many times to explain my unpopular belief that government schools should not even exist. I decided to try and put it in story form and composed it mentally during a couple of long sessions in the shower.

Although I read everything about homeschooling that I can get my hands on, I have never seen the same comparison. If someone could point me in the direction of a similar essay, I’d be grateful. My Internet searches have been unsuccessful.

I’m a bit insulted that someone might think I’d use other people’s work without crediting them, but I remind myself that the people who have emailed don’t really know me. I suppose I should just be flattered that they think my work is good enough to steal.

I’ve Been Tagged

Laurie, at For Heaven’s Sake has tagged me and I’m supposed to write six facts about myself. This could be scary. Viewer discretion is advised.

1. I once lived in a teepee, stopped shaving my legs and armpits (TOLD you it was scary!), milked goats, and carried a hunting knife strapped to my thigh. Unsuccessful at shedding every remnant of civilized life, I installed stained glass in the crescent moon which I cut in the door of my outhouse.

2. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a model–a fact that causes me to alternately cackle hysterically or burn with humiliation whenever I think about it now. I still have notebooks where I recorded the measurements of my calves. This was pre-hairy-armpit days, and I actually put foundation makeup under there to disguise the stubble.

3. My IQ is in the genius range. This has quite a bit to do with my distrust of tests in general.

4. I have really ugly elbows, so I’m self-conscious about everyone standing behind me at church when I’m wearing short sleeves. Do not try to psychoanalyze this. It’s not in the books. I looked.

5. I don’t do anything very well. I do almost everything adequately.

6. I carry a computer in my pocket. I’ve been known to pull into a rest area, just to check my email. Digital electronics soothe my soul.

Now that you’ve been so enlightened, I tag . . . you, Genesis!

About this whole grey hair thing . . .

 I KNOW it LOOKS brown. That’s because I do my level best to keep the grey well-hidden. I’m always aware that it’s lurking, though, beneath a concealing layer of Miss Clairol. And it decides to make its wiry presence apparent far too soon following each visit to the hairdresser.

I birthed two children in my forties, and was made to look prematurely old by the previous four. When I take my baby to town, strangers look at us with a perfectly straight face before uttering one of following:

“Out with your grandson this morning?”

“How sweet! Are you babysitting?”

“Where’s this one’s mommy today?”

and my favorite:  “Were you able to conceive the normal way?”

I have occasion to cross paths with other soccer moms and Sunday School teachers whose children are the same age as my younger ones. These women are all in their twenties or thirties so, at fast-approaching-fifty, I DO feel old in comparison.

Although I accept my impending seniority, and am thankful to have avoided the unthinkable alternative (so far), I am made aware daily that there are some things Miss Clairol can’t hide . . . for any length of time.

A Grey-haired Geek

The term “grey-haired geek” leaped spontaneously from my lips as I tried in vain to communicate with a non-technology-minded acquaintance. I said it apologetically, as if our inability to understand each other was due to some flaw in my own personality: “I know you aren’t interested in this. I’m such a grey-haired geek!”

Delighted with my impromptu use of alliteration, I ran home and Googled the term. (Who am I kidding here? I pulled my handheld computer from my pocket and Googled it on the spot.) The search returned no results. With fear in my heart, I tried it without the hyphen and with an alternate spelling of “grey”. Oh, joy! It hadn’t been used! I had just named my blog-to-be!

Please do not leave comments saying someone else is using it now. I do not wish to be so enlightened. I have avoided Googling it again, because ignorance can be bliss. You see, all this time, I have remained blogless . . . for simple want of a name!

In my circle of friends, being forty-something with a passion for computers is considered akin to having a third eye. (Okay, so I’m closer to fifty. Stop interrupting, and just read my blog.) There are still several families in our homeschool co-op who are without email. Yes . . . I actually have to send POSTCARDS to these people. (Click here for the definition of “postcard”.) I offered to build a website for the group. One science-minded member thought I was suggesting something similar to an ant farm, only with spiders. To borrow a phrase from someone who’s funnier than I will ever be, “I am not making this up”.

My children admit to dismay over my ability to comprehend their text messaging shorthand. Their father (who is also My Husband, because it’s friendlier that way) is of the same mindset as my friends. The only mouse he has ever been really comfortable with is the one I had him dump from a trap last week. (That’s another reason he’s remained My Husband.) He does like to play games on the computer, but when I once told him he should close his browser, he was deeply offended. We won’t even discuss the conversation that ensued when I mentioned that I needed more RAM.

So, as soon as I click “Publish”, my blogging journey will begin. Without computers, many of my friends will be unable to read this. That could be a blessing in disguise.