Writing 101: Day Two
If you had the power to get somewhere — anywhere — where would you go – right now?
I want to be with your calm and warm water, lazily lapping the whitest of sand. The mornings I spent laying prostrate on an air mattress, admiring an ocean smooth as glass, were blissful. The sun, kissing my skin with its gentle warmth, no hint of its ravaging heat, that sets fire to the sand, in mid-day.
In early morning, the sea blends with the air in temperature, and I feel like I’m floating on nothing. My anxiety and burdens leave me. I want to stay like this forever, one with nature. Only feeling. Not thinking. (I think way too much.) I wanted this wonderful peace to come home with me. But it could not.
When I think of Navarre, it’s always “Oh, Navarre…”, spoken in a nostalgic, yearning way, bordering on the dramatic. It’s name reminds me of Nirvana. Not the band, but the word’s definition: “Nirvana is a place or state of being in peace or complete happiness.”
And that is exactly how Navarre was for me.
Well, Not all of me is new.
Same old face, body, and psychological diagnosis. With a drastically different hair style.
Why? Because I am coming into my mid-life crisis. That, and I got so pissed off at my thin, limp and graying hair, I almost took my sewing scissors to it. It would not hold a curl, it was always in my eyes, and worst of all – it made me look mousey*.
My new hair is cropped into a very (VERY) short pixie cut. It is now a caramel strawberry blonde. It is so much fun! What a difference in my attitude! I feel so damned perky. (I don’t usually smile so big.)
Hubby did not freak out – I forewarned him. All he did was grunt in an affirmative manner, when I asked him if he liked it. This is the man’s usual opinion about my appearance.
In other words, he does not give a rat’s ass. He told me once, “I like your hair when you like it – that way I don’t have to listen to ‘I hate my hair!’ and the other cursing while you’re getting ready to go somewhere.” Fair enough.
The downside to a pixie cut is my ears are in plain sight. This means I will need to buy more earrings.
Aw, shucks 😉
* mousey: someone with a drab appearance.
Photo taken at Sissy’s Bella Spa
Thank goodness that the wild child showed up at the hair appointment scheduled by the subdued professional woman. Normally, that would be a scary bad thing, but today it gave me the guts to tell Tina, my talented hair-stylist, that I “really needed a change, so let’s do it!”. She asked me if I was really sure two more times. Then she began to work her magic…
As we chatted about work, her love life, and our granddaughters, hair was falling all around me. On the floor, into my lap, and even my purse. I always forget to calculate the radius of the hair zone when I stash it. Tina is not very neat when she cuts hair. Creative genius rarely is.
I keep my eyes closed to keep the hairs hitting my face out of my eyes. When she was finished, I took a deep breath and looked in the mirror for the first time. All I could think of was “WOW” Cinderella must have felt like this when her fairy godmother waved her wand and poof!, she was ready to go to the Ball.
.Even though I had no Ball to go to, I rushed home and put on make-up. Just to go to the grocery store. The clerk told me she loved my hair, both the style and the color. Now I had a third-party confirmation that my hair was no longer an eye-sore.
I can’t make my ‘do look as gorgeous as it does now. I do not have one ounce of Tina’s hair Mo-Jo. I will do my best Monday morning to coerce my hair into submission, like Tina did, using a blow-dryer, puffs of hairspray and the curling iron. Then more spray, plus tugging and fluffing. And finally, a lot more spray to finish it off.
I won’t have time to practice enough to get good at it, anyway. Tuesday night my hubby returns and will probably shoot me.
And not with the camera.