My first gray hair turned up when I was a sophomore in college — twenty years old and full of sass and gumption. No way I was going to let anyone see THAT nonsense. I headed to the salon and promptly covered up my defect with fifty bucks worth of highlights and lowlights, glad I escaped a dangerously close marring of my youthful image.
After a few years of salon visits, the grays were multiplying and my “career” as a student teacher didn’t exactly provide the means to fund my self-preservation project, so off to Walgreen’s I went to find a box of hair color to restore my dark curls at a fraction of the cost of salon color.
In the beginning, I wrapped myself in a color cape every eight weeks or so, humming along to Counting Crows and Pearl Jam in my Marquette apartment, watching the timer tick for thirty minutes before rinsing myself back to the security of 5C Brilliant Brunette.
Ahh. That’s better.
I was draggin’ my wagon after last week’s hip surgery, but I think I may have turned the corner this morning.
I’ve already. . .
Cleaned my eyeglasses.
Color-code highlighted my appointment calendar.
Soaked my feet in Epsom salts.
Swatted four houseflies from my recliner.
Took my blood pressure three times.
Cleaned and oiled the foam pads of my crutches.
Clipped coupons from the grocery store flier. You wouldn’t believe the prices they’re offering on Ensure and Metamucil! (I wonder if they deliver…) Continue reading
My dad had hip replacement surgery last Friday. The procedure went well, and he was discharged on Sunday, with physical therapy scheduled for Monday. My mom got sick on Sunday night, and couldn’t bring him to his appointment. I volunteered to transport him to and from therapy. He called that morning and explained that he really needed bathing. Could I pick him up early and bring him to my Nana’s house so he could use her walk-in shower? An hour later, we were standing in her bathroom, unloading my dad’s Pert Plus and Irish Spring from a ratty blue duffle bag. Continue reading