Then & Now hairstyles, and the trials of the grow out.

Last night as I was waiting in line at the grocery store I started to read the covers of magazines. It was 9pm, and the only line open was the express lane (even though pretty much everyone had WAY more than 10 items) so I had a lot of time to peruse. As I did, one cover story caught my eye “The secret to longer, healthier, shinier hair.” I thought about it for a few moments, and then on impulse added the magazine  onto the conveyer belt with my French bread and Parmesan cheese. Why not?

I’ve been in the process of growing out my hair for six months. I constantly go back and forth between the “I love my effortless short hair” and “please god, it won’t grow fast enough” though I’m convinced that every woman goes through this stage. Generally speaking I am not attached to my hair. I’ve had long, I’ve had short, and that is what is fun about hair, it grows back! I’ve never understood the women who have their whole identity wrapped up in their locks,  the women who treat a bad hair cut like a social death sentence… just give it a couple of weeks! That being said, I AM trying to grow out my hair, and it is getting a little frustrating.

Once  upon a time, back when I was in high school, my brother told me that I would probably never find a boyfriend if I had short hair, because guys prefer long hair (I’m paraphrasing… I don’t think he actually used those words… well, actually he might have). This is something that has stuck with me. I have ignored it most of my life, but every now and then when I start to question my single status the thoughts start to creep in there “is it because of my hair?”  Of course the feminist in me always instantly retorts back “I don’t want to date a guy who is that shallow anyway” and I probably don’t… but then again, I would like to be dating… and heck, if longer tresses up my odds a little bit, why not? I've been changing my hairstyle consistently since I was 14. Once upon a time I had really unfortunate layers, and it didn't help that I had a retainer, glasses and was labeled as the "home-schooled kid"I cut my hair off to the Jennifer Aniston bob, totally loved it, and kept on getting it shorter and shorter. Side note... Its important to have a good stylist when you have short hair, and one who isn't petty. The woman who cut my hair in high school was the mother of a girl in my grade. And let me tell you, the pettyness ran ramped in the school. I once got a hair cut that was supposed to be like Mandy Moore circa 2002  and instead I returned from my lunch break looking like Oprah. No 17 year old wants her hair to look like Oprah. 

   

Regardless, I was, and am totally confident with my short hair style, and I think that most days I can rock the pseudo hipster short hair  so long as I’m exuding confidence.  But some days I wake up, and I look in the mirror and think “ok maybe this style isn’t doing me any favors” and it takes a while to get the confidence rolling. I would like to say that my sparkling personality makes up for any potential hair weirdness… but then again I’m often not as approachable as I think I am. Last week when I was in Ashland some guy on the street actually said to me “Excuse me, miss? I think you dropped your smile back here!”  Its not that I’m surly, or pissed off at the world, I’m just focused… which often translates into disgruntled, stuck up, or irritated. I’m digressing, and this is a completely different issue that I’m trying to work on (if you see me walking around town with a strange smile on my face I’m not having a nervous breakdown, I’m just trying to be more approachable… someone tell me if I look crazy town). But anyway, I’m growing my hair out for a bit. I’ll probably get bored in another few months, and have to decide to if I want to cut it back off and have a few weeks of “damn I love this sassy hair” or if I want to keep trucking on through the awkward grow out.

Truth be told, I think my stylist might be behind  the slow going… yes, growing out short hair is a challenge. Yes, there is bound to be an awkward “between styles” period where everything is just a little weird and frumpy, and I have resigned myself to that. I mean, its hair, it gets better… and yet over the past six months I’m not sure that I have noticed a change in the length… and what is really disheartening is that looking at pictures from a year ago my hair was longer than it is now! The one time I didn’t take a picture with me to the stylist it got a bit short (I looked so much like my mother, it was a little scary) and the style has been recovering ever since. And she also psychs me out a little bit. Once I went in for a little minor trim and she said something like "yeah it is looking a bit mushroomy" naturally visions of Super Mario Brothers started flashing through my head, and no one wants that! cut it all off, make it better!  It makes sense, I mean why would you want a regular client who comes in every 6 weeks to grow out her hair. I don't think she is being malicious, it does need some trimming/ some help. But maybe not THAT much help.

 Some days are better than others when it comes to styling. Actually, this week alone I have had two separate guys randomly comment “You have a really cute hair cut!” (one I’m sure was gay, the other was married, but hey, if the gays like it I must be doing something right? Please no one take that comment as offensive.) Then again, there are the times when I get IDed at restaurants, and the waitress will inevitably say something like “oh my gosh, do you miss your hair?” You win some, you lose some.

For now, I’m still attempting to grow it out. I know it can be done, because I have done it before… the main question is, do I have the patience?  The first time I cut my hair really short, I was in Paris.  I had fairly long hair, but was craving something a little different, something spontaneous, and the metro stop closest to our hotel was right by a Redkin hair salon. There was this really edgy cut in the window, and every day I would think “I wonder if I could pull that off” So one free afternoon, I went in, pointed to the picture, and got my first ever hair cut where there was a major language barrier involved. The stylist would cut a little and look at me nervously, “ça va?”  “Oui, ça va” and it was. I loved that hair cut! 

Ignore the bad posture, but focus on the cute Parisian hat & fun hair.

The Parisian Hair Salon

Two years later, my hair was the longest it had been since middle school, who has the time/money/energy to keep up a short hair style in college? Come to think of it, I’m not quite sure how I keep it up now… which is another main factor in trying to grow out my hair… relatively speaking, this style is low maintenance. It takes essentially no styling, which is awesome, but I have to get my hair cut every 6-8 weeks so it doesn’t grow into an awkward duck tailed mullet. Nothing says “hey boys I’m single” like an awkward duck tailed mullet. 

Two years later, gorgeous tresses & fun times had by all

 

 

 

 

Present Days... still having fun, still loving the hair, just ready for a change

And so my morning routine includes a Biotin supplement, a pre-natal vitamin,  and occasionally a hot oil scalp massage. Side note, you want to talk about awkward, try purchasing a pre-natal vitamin at the local health food store. Um hello, the one place in town where I run into most people I know on a regular basis. I snuck down the vitamin aisle praying that there were no familiar faces. The clerk gave me a knowing look as I checked out. I wanted to say “um no, not preggo, just growing out my hair, thanks!” but I didn’t know her, and figured she probably wouldn’t be spreading any pregnancy rumors about me, so I smiled back, and hurriedly ran out of the store. Next time, I will probably buy them at costco or somewhere just to add a little extra anonymity. But just to reiterate, there are no babies here, there will be no babies here, I’m just growing out my hair. Hopefully anyone/ everyone rummaging through my medicine cabinet will have read this blog, because that is one rumor I don’t want going around McMinnville. I might forever be branded as the girl who walked down 3^rd street with her skirt tucked into her underwear, but lets not add any baby rumors to the mix. Please and thank you.

For the record, I think they are working. I’ve noticed some significant grow out in the last month, not to mention that my fingernails look great. I’ve only been taking the Biotin for about two weeks, but at the very least, I feel like I’m being proactive. The Elle article pretty much just said that I should be massaging my scalp more regularly… I’ll probably continue with the hot oil treatments (confession, I’m using the really high quality olive oil on my hair and skin… frivolous and ridiculous? Maybe.  I’m adding this to the “like” column of things I like and dislike about my job). 

But this is getting real rambly, and a certain bulldog is completely over my blogging efforts,  (I've gotten about 5 not to subtle head butts in the last few minutes). I think that means it's bed time.

The Week ends the Week begins

He wakes up in the morning
Does his teeth bite to eat and he's rolling
Never changes a thing
The week ends the week begins- Ants Marching: Dave Matthews Band

I've been listening to a lot of Dave Matthews Band lately... it seems to help with a bit of the sanity issue, and Ants Marching has been running through my head all day, probably because it mirrors my own life right now.It’s finally the crazy season at work, meaning weekends are booked, I'm running from meeting to meeting, and I’m lucky if I get home before its dark outside. I’m perfectly ok with all of this since I do get really great commission from all of my summer functions, but there are days it is easier than others. I’m currently on day 7 of an 18 day work stretch, and I just cussed out my neighbors dogs… clearly something is taking a bit of a toll. I love the summer time, but its weeks like these where the days blur together, the work week technically resets, but the hours feel like they are still accumulating (have I worked 51 hours this week or 70? Its hard to say.) Do not pass a weekend, do not collect days off, go directly to work and wait 2 weeks, or have a nervous breakdown and take a personal day, whichever comes first.  (kidding). It’s the kind of week where everything is scheduled, my workouts, my meals, my blogging time, sleeping… there is almost no room for spontaneity… which is a little sad. The best thing about summer is spontaneity. Hopefully I’ll be able to grab some, even if its only for 15 minutes here and there.   ("Take these chances, place them in a box until a quieter time")

I spent a good portion of my last day off doing some meal planning for this week. I made salad dressings, washed lettuce, stocked up on vegetable (and coffee). Because when life gets this busy its hard to eat healthy. There were some days this week I ended up with drive through burritos, and others with jam sandwiches (but hey the jam was home-made…) but by the time the weekend hit, I had lost all motivation for packed lunches and healthy options. And apparently today I lost all motivation whatsoever, because when I left work today tired, grouchy and totally famished. I worked through lunch, had meetings all afternoon, and an evening event. My less than inspired container of quinoa sat alone in the fridge, untouched all day. My snacks throughout the day consisted of croutons and Diet Coke… This is of course terrible, because when work sucks the life out of you, it’s pretty important to eat a normal meal, and not just a handful of toasty bread here and there. So  I stopped at the store on my way home in search of my sanity, and some inspiration… I think I found both. I impulse bought an Elle magazine, but I also came away with a bag of Parmesan cheese and a plan to make Pesto.  

After I yelled at the neighbor dogs --they are super mean, and terrorize Toby endlessly , and they were being awful… I didn’t just come home and take out my Hanger (hungry anger) on them--  I turned on Pandora, got out the cuisinart, poured myself a glass of rosé and made a giant vat of pesto. Pasta wasn’t on the planned menus, but it was delicious, and satisfying and everything I needed after a long day. We harvested ton of basil from the garden this weekend, and it was desperately needing to get used... and when life gives you copious amounts of basil, obviously the only sensible thing to do is make pesto.

I never follow a recipe for pesto (the cheesy voice in my head just said “I just follow my heart”).  I think the best recipes are often ones you just throw together. My roommate is out in the wilderness for a few days, and she left a bunch of kale in the Fridge, I added that in for a little extra oomph and greenness.  4-5 cloves of garlic, handful after handful of basil, a sprinkling of pine nuts, salt, pepper, agave nectar, and a generous generous helping of grassy olive oil, and of course some parmesan cheese  blended together into a sauce of goodness.  I’m quite sure the best (and at this point, maybe the only) perk of being single is that I can eat as much damn garlicky pesto as I want. The roommate is gone, the bulldog doesn’t care, and my belly is full of delicious pasta… never mind if the garlic is coming out of my pores. Over-share?… probably. Delicious?... Definitely. 

Coleslaw and all good patriotic things

Happy 4th of July!

Last night I was overcome by the need to celebrate in a big way today. I think its because the 4th of July is essentially like the Thanksgiving of the summer (at least for me) I love being able to have a day to sleep in, cook amazing food, hang out with family and friends, a bottle of chilled wine, BBQs, and relaxing. Ever since I was a little girl I loved getting all decked out in my festive red, white, and blue outfits, going to the local parade (sometimes being in the local parade) heading to the rodeo, eating watermelon. Things haven't changed much. I'm not going to a parade or a rodeo today, but I am in the process of giving myself a somewhat patriotic pedicure, and I will be heading to two different BBQs this afternoon and this evening.  Sadly, McMinnville no longer does fireworks, but I'm not entirely sure how my troll of a dog would handle them anyway.

Since I'm going to two different gatherings with two sets of friends, I might have gone a little overboard in my festive cooking. I can't help it, the 4th of July rolls around and I'm suddenly unable to stop myself from whipping up salads and BBQ items.

Today I am making:
Coleslaw
a crunchy cucumber salad
Watermelon salad with mint & pineapple sage (and there may or may not be two trays of red & blue jello in the fridge).

Coleslaw Dressing - Courtesty of my Grandmothers Church cookbook.

3/4 C Mayonnaise
1/2 C. oil  (I used olive oil)
2 tbsp. lemon juice
1/4 C sugar
1 tsp mustard
1 tsp grated onion.

Mix all together with a beater.

I opted to shake the dressing in a jar instead, and I also added poppy seeds.

After making the dressing I had the following conversation with my mother.

Mom"what is wrong with the dressing?"
me "what do you mean?"
Mom "what did you do to it?"
me "what do you mean?"
Mom "Why does it look like that?"
me "what do you mean? how is it supposed to look?"


If you would like to avoid that conversation, I would suggest blending the coleslaw dressing. If you don't care about having that conversation/ plan on using the dressing regardless of what it looks like I think it is fine just to shake it in a jar add it to the cabbage, shot gun a beer, and have a great day.   (shot gunning a beer is optional). 

12 moves in 9 years... does that make me insane?

I’m in the stage of moving where there is light at the end of the tunnel, but its going to get a lot worse before it gets better. There are piles on the floor, some of them for Goodwill, some of them for the trash, some of them to pack (hopefully they don’t get mixed up).  All the tables, shelves, and all furniture that could get things off of the floor have been moved already, and the only thing left to stack things on is the couch or my bed (and I’d like to utilize them both for another day or two). The walls are bare, the closet is empty… I’m not even sure if I have anything besides a shirt to wear tomorrow, but I’ll figure it out.

I’m not overwhelmed or panicky, the end is in sight, but I am a little exhausted, and of course its right about now that I question the overall sanity of moving. I know exactly why I’m moving, and I’m thrilled to be moving, but since graduating college in 2007, I have moved a total of 6 times.  6 times in five years. Count back through college, and when you realize that I lived in a different dorm or apartment every year, and spent two summers in campus housing, I’ve actually moved  12 times in the past 9 years. Please God let this be the last time for a good long while! Saying it out loud makes me question my own sanity. Am I a glutton for punishment? In my defense, moving into and out of a dorm room isn’t really all that challenging… what do you have besides clothes and books, and maybe a mini fridge, and a tv? College apartments weren’t that much different… sure I accumulated a few additional things… a desk here, a twin bed there, but most of my major house-hold items I didn’t acquire until after graduation.  I once read that buying furniture is the dumbest thing I college graduate can do, because then you feel tied down to a place. “Oh I don’t want to move across the country for graduate school, I bought this really nice couch and I don’t want to sell it!”  and miraculously enough I have yet to buy a single piece of furniture larger than a fold up bookshelf.  My parents ended up downsizing/ selling their house the year that I graduated, and in that transition I obtained my childhood bedroom furniture (which was my aunt’s childhood bedroom furniture), two wicker love seats, a kitchen table, two benches, and two bookshelves. I’ve since traded in the love seats for a couch (also from my parents. I had the couch my Junior  year of college, then my brother took it when he graduated, and I took it back when he got married). I downsized the kitchen table (again, took it back from my brother)… and all of these things I have moved within a two mile radius 6 times… Yeah, I’m certifiable.

But I’ve timed my moves in such a way, that by the time I decide to move I have conveniently forgotten the hassle and terror of moving. My first place out of college I lived in with a roommate. We signed a year long lease, and all was peachy. After that first year, she moved in with her boyfriend, and I moved into a little shoe box of a loft… the kind that dreams are made of. It had brick walls, and small appliances, and I could almost reach out and touch either side of my bedroom walls… but it was quaint and perfect. It overlooked the weekly farmers market, it was right down town, it was charming. I lived there for a year and a half crammed happily into the tiny space until the much larger apartment next door opened up. It was literally 3 times the size, with just as much charm. Skylight, giant kitchen, great pantry, bigger bathroom… there was even room to hula hoop. I lived there for a glorious 3 months before getting notice that the building had sold and was going to be turned into vacation rentals. Had situations been different, I’m convinced I would still be living in that apartment. My life would not be the same. I wouldn’t have a passion for gardening, and I probably wouldn’t have a bulldog, but the only reason I moved from that apartment was because I was forced. The kitchen was amazing, it had cheery yellow walls, and fabulous vaulted ceilings. I was utterly in love with that apartment.  The next apartment was a panic move. It wasn’t terrible, but when working on a deadline and not wanting to sign a lease, you have to take what you can find. It was in a charming house with a great yard, awkward carpet in the kitchen, and a tin porch that would burn your feet at the mere thought of going outside. It had a large-ish bathroom, and two smallish rooms, and the weirdest lowest ceiling and door frames. My downstairs neighbor would smoke a pack a day on the porch, all while her Chihuahua sat on her shoulder like a parrot. It was an apartment, but not my best. So after a year there, and a bad breakup I was ready for a change. I told myself “moving is a pain, I’m not going to bother unless I find the perfect apartment” and lo and behold. Here I am. Its not perfect, but its quaint, I could paint, it had a garden, and my landlord wrote a bulldog clause into the lease. It’s close to perfect.   And yet, here I am moving again… hopefully for the last time.

I wasn’t even thinking about moving. I was thinking about what to plant in my garden when my parents put a bug in my ear about looking for a house. I have always had real-estate lust, but never really thought about seriously looking for a “home”. It seemed too permanent, too grown up, too scary. And then suddenly it didn’t. My parents decided that they wanted to put money into a house and asked if I would rent it from them, with the idea that maybe in a few years if I’m still in the area and still happy here that I will take over the loan from them. In the meantime my rent will be going towards the mortgage.

We looked at a few houses, one in particular that I loved, but that didn’t work out. I was pretty bummed, but knew that something else would come along, something better. And a few weeks later it did. From the outside the house was nothing special, and really the inside wasn’t overly impressive either. But this house was oozing with potential. Walking in I could picture living there almost instantly, and then I saw the backyard. The house itself is an ½ an acre with 14 raised beds, a plethora of berry bushes and fruit trees, a size-able lawn, and gorgeous landscaping. One look and I knew that I was home.  

And somehow it makes moving a little easier. It’s a little less stressful, and a little less overwhelming, and definitely less frantic.  I’m sure once I’m in the new place the stress and anxiety will come. The never-ending yard work, the unpacking and settling, the new roommate dynamic, the sharing of the space. It is all going to be an adjustment. 

I think what I’m most nervous about is that I fell in love with the house and its potential almost immediately. My new roommate did not. Which I suppose is the challenge of committing to live with someone before you actually see where you are living. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into and I knew the changes that I was going to make to the house. She came in with no knowledge of the house, and I think she was a little underwhelmed/ disappointed when she saw it.  Though she is a really creative person, I don't think she was using her imagination when it came to the house.  Her initial reaction was “well I don’t love the house, but its my only option.” Which was actually a little heartbreaking for me. There I was, super excited about the place, my new home, and my new roommate was less than thrilled about living there… not exactly the kind of energy I was hoping to come home to. She couldn’t see past the oak trim and the icky siding.   But now that the new paint is on the walls, the trim and doors are hidden under a classic grey, the carpets are cleaned, and the curtains are down and the new siding is almost up,  she is a little more enthusiastic about moving in. Its just hard because every minute I spend at the new place I fall more and more in love with it, and it becomes more and more my home, and I can’t quite wrap my head around living with someone who doesn’t feel the same way. I want to live with someone who loves living there.  I am really excited to have a roommate again, and I hope that once we settle in things will begin to mesh.

Regardless, I’ll be in within the week, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to be moving into my new home. Before and After pictures coming soon! I forgot to take pictures before I started to move in... so the after pictures will probably be a little cluttery...

But in the mean time, a little teaser.