I'm not a person who looks for signs and messages along Life's Road. I'm a person who trips over them, splits my pants, looks around to see if anyone saw me crash and burn, and then keeps going. I remember when I was a little girl my mother would roll her eyes and comment, "Dear Lord, she's oblivious..." while watching me walk into walls, trip over logs, and ride my bike into the backs of parked cars. (Yeah... that happened. Sadly, more than once.)
I would always get offended and butthurt and insist that I was anything BUT oblivious; in fact, I was pretty darn astute. (I was usually insisting this while on my way to the ER to get stitches, a tetanus shot, or to see if I had a concussion, but I never seemed to make the connection.) It wasn't until I was older and had an equally oblivious child of my own that the lightbulb came on over my head and I went, "OHHHHhhhhh..."
Unfortunately, after my big "Ah-HA!" moment, I went right back to being oblivious. But at least now I acknowledge it. Like Dr. Phil says, "You can't change what you don't acknowledge." He says that a lot. And I always nod my head and think, "Home boy is WISE, yo..." Okay, not... but it does make sense. (In Real Life I'm a chubby middle-aged, middle-class white chick, but in my head? I'm totally hard core gangsta and shit.)
ANYway... Where all this is leading is to the part where the Universe has been telling me for decades to leave my freaking hair alone. Just leave it alone. Stop cutting it yourself, stop coloring it yourself, stop high-lighting it yourself, just LEAVE IT ALONE. (I'm sorry if you all were waiting for a big ol' freaking life changing epiphany, but if you haven't figured it out yet, I'm really not that deep. I know, right? Sad but true.) I started chopping at my own hair when I was around 14 years old and I haven't stopped. And I rarely have enviable results. I've chopped, snipped, whacked, clipped, sawed, and shaved my head into every conceivable disaster imaginable. I've inadvertently dyed my hair black (who knew "Deep Orchid" was black?? I thought it was dark purple, which for some reason at the time was my hair coloring goal), crimson, green, orange, purple (not on purpose that time, though honestly I have no idea what color I thought "Burgundy" was going to be, duh), grayish, bronzish, blue-ish, yellowish, pinkish, white-ish.... Pick a color, any color, and I can guarangoddamntee that at one time or another, my hair has been that shade. Sometimes on purpose, more often not.
You would honestly think that at some point along the way I would have said to myself, "Ya know? This really isn't a good idea. You've spent more money correcting your hair than you would have spent if you'd just paid someone to do it right the first time." But it isn't how much it costs, which is probably the problem: It's that I'm impatient and (okay, truth time) I just really like changing my hair. I get a vision, I spy a pair of scissors or a box of hair color, and I go for it.
Which leads me to last night.
Dan was at his parent's house for the evening, with my car, which left me stuck at home alone with his truck, which I refuse to drive. (It's a ridonkulously pimped out blue pickup with flames on it. Flames. I am not now and have never been a teen-age boy, so I think it's dumb. So I don't drive it.) I happened to notice a highlighter kit underneath the bathroom sink. Hmmmmm, I thought, You know what my hair needs? Blonde bangs. For shizzle. Bingo bango, I whipped up the mixture, pulled my hair back in a head band, plucked out some chunks of my bangs, and gobbed on the highlighter. I set the timer, sat down on the couch, and turned on the tv to wait out my time.
While I was sitting there, I decided to take off my bra. I was wearing a spaghetti strapped tank top, it was hot, my bra was uncomfortable and overly padded and wired and I thought the girls deserved a break after being all upholstered and perky for 12 hours or so. As I was removing my bra (from underneath my tank top... you know, sliding the straps down and pulling the damn thing off through one of the arm holes) I received a text message.
For about an hour I was completely distracted with texting a friend back and forth.
Then I checked my Facebook status.
Then my son called.
Then Dan called.
Then I received a knock on the door, which I got up and answered. It was the UPS man, who handed me a small package and had me sign the stupid little electronic thingy, which I did.
I sat back down on the couch and reached up to scratch my head, which had begun itching...
And THAT is when I remembered I had highlighter in my bangs.
I flew into the bathroom and looked frantically into the mirror, which is when I noticed that my bra was half off and my straps were hanging out the arm holes of my tank top.
Wanted. To. DIE.
Also now have brittle, orange bangs.
The Universe called... AGAIN. Pick up the phone, jackass.