So, I got my hair cut yesterday—a short bob. In my attempts to grow it out, I get to about the same length each time only to decide that long hair is not the most flattering look on me, and then I cut it.
There is a hair salon that I like, and I go there. It is convenient. The prices are about average. The people are nice. It is as much as you can expect here at the edge of the world. I do, however, have a serious complaint about their conditioner. The conditioner that they use on my hair smells something powerful and not in a pleasant way. It makes my brain hurt. I am pretty sure that it contains industrial strength chemicals and will result in some debilitating scalp disease 30 years from now. Mr. F. can’t come within a yard of me before his throat constricts and he can no longer breathe. I don’t need to tell you that this is a very bad thing.
When I came home from yoga yesterday, I washed it three times with some very strong peppermint and tea tree oil shampoo. I let the conditioner soak into my hair for a very long time. It did nothing besides making the scent stronger because my hair was wet. In desperation, Mr. F. asked after dinner if I could wash my hair again. So, we hightailed it back up to the bathroom to wash it a few more times.
That is when it happened. I caught a full-strength whiff of my hair and suddenly felt very, very ill. Instead of heading for the tub to wash my hair, I headed for the toilet. And threw up.
I don’t throw up…..ever. I can’t remember the last time I actually did. I get nauseous, but I hate the feeling of throwing up so much that I fight against it. But there I was casting my cookies into the porcelain bowl.
And Mr. F. held back my newly cut hair as I was doing it.
Is it wrong to think that is sweet? Because I was deeply touched. I had eaten spaghetti that night. Do you know what spaghetti looks like coming back up? Pretty much like it does going down. And there he was, holding my hair back and not being utterly disgusted by my nastiness. That, people, is true love. If I wasn’t smitten before, I would be now.
Two more hair washes later, and the smell (from my hair, in case you were wondering) was tolerable. Meaning that I could give Mr. F. a hug and not have him go into anaphylactic shock.
There are two lessons to be learned here.
1) Use shampoo with natural ingredients, and don’t be afraid to tell your stylist no when it comes to brain-cell-killing products.
2) Find someone who will battle with you in the trenches*. Trenches are a fact of life people. They are not bucolic pastures filled with wildflowers, but rather muddy, disgusting holes. You don’t want a lightweight** in there with you.
*I known absolutely nothing about actual trenches besides what I have read in novels, and that is sorely limited. I also have no idea why I am sporting war analogies all of a sudden.
**I also know nothing about wrestling or boxing. I despise them as a sport, yet I can’t help myself from using derived terminology.