Little Pissy Gnats, Hairdos I have Known & House
Everyone’s been flushing the toilet properly at work, the dogs aren’t pooping on the carpet, the goat poop is old news and my poop is nothing to write home about, so I’m going to have to write about more mature subjects this day....

Let’s start with the bugs in my office. Not big bugs, not crawly bugs—teeny weeny flying bugs that fly in the face and up the nostrils. You know, the kind that come zipping out of houseplants. My office is filled with plants and now it’s filled with these damn bugs. I’ll be sitting there doing counseling when suddenly I look like I’m having an outburst of Tourette’s—I swat those pesky asswipes right out of my face, snort, smack my hands together; then, I apologize to the client for the freakish movements I have just made. Forget the bug spray—I’ve saturated my poor plants with insect spray, to no avail. The wife says I should just throw out my plants and start over. I don’t think she likes my indoor garden—she says my plants are ugly. Buggy, but not ugly. I can’t get rid of my plants—who else will I talk to if they’re gone?

Today, I get a new hairdo. (Why I thought of this after writing about bugs, I don’t know. I don’t have bugs in my hair…well, not that I know of…) Getting a new hairdo is not really big news, as I get a new hairdo about as often as people change their underwear. I’m hoping for some bright, bold colors for the summer. You may be asking, “why don’t you just ask for some bright, bold colors if you want them?” BECAUSE MY HAIR IS NOT MY OWN. My hair belongs to the stylist and that is that. I think I need therapy about this. (No, that's not me or my hairstylist. It's just some photo ripped off of Google, although I have had this buzz cut...)

The PTHD (post traumatic hair disorder) started in 1985 when I started seeing my then-new Hair-Nazi. I told her I wanted something shorter for the summer. Understand that my hair was down to the middle of my back—long. Well, she buzzed it all off—truly—she gave me a crew cut—and left a foot long tail on the side of my head. (Ah, the days of the tail. Takes me back to “Til Tuesday” Voices Carry.) It took me a week before I would open my apartment door after that first shaving of the head. From there, she provided me with a blonde Mohawk (admittedly, one of my personal favorites), a red shag, even a dead-cat-looking perm (NOT one of my favorites). I had tails and no tails; color and no color; bangs and no bangs. I had “chunks” and I had highlights and lowlights and no lights. I dared not interfere with the Hair Nazi; I was TERRIFIED of her, as we all were. Her goal was to get ahold of everyone’s hair on our softball team and dye their hair bright red--a whole team of redheads. To each their own. She was an ARTIST. Not a beautician. Not a stylist. Not a hair washer. (Don’t ever make that mistake: they SHAMPOO your hair, not wash your hair; you don’t shampoo your face, do you? No. So, don’t say you wash your hair or the Hair Nazi will shampoo your face for you.) An ARTIST, albeit a scary one. I was a work of art, her canvas.

I made my escape to a new stylist after 15+ years with the Hair Nazi. I had to make the break—Hair Nazi had been sucked into the world of drugs and gambling and yuckiness, god love her…I couldn’t keep going to her. It was horrible. I sweated. I worried. I avoided Hair Nazi like the plague. How could I tell her I was getting a new stylist? This is a lady that yelled, “YOU CUT YOUR BANGS!” one day when I walked in to her shop. Not “Hello.” Not “How are you?” Not anything but “YOU CUT YOUR BANGS!” (Yea, I had cut my bangs. My bad. But, how bout a hello next time before screaming at me?) The Hair Nazi ruled the hair world. It was painful and horrific but I made the break: I turned my hair over to another fine hair artist…but she, too got sucked in to the drug world. What is it about me and hair stylists and drugs? I ran like hell from that one—an easier break as she was relatively new to me and my hair.

So, today I go see my non-drugging-non-scary-but-quite-pregnant hair stylist. Sure, I finally find one who is relatively normal and she goes and gets pregnant. Rude! I told her I’m going to stalk her at her home so she gives me haircuts while on maternity leave. I'll sit in her front yard until she gives me a cut. Today, I'm hoping for something shorter for the summer, with bright, bold colors...as long as it's not a crew cut.

Finally, random thoughts: how about the season finale of HOUSE? Woof! Any show that features an exploding eyeball and exploding testicle is all right with me. As for the Dixie Chicks, I am going to buy their album just to piss off all those good-ol'-white-boy-war-loving-Republicans. As for the goats (see previous blog), did you know they remove the poor goat's testicles with an "elasticator?" That means they basically squeeze a tight rubber band around the tidbits and wait for them to dry up and fall off. Eeeew! It would be better if they blew up like it did on HOUSE...sure sounds painful. No wonder I'm a vegetarian--I can't stand the thought of castrating (or elasticating) those poor animals without any pain med or shot. I'd be a lousy farmer, but I'd have a great hairdo.