Life of the Lintee Bean

Geeze, I sound rather obsessive about my hair, given this is my second (or is it THIRD) post about my hair!

Nothing could be further from the truth.  I really don’t care about my hair, as is obvious if you’ve seen me.  Even if something goes horribly wrong with my hair, I rarely worry about it.  Hair eventually grows back/out.    No problem.  I can look hideous for a while, doesn’t bother me.  I don’t have to look at myself.

I do go through periods where I want a change, though, and hair’s pretty easy to change – much easier than, say, my face, or body, or home, or life.

So, as I noted before, I’m growing my hair out a bit.  I’m in that “waiting” or “transitional” mode.  So, there’s no change… definitely not the satisfaction from growing hair out as in drastically suddenly cutting it much shorter.  While I’m waiting, I decided maybe I’d *color* my hair.  I’ve colored it in the past.  I was a redhead for almost a decade – varying shades of red, in fact.  Bright red.  Auburn.  Copper.

My friend Heather worked in a salon and attempted to put the fear of dye into me.  She told me horror stories of the many awful home-dye jobs she’d seen.  I’ll admit, she made me nervous.  In fact, I started looking at other womens’ hair more carefully, and noting different color roots or odd streaks – and thinking perhaps those weren’t intentional.

First time back in the hair color aisle, I decided to pick up a semi-permanent in “Amber Shimmer”.  Not drastically different from my natural color.  I was pretty excited, nonetheless, as I donned my old robe and went to work.  The end result was a disappointment.  In fact, I took before and after pictures – and had trouble telling which was which.  I didn’t want drastic, but coloring my hair the same color really accomplishes nothing at all.

Next time out, I attempted to be more daring – I picked up a “Downtown Brown”.  I carried it around for a week or two, to build up the anticipation.  Again, Heather stepped in to the rescue noting it said “Hi-Lift” and she STRONGLY discouraged me from attempting it at home. 

So, off I go again.  I exchanged the “downtown brown” for “crystal brown” (which didn’t say anything about heavy lifting or hi lifting or any other kind of lifting).  Again, I donned the old robe and got to work.  Again, the result was anticlimatic – no one, including me, could tell I colored my hair. 

Well, today I ventured into the hair color aisle once again.  After much deliberation, I picked up another box (hey!  on sale!).  I don’t know that I’ll tell Heather the shade name or number.  I probably won’t attempt to actually USE it until after my next hair appointment – so if it’s a horrible failure there’s time to fix it or shave it or leave the country before my stylist sees it.   So, I plan on setting it on a shelf at home and considering it for the next three weeks.  Let the anticipation build. 

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I noted that what WAS my favorite radio station had gone from all music, few comments, to all talk all the time. Thus began my quest, once again, to find a tolerable radio station.

Yes, I’ve heard of satelite radio, like Sirius. Friends have attempted me to subscribe. I look at the information and feel like my head is going to explode. I just want a little box in the rooms I spend the most time in that I can turn on and music will come out. That’s all I want. Really.

So, I spent several mornings looking for a radio station that played music. Even if it wasn’t entirely music, as long as there were no idiotic DJs making idiotic comments that annoyed me. I deal with enough annoying people. I’m not inviting their comments into my home via radio waves.

I finally stumbled across one! They play music. Minor interruptions for ads. No DJs. Yay!

The downside: They’re “light” and “soft”. Every time they profess how light and soft they are, I feel ancient as the hills. I’m listening to my mother’s music. I try to take some solace in the fact they are not only “light” and “soft” but also “fresh” – but really, who am I kidding?

Reminds me – I need to delete my old radio station from my MySpace friends. Take THAT! I’m sure they’ll be devastated.

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I am NOTORIOUS for being late.  When my friend is running late for work, she calls it “Lynette-ing”.  I’m not late to everything, but I’m always late to work.  Mornings aren’t for me.  It’s always been a character flaw – I was late for grade school every morning, late for high school, late for college, late for work.  Late, late, late.   In my last performance review at work, one of the “goals” I was given was to get to work no more than 30 minutes late.  I did well for a month or two, until I was back in my old hour-late pattern.

During a typical night, I’m woken a few times between 2:00 and 4:00, so I’ve just fallen back asleep when I should be getting up – making it nearly impossible for me to drag my sorry butt out of bed.  I’ll usually land up getting out of bed 45 minutes or an hour past when I should have. 

Last night was thankfully different.  The cats woke me at 11:30, then I slept until almost 5:00 when they woke me again.  By that time, I realized I could just get up.  I’d be getting out of bed about 45 minutes before my alarm went off.  So, there I was… two hours ahead of my usual schedule.  It felt pretty great.  I hydrated, medicated, and fed the cats, got myself ready – I was even making great time.

It didn’t matter.  I got to work 15 minutes late.  It’s like some eerie black hole or time warp.  I just CAN’T get to work on time.  It’s as though the universe won’t allow it.  You know those sci-fi shows where the hero can time travel, but has to avoid running into himself or he’ll destroy the time-space continuum?  Perhaps if I was to work on time, I’d ruin some delicate balance.  I don’t know.  I do know there was a better selection of breakfast pastries at work at this earlier time.

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