An ode to restraint

It all began innocently enough. It always does. But one false move, and now I must wear the consequences for a long time.

Literally.

I’m not sure why I decided it was a good idea to trim those nasty dry bits on the ends of my hair. I suppose I figured that a few well placed snips, and several millimetres of lost dead ends, and I would start the day feeling much sleeker.

It wasn’t really that initial decision that was the problem. It was the subsequent one involving ‘neatening’ one of my side layers. (Which, I might add, was poorly cut by a very expensive stylist and has been bothering me ever since.)

It was merely a small, diagonal incision, designed to rectify the unsightly imbalance.

Dang.

It wasn’t meant to look like that. I’ll just make a few more adjustments until I get it looking right… a slippery slope, indeed.

Oh come on, Trina! Why did you start this ridiculous process? You saw what you did to your own Barbies in 1983!!!

I know I shouldn’t play hairdresser (which may, or may not, be evidence that I have made similar attempts to cut my own hair in the past). I just assumed it would all be okay this time.

Some things, once done, can never be undone. A hand raised in anger. Spiteful words said aloud. The decision to get behind the wheel after a few drinks. Trimming your own hair.

I find practising self control tedious. I never did it well. But I am learning that a moment of uncomfortable restraint can avert the pain of a thousand needles in your eye. Thankfully my hair will grow back in time, unlike some things that I’ve wrecked in the past. Until then, I’m planning on tilting my head slightly to the right to give the illusion of balance.

I’m not looking forward to explaining this at the salon.

Journey into social demise

I’ve heard there comes an age when a person ceases to care about what other people think. Is it when you hit fifty? Sixty? From there it seems a slippery slope down into utter social breech in the twilight years when you feel it’s your personal responsibility to deliver some home truths. Like when I was told by an elderly chap during my last pregnancy “Wow, you’ve really filled out….and it’s not just the baby!” Thank you very much.

If you asked me if I was heading in that direction, I would give you a flat ‘no’. But I was a bit worried today when I realised I might be further along the continuum than I first thought.

I was pottering along one of my regular runs, and with nothing new to look at I let my mind wander. I started thinking about my shoes and the way they were affecting my stride. A natural thought considering I’m breaking in some new runners.

But then disturbingly, I thought of my socks. My purple socks.

My shoes are lime green with a black tiger pattern. Nice.

But it gets worse. I had on my comfy grey shorts (with a classic fade pattern), a pastel pink and cream singlet, and a black and white running hat.

I was distracted when I left home but I can’t claim to be entirely unaware of the discordance. Holy ham-less burgers Batman, what’s happening to me? I left my house like that without hesitation. I hadn’t done my hair (hence the cap) and wasn’t wearing even a lick of mascara. Did I even put deodorant on? I don’t think so.

Passing traffic honked me. Twice. I’m pretty sure it was in protest of my crimes against fashion and not in any complimentary way.

There is something about saluting my youth and joining the ranks of the next phase of life that freaks me out. I can’t even bring myself to say ‘middle aged’. What if I can’t rock climb anymore? Or kayak? Or wear low rise jeans? What if I have to behave?

Excuse me while I go and colour co-ordinate my underwear and lipstick.

Undetected cerebral activity

I sometimes think about blogging.

I go “Wow, now that would make a great blog”. Then I contemplate the idea for a whole 12 seconds.

Like the other morning at 5am when I woke from a deep slumber to the alarming pain of an eyelash stabbing me in the eyeball. The drama that unfolded - including moaning, gnashing of teeth, a bleary-eyed husband, and running water - was certainly blog worthy. *

Yes, I did consider blogging it.

Then I went and did something else. Like, cleaned the scum from around the dishwasher door with a toothbrush.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy conjuring up vivid pictures that make my life appear dire. No, never that. The thing about sharing ridiculous stories is that they really should have an underlying thought that nudges the more astute readers into the realms of philosophical contemplation (and the less shrewd into... well, wherever the lesser folk go).

And that is sometimes just too much like hard work. Not that writers are unfamiliar with rolling up their (pyjama) sleeves. We are not as lazy as one might imagine. What is happening is a lot of internal brain activity and perhaps not much resulting hand to keyboard action.

Now having stated my case, I have succeeded in undoing my very argument by creating an inconsequential blog listing the merits of refraining from inconsequential blogging.

Interesting.

*Why do they call it ‘an eyelash stuck in my eye’? That’s such an innocuous sounding phrase, isn’t it? I hereby coin the term ‘lightening in my eye socket’.