Bad Bang

In a fit of pique, I hacked my bangs like a 15 yr old in a love triangle. In fact, I haven’t butchered my hair like this since I was a 15 yr old in a love triangle.

 

While I am prone to both the hair brush throwing hissy fit and the occasional boogered up bang job, rarely do I break anything or cause (semi) irreparable damage. But this is bad, y’all. It’s a real bad sign.

The other day, after picking the shells off the umpteenth hardboiled egg, I went postal on a particularly stubborn one and just crushed the whole damn thing in my fist and threw it in the sink. The crunch of the shell combined with the warm squoosh of the innards was so satisfying that I did it again on a perfectly innocent one. There is no comin back from a smooshed-ass egg, y’all. Major irreparable.

Out of two dozen eggs, four of them felt the wrath of my pre-menopausal impatience.

Cheaper than therapy; easier on the liver than Merlot.

When my brand new Stick Vac quit after sweeps, I held it over my head and aimed it out the window. The image of having to clean up all that shattered glass without said Stick Vac stopped me before I let her fly. So I walked outside and tossed it, with great indignation, into the yard.

Then, of course, I picked all the grass out of the handle, found the receipt and took it back to Meijer.

See? I’m not a hysterical 47 year old, hormonal lunatic.

My sweet Stud Muffin totally agreed with me when I asked them that very question just this morning while I was using his super-sharp filet knife to carve up a chicken. He gently took the knife from my hand, agreed wholeheartedly that I was not psycho and graciously offered to finish all that nasty cutting. He’s a pip, that one.

So the whole hair whack job has me in a dither.

I’m going to have to go to my hair chick and admit to cutting my own bangs. Then I’ll have to admit to the Hissy Fit. Then she’ll sweetly ask what on earth was wrong? And then I’ll have to admit that it was nothing more than me being tired of tucking that little patch we were trying to grow out behind my ear every five freakin’ seconds.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about tucking it behind your ear now, do we, honey?”

Witch.

Then she’ll talk me into layers so my bangs will blend. Which will look great after she puts three brands of goop in it, blows it, curls it, fluffs it and lacquers it down but will look like living hell after two seconds on the boat or in the Jeep or in the morning FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Oh my. Oh my my…

This is when Brittany got the scissors out. This is when Carrie Underwood carved her name in the leather seats. This is when Charlie popped open the Tiger Juice.

But not me, y’all. Southern women are bred for civility and gracious forbearance.

This is when I uncork the bottle.

My name ain’t Anita Merlot for nothin’….

Wanna Boogie?

In the grand scheme of things, a booger hanging out of your nose is not monumental. It wasn’t even a very big booger – it was peeking out quite politely, as far as boogers go.

It’s the discovery that is jarring.

How long has it been there?
How many people have I talked to?
How adorable did I think I was being while this booger was mocking me?

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when I got pulled over this morning for going 85 in a 55. I distinctly remember checking my lip-gloss in the mirror and practicing my “Golly Gosh Officer Sweetie Pie” grin.

Which, by the way, has never, ever gotten me out of a ticket. I have a lot of looks but “innocent” has never been one of them. I look alarmingly like Anita Spanken.

Today I must have looked like southern fried Fudge because my Texas license and, yes, dern dang adorable drawl kept me out of the pokey. I think a booger would have blown it for me, don’t you?

I met my Studmuffin for lunch and he didn’t say anything. Well, that’s not true – he said lots of things – but he never mentioned errant mucus. Although he’s the kind of guy that might just let it hang there for a cheap laugh.

It was only after a very serious conversation with a wig-fitter did I make the dread discovery. The horror!

Despite my effort to be business-like while surrounded by disembodied, yet well coiffed plastic heads, it was a challenge trying to describe the exact dimensions and hue that a chick like me requires.

Evidently “Big Ole Texas Hair” is not that common Up North. She needs details.

“Big.”, I say gesturing around my head. “Tall and big and… big.”

Blank stare. “What era?”

“Era? I don’t know… Texas!” More gesturing. “Texas Hair transcends an era!”

Crickets….

I feel like my father-in-law playing Pictionary. He draws two lines and then does Hurry Up Hands for the remaining 3:45 minutes.

I throw out more examples: NFL Cheerleaders, Miss America, Cher, Beyonce.
I actually watch the light bulb snap on above her head as she starts to form the mental picture. It was more like watching the florescent bulb in the garage flicker and slowly gain strength, but it was illumination. I’ll take it.

“What color?”

“A nice merlot, please.”

Do you think she thought I was a lunatic and felt too sorry for me to point out the booger? Like, that little booglet was the least of my issues?

She did look a little scared. I get that a lot. I always thought it was the accent. Or the cleavage.

Which brings us back to Officer Sweetie Pie….