What? Do you think I'm taking a turn for the shallow, since yesterday I talked about how classy I think Lady Gaga is? Well, it's either my hair or I treat you to what's actually going on in my head right now, which would be an angry, curse-filled, angry, bitter, scathing, angry rant about our school district and how kids with disabilities are getting screwed out of an education. But I'm trying to be less angry here at Y.GT. (I don't actually call it that, but it seems pretty snazzy, so maybe just for this post), so I will spare you guys from that rant (and about how this kid, the son of my friend, isn't learning shit and just sits in the back of the classroom all day long because his teachers don't know what to do with him and how they have now placed all the responsibility for educating this child on the shoulders of his parents, who are accountants and not teachers, while they say things like "he seems tired, why don't you let him get enough sleep at night?" and "first put him on meds, and then we'll come back in a month to see if he's still not learning shit" [I'm possibly paraphrasing] and they fucking stall and stall and stall because maybe he'll be out of their school by the time anybody notices that he still hasn't learned anything, besides, it's not like he was going to do well on The Test, anyway, so why bother teaching him to read if he can't even boost their scores?) Oh, shit. I said I wasn't going to go there. Sorry, sorry, sorry.... Ignore everything between the parentheses back there. Here, I'll distract you with something shiny ---> CLICK HERE FOR SHINY THINGS! Ahhhh. That's better. Okay, back to my hair.....
I have awesome hair. I do. It's one of a very few things about myself that I will unabashedly say is awesome. Here, check it out, keeping in mind that it's very very difficult to take a picture of your own hair....
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| It just comes out of my head like this!! |
So, my hair is awesome. The only thing I don't like about my hair, though, is when it sticks to the side of my face, which it will sometimes do when it's humid. I hate it, I feel like I'm fucking suffocating. And I pay a guy (we'll call him "John," which is actually very convenient, since that's his name) a shitload of money every few months to keep it contained and from turning into an out of control jewfro. John is fucking awesome, himself. He's this skater, surfer dude, completely covered from head to toe in tattoos. He's hilariously funny and is the only person in the world that I've met, other than my husband, who knows as many Simpsons references as I do. He's also told me before that I've changed his life; because I tell him about Child 1 and autism and his entire perspective about the world and child raising has been altered because of me. Pretty fucking cool, John.
Okay, so, it was 2 days before Thanksgiving and I was sick; rushing around getting things ready for the ton of people I was expecting, and I was having one of those stick-to-my-face hair days and it was making. me. crazy. So, see.... what I did was..... uh, before I could thoroughly think it through..... I took a pair of giant office scissors to the piece of hair that was sticking to my cheek and I just chopped that fucker right off. Right to the scalp. I immediately thought "uh-oh" and I ran to the phone and called the salon and asked for an appointment. "TELL JOHN I BROKE MY HAIR AND I NEED HIM TO FIX IT." But it was 2 days before Thanksgiving and I wasn't able to see him. So, I just sucked it up. I mean, what was he going to do about it, anyway? He can't make my hair grow, he can only cut. It was actually quite nice; no more hair stuck to the side of my face! Ahhhhh. Relief.
I finally went in to see him about 3 months later where he reminded me of the following: "it's only going to get worse before it gets better." Because the thing about my awesome hair is that it grows OUT before it grows down. Its hairy instinct is to go straight out to the side, and only when it has enough weight does it head south. So, what he meant was that for a while I'm going to have a big fucking tuft of hair sticking out of the side of my head, until it's heavy enough to be able to lie down with the rest of its hairy brethren. He recommended Pomade. Thanks, John.
So, much like a child with a disability that prevents him from learning in the classroom without support, who first has to fail before the district will even try to provide any necessary services, my hair must first get worse before it can get better, and I am in that stage now. With a big fucking tuft of hair sticking out of the side of my head. You don't get a picture.
