Listening to: The Raveonettes
Drinking: coconut mocha coffee
Watching: Pee-Wee Herman biography
This morning I woke up angry. It happens. The whole, “wrong side of the bed” thing. Gray skies and rain eased my mood as I drove Md into school though. The morning commute is my favorite, as we both listen to the local college radio station, Album 88. Unfortunately, the suits at Georgia State University thought it would be a great idea to change the programming to Georgia Public Broadcasting between the hours of 5am-7pm. Obviously Atlanta needs more radio stations spewing NPR for hours on end. /sarcasm. Md and I have joined in the fight and are supporting the radio station any way we can- either on Instagram, calling the college president, signing petitions, whatever it takes. College radio is the gateway to brilliant talent and to think that we won’t be able to listen to it until after 7pm in our cars is utter bullshit (of course, we can always listen online at anytime, but that dulls the magic of commuting a bit).
Other than teaching my son how to be active in social issues, it’s been a busy month. I have so many hobby projects going on that I fear I’ll never finish a damn one. There’s two sketch books, a commissioned piece of art, a knitted tam, a needlepoint and building a playlist for an upcoming radio station Md and I want to start. I mean, GAH. Oh and then writing. “Writing.” I don’t know about other writers, but I constantly narrate everything in my head. I’m getting better at jotting things down or typing them into my notes on my phone. I haven’t received any rejection letters on the stacks of poems I shipped off a few weeks ago, so perhaps that’s a good sign.
A few weeks ago, I woke up at 3:14 am, feeling like someone was squeezing my ankle. When I woke up, I saw a small shoe horn shaped light at my ankle. I completely panicked. As in FROZEN with fear. Every night since then, I wake up at exactly 3:14 am. I got in touch with my girlfriend Kasey, texting her the situation that happened. I thought I was maybe overreacting, dreaming or just, I don’t know what. Guess what time she got my text? 3:14. It’s not that I wake up and stay awake, it’s just that my eyes pop open and I reach over, hit the home key on my phone, note the time and say goodnight. I fall right back asleep. Two nights ago, I had a dream that one of the guys from Ghost Adventures was giving me CPR. I felt my arms flailing around to get him off of me, because with each breath, he was pushing ghosts into my body. That shit freaked me out. My quest to find out what the hell is going on continues. I’ll keep y’all posted.
On Tuesday I cut about 3″ off my hair. Maybe 5″? I don’t know. I hadn’t planned on getting my hair cut, but after my shower I was brushing my hair and the brush got tangled. It was the third time in a week. I figured it was time. However, I just couldn’t drive up to Nashville to see my brother, so I went to visit the “other guy.” The “Other Guy” is an older Vietnamese man who has a small salon next to the international market. The first time I let him cut my hair, I nearly had a panic attack, as my brother has been the only person to cut my hair in over ten years. Well, OG did a flawless job. FLAWLESS. I was so happy that he was able to see how my brother cut my hair before and with a few gentle snips of his scissors, recreated the exact look. Tuesday though, I was searching for something a little different, so I went with a longer asymmetrical bob. Obviously I love it. My curls are back, my hair is light and airy and all is right with the world.
I’ve also started working part time, but it was brought to my attention the second day of work that I was to, under no circumstances, discuss where I work on any social media or blog. Really. How drab. I do like what I’m doing though- it keeps me active, laughing and gives me an opportunity to be home for my family and supper on the table by six. It’s nice. Hopefully I won’t get dooced for that little blurb. We’ll see.
So to sum it all up: everything is right as rain. The laundry is caught up, I’m learning how to cook new foods (whole artichokes, cactus, unidentified veggies from the market that I have to Google pictures of), growing a garden, dreaming of ghosts, gearing up for summer, thinking about starting a pirate radio station and living.
Remember, a good day is a good day. A bad day is a good story. At the end of the day, it’s all good.
The first time I saw a gray hair on my head I was probably in my early twenties. I noticed it, felt a slight panic and then plucked it right out of my skull. Bam. Just like that. I knew it would be an uphill battle from there on out. My Dad was more salt then pepper when I graduated high school. Now, he is white headed. According to him, my Mema was white before she was twenty five. My oldest uncle was white headed by thirty and my younger uncle on the other hand, well, he’s still milking the salt and pepper for all it’s worth.
Hair is such a delicate thing, isn’t it? And it is a “thing.” A few years ago, my hair was probably down past my bra. The longest it had been since I was in grade school. The weekend before Halloween, I drove to Nashville and told my brother to chop it off. He gladly hacked off 8″. That was a tough one. I had cutter’s remorse like never before. Even when I was in high school and I cut ALL my hair off into a short pixie, I didn’t feel what I felt then. Damnit, I had become attached to my long hair.
For the past ten years or more, my brother has been my stylist. I was with him during the horrific cuts of hair school (reversed mullets, platinum white bangs anyone?) and the amazing colors that have graced my locks since then (caramel, blonde, red, hot pink). A few months ago, I sat in his chair, facing the mirror and said, “I can’t keep fighting the gray Joe, I can’t. There’s too much.” I buried my face in my hands while mentally telling myself not to have a breakdown. Look, turning thirty five was a big pill for me to swallow this year. It has been, for me, a very raw number which carried quite a bit of weight behind it for various reasons.
“Let it go sister,” he said to me, hands on my shoulders.
I looked up. “Are you on drugs? I can’t do that. C’mon… make me blonde again! Pink? How about that red color we did like five years ago?”
“No. No more hair color. Embrace this silver. Do you know how many women come in here asking for gray?”
I shook my head no.
So, with a deep sigh, I walked out with a small trim. No hair color. It’s been months now and when I saw him last, he seemed very excited about how white my temples are. I’m still on the fence about it, I won’t lie. It’s a tough thing to embrace gray. To let go of my dark brown hair. In a way, it feels like I’m letting go of my youth. To know that when I wear my hair up, it’s so obvious what is going on. To be honest, there are days when my hair makes me feel unpolished, no matter how big my smile is. This is one of those life moments where I should be all, “I don’t care what you think!” But… I do. It’s ridiculous to even think that way. But, when coworkers point out that my hair is shimmering in the sun. When people in a coffee shop will ask how old I really am. When others ask when I’ll dye my hair back. When some point. When some say mean things. Those are the tough days.
There are really great days where I adore the gray. Don’t get me wrong! Those whitening temples and swirls of pale gleaming at my hairline make me feel… well, like me. Artsy, clever, fun loving, FREE. They remind me of how great my Mema and Papa are. How awesome my Dad and Uncles are with their white hair. It’s a family thing. A Miller thing. That makes me feel proud- to know I was graced with the silver fox gene. However, there are days where I just want to run to CVS, buy three boxes of color and go at it. And In case you were wondering, YES, doing that infuriates my brother. To the point where he once threatened to shave my head if I ever used box color again.
So, when I start to feel panicky about the ever changing color of my hair, I take to looking at photos of women my age with graying locks. It’s sort of empowering, enlightening and yes, still terrifying. Stay with me on this one guys, I have a feeling it’ll all turn out alright.
It has to.
My stylist said it would look gorgeous and I love him dearly.