Death By A Thousand Paper Cuts: Feel the Burn

Wednesday night, I had my hair trimmed and colored. I was generally displeased, because my usual stylist had shown me her new 'enhancements', wondered why she looked so 'exposed' and handed me off to her assistant before she went to dance class. Now, as you may know from my blog title, I have a thing about my hair. And I like how this particular lady does my hair, which is why I have followed her through three different salons and drive much further to get to her than my own logic dictates. So I did not like being handed off to her assistant--at all. Nor did I like an update on Brittney's concert, someone someone's wardrobe malfunction, celebrities dumped and others picked up. I don't really care. Yet, I got an earful as I was being worked on and my request for my hair to be styled was translated to the top layer of my hair being straightened with a flat iron and the layers beneath being neglected to a puffy semi-curl. Considering how many times she left to save her new puppy and come back to me, I thought it wise to pay and be on my way--with my curiously styled hair. To add insult to injury, she charged me as much as my regular stylist.

Thursday morning, I started styling my hair and trying to spritz, blow dry and curl it into order. I was feeling particularly clumsy as I burned the back of my fingers with the curling iron. I decided to prevent further disaster by taking of my robe so the wire wouldn't get entangled with the robe. I finally finished half my head and realized I'm running late for work. Really late. On a day that I'm scheduled to interview candidates for our Atlanta team. Then, as I tried to avoid burning my neck I dropped the stupid curling iron all together and burned myself again as it fell. On my general chestal area. As I digested what had just happened to me, I started yelling profanities in pain and sheer anger. I don't typically use bad language, which means I am not well versed and tongue tied when I legitimately need to be expressive in that way. I immediately got under cold water to prevent blistering, causing the finished side of my hair to unfinish again, but in a different way from the previously unfinished side. As I got out of the shower, still sputtering what few profanities I could string together, I started looking for my bottle of aloe. The giant, Costco bottle of aloe that I look at every single day, that was not in its regular spot, because I had removed everything for the plumbers while they tore my bathrooms apart. I stopped looking in drawers and cabinets long enough to try and remember where I had last seen it. As I walked towards M's closet where I stuffed a bunch of things, I slipped on the now wet bathroom tile and banged my already bruised knee. Normally, such a thing wouldn't happen because I have a carpet lying on the bathroom floor, but that too, had been folded and stuffed some place safe while the plumbers were doing their work earlier in the week.

I finally sat down with my half-flat, half frizzy hair; sore knee and burned flesh on the cusp of tears because I couldn't find my stupid bottle of aloe. For some reason I thought it would cheer me up to quote Richard III. "ALOE! Aloe! My nation of some f!@#! aloe!" As soon as the words were out, I realized I had misquoted Shakespeare. It wasn't a nation, it was a kingdom. I couldn't even quote Shakespeare. What was happening to me? As the tears started running down my face, I tried to think of calling someone who would understand. Someone accident prone and knowledgeable. But there was something just so ridiculous about my situation that I couldn't call anyone. Questions would be asked, laughter would have to be stifled and I couldn't handle mockery for at least an hour or two.

I finally got up, pulled my hair into submission, covered my burned flesh with a high collared shirt and left for work.

I sucked at the interview and wanted to apologize to the poor candidate for my tone. I wanted to explain why I sounded so distracted and in pain, but was pretty sure that would be considered TMI and possibly sexual harassment.

Somehow, I made it to the end of the day. M couldn't make sense of what had happened or how I had managed to hurt myself as much as I did in such a short time.

I need to learn to some new words. I'm sure it would have been much better if I had a stronger vocabulary. I also need to buy some more f@#! #$@aloe.