She was a peculiar girl. Not funny peculiar but strange peculiar. I've had colleagues on both sides of the equation, so I feel my discernment is spot on here. However, decide for yourself after becoming familiar. I think it best to begin with her physical appearance and work our way inward. It is the appropriate direction for this introduction, I promise.
Though her face presents a fascinating visual study - we will get to that - it was her hair which, shall we say, stood out. Quite literally. The color: just brown - an unassuming brown with no discernible highlights of red or blond. The texture: coarse and thick. Nothing extraordinary thus far. Highly forgettable over all until you consider the manner in which she displayed her 'crowning glory,' shall we say. Two raised and curving braids on either side of her head, originating from the bottom of a tight part running down the back of her head and worked close to the scalp, traveled a winding maze of a path from rear to front before suddenly halting at the apex of her high forehead. There the ends of the plaits rose in the air a good six inches, each one curved in the middle forming a space which brought to mind a parenthetical holding tank for possible thought-escapees. Often, I half expected to see her unspoken words pop up in the blank oval perched so oddly atop her head.
Moving down just a bit, I arrive at her face as promised. The individual elements comprising her features lacked any distinction as far as classic proportions go. No patrician nose or elegant brow or angular cheekbones. Her lips were neither too thin nor were they too full. Though I've previously set forth the condition of her forehead, its height was not out of place. Everything panned out as fairly average. Having said that, these pieces formed an arresting whole yet to be adequately captured by my vocabulary. Perhaps if I better understood the art of Picasso and Van Gogh and Gaugin, I could draw upon their images for comparison. Perhaps. You would not label her homely or comely. Really, you simply would not label her at all.
I have yet to describe her eyes. They seemed to exist separately from her face though they did, indeed, do their part to aid in the defiance of an adequate description. Again, the color brown is useful here for my purposes as they were brown but decidedly moreso. Their brown was the earth underfoot. Their brown was a faded autumn leaf. Their brown was as mother nature intended the most basic and elemental shade to appear. To be held in their gaze was to be held in esteem by all creation as they exuded timeless age, history, revelation. I was never quite comfortable in her gaze and yet I sought it, time and time again. Whatever disquiet I felt, a silent deep part of me responded to the promise of a mystery soon to be revealed. All of that from a pair of eyes before ever I truly understood who, and what, she was. Peculiar, yes?
Showing posts with label brown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brown. Show all posts
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Nada
I got nothing.
Nothing but a fat, freestyle, PMS fall from grace. I detest these days. I suddenly can't think my way out of a paper bag. Worse, I'm not quite sure if I recall exactly what a paper bag is. (Though to my credit, I don't use paper bags. Makes it easier to forget.) I'm snappier than a snapping turtle. More irritated than an infected dog bite. It feels as if my brain traded places with a bowling ball and a perpetual fog has rolled in, invading all spaces where clear and rational thought once reigned. I'm afraid to hear myself speak. I wish I didn't have to hear myself think. In my household, feel free to multiply those feelings by five.
There is good news today. My Canadian pals and one-time Colorado neighbors, Nathan and Shannon, announced the birth of their first child. That gave me my first real smile of the day. Wait, that would be my ONLY smile of the day. I broke bread in the form of a late lunch with Ashley, my young adult child. Yes, that means she had herself a free lunch. Brother Gary called last night; his court hearing went well. He returns Thursday next for news of a possible resolution. His lawyer still believes that the chances are favorable for avoiding a trial and finding placement in a state mental hospital for treatment. It was the first time in the process where he actually felt that the people put there to help him, to watch out for him, to mete out a conscientious justice, were doing just that. Oh, and I've actually lost a couple of pounds.
But back to the nothingness.
For two weeks, I've eagerly anticipated today's hair appointment. The haircut turned out so 'just-what-I-wanted-but-better-than-I-imagined' sassy, that I was sure I'd be dazzled by an adventurous romp of color. Especially with my pictures in hand and my description so spot-on and meticulous. Brown with chunky streaks of blond around the face with a few thrown in underneath and in the back. Like a soft-serve swirl cone. No brassiness, no reds, no trendy racetrack lines running from top to bottom all around the crown. I'll take a natural, earthy brown with a side of creamy blond thrown in. Thank you.
I've also agonized over this fate with coiffure destiny. I'm hair illiterate. I don't generally DO hair. Usually, it is one all-over coloring job. Semi-permanent. Out of a box or at 6-month salon intervals. For years, my husband performed the honors until it grew too long, until I shaved it, until the grays became more prolific. I wash it. Wear it wavy. Pop it under a cap when I walk. Hang it in a ponytail. Push it back with bobby pins or barrettes. Every now and again, I surrender to the hair straightener at the behest of one of my daughters. Handing over a large sum of money for color and highlights and a tip (gotta tip a good job), even as a splurge, even with the encouraging consent of my husband - "You need it. It makes you feel better. Do it." - causes me to blanch inwardly. Am I that selfish? That vain? That wasteful? Shouldn't I save the cash toward that laptop I would so use the dickens out of? Once I start, I'll have to keep it going. My hair will be damaged. Blah, blah, blah. Somebody shut me up. Ugh-g-g-h-h-h.
After two hours plus of foil and brush, dryer-timings and rinsing, spraying and styling, the unveiling was highlighted by the radiant smile of my hair gal. She was pleased. Tickled at the outcome. And, to her credit and talent, it did, er, does, look good. It just didn't fit the dream, the build-up, the woman in the picture's portrayal, of the whole swirl-cone color combo I was expecting with such eager anticipation. It was somebody's perfect look, just not mine. I struggled not to appear crestfallen. I told her this would be our starting point. In the future, we would make changes as I figured out what I preferred and didn't prefer. But, here's the thing: I know exactly what I prefer. It is on pages 90-97 of MORE Magazine, the April 2009 issue with Olympic swimmer, Dana Torres, on the cover.
(This would be the OTHER thing: for two weeks, this uber-sweet little woman has tirelessly worked on a huge church garage sale event. Squeezing it in between her job and kids and husband. She will be home tonight with several other church friends, making hundreds of beautifully wrapped homemade egg rolls to be fried on-site tomorrow. Doubtless, it will be another in a string of late nights for her. Did I mention she has to be up by 5AM? Did I further mention she waxed my eyebrows for free and they look so pretty; it was my first time and she only pulled an itty-bitty piece of skin from my brow bone. I am NOT going to void my bladder in her Cheerios today, thank you very much!)
I'll tell her next week. When the fog clears. When I'm able to view my head and not burst into sobs - yes! outright sobs, I tell you, in the bathroom to boot - and the bowling ball has rolled out and my brain has moved back in, I will chat with my neighbor/Bunco pal/hair gal. Otherwise, there will be more of the same. Who knows? By then, I may agree with my girls that it looks pretty darned good. By then, I will have taken on human form and my family can go back to looking me in the eye without fear in their hearts. But right now, I feel like my ice cream cone ran beneath a shower of caramel. In fact, I would eagerly consume a giant swirl cone, several, and not mind a bit if it bore a shroud of caramel! Pray I think clearly enough not to mistakenly cannibalize myself in my present state.
Like I said. I got nothing.
Nothing but a fat, freestyle, PMS fall from grace. I detest these days. I suddenly can't think my way out of a paper bag. Worse, I'm not quite sure if I recall exactly what a paper bag is. (Though to my credit, I don't use paper bags. Makes it easier to forget.) I'm snappier than a snapping turtle. More irritated than an infected dog bite. It feels as if my brain traded places with a bowling ball and a perpetual fog has rolled in, invading all spaces where clear and rational thought once reigned. I'm afraid to hear myself speak. I wish I didn't have to hear myself think. In my household, feel free to multiply those feelings by five.
There is good news today. My Canadian pals and one-time Colorado neighbors, Nathan and Shannon, announced the birth of their first child. That gave me my first real smile of the day. Wait, that would be my ONLY smile of the day. I broke bread in the form of a late lunch with Ashley, my young adult child. Yes, that means she had herself a free lunch. Brother Gary called last night; his court hearing went well. He returns Thursday next for news of a possible resolution. His lawyer still believes that the chances are favorable for avoiding a trial and finding placement in a state mental hospital for treatment. It was the first time in the process where he actually felt that the people put there to help him, to watch out for him, to mete out a conscientious justice, were doing just that. Oh, and I've actually lost a couple of pounds.
But back to the nothingness.
For two weeks, I've eagerly anticipated today's hair appointment. The haircut turned out so 'just-what-I-wanted-but-better-than-I-imagined' sassy, that I was sure I'd be dazzled by an adventurous romp of color. Especially with my pictures in hand and my description so spot-on and meticulous. Brown with chunky streaks of blond around the face with a few thrown in underneath and in the back. Like a soft-serve swirl cone. No brassiness, no reds, no trendy racetrack lines running from top to bottom all around the crown. I'll take a natural, earthy brown with a side of creamy blond thrown in. Thank you.
I've also agonized over this fate with coiffure destiny. I'm hair illiterate. I don't generally DO hair. Usually, it is one all-over coloring job. Semi-permanent. Out of a box or at 6-month salon intervals. For years, my husband performed the honors until it grew too long, until I shaved it, until the grays became more prolific. I wash it. Wear it wavy. Pop it under a cap when I walk. Hang it in a ponytail. Push it back with bobby pins or barrettes. Every now and again, I surrender to the hair straightener at the behest of one of my daughters. Handing over a large sum of money for color and highlights and a tip (gotta tip a good job), even as a splurge, even with the encouraging consent of my husband - "You need it. It makes you feel better. Do it." - causes me to blanch inwardly. Am I that selfish? That vain? That wasteful? Shouldn't I save the cash toward that laptop I would so use the dickens out of? Once I start, I'll have to keep it going. My hair will be damaged. Blah, blah, blah. Somebody shut me up. Ugh-g-g-h-h-h.
After two hours plus of foil and brush, dryer-timings and rinsing, spraying and styling, the unveiling was highlighted by the radiant smile of my hair gal. She was pleased. Tickled at the outcome. And, to her credit and talent, it did, er, does, look good. It just didn't fit the dream, the build-up, the woman in the picture's portrayal, of the whole swirl-cone color combo I was expecting with such eager anticipation. It was somebody's perfect look, just not mine. I struggled not to appear crestfallen. I told her this would be our starting point. In the future, we would make changes as I figured out what I preferred and didn't prefer. But, here's the thing: I know exactly what I prefer. It is on pages 90-97 of MORE Magazine, the April 2009 issue with Olympic swimmer, Dana Torres, on the cover.
(This would be the OTHER thing: for two weeks, this uber-sweet little woman has tirelessly worked on a huge church garage sale event. Squeezing it in between her job and kids and husband. She will be home tonight with several other church friends, making hundreds of beautifully wrapped homemade egg rolls to be fried on-site tomorrow. Doubtless, it will be another in a string of late nights for her. Did I mention she has to be up by 5AM? Did I further mention she waxed my eyebrows for free and they look so pretty; it was my first time and she only pulled an itty-bitty piece of skin from my brow bone. I am NOT going to void my bladder in her Cheerios today, thank you very much!)
I'll tell her next week. When the fog clears. When I'm able to view my head and not burst into sobs - yes! outright sobs, I tell you, in the bathroom to boot - and the bowling ball has rolled out and my brain has moved back in, I will chat with my neighbor/Bunco pal/hair gal. Otherwise, there will be more of the same. Who knows? By then, I may agree with my girls that it looks pretty darned good. By then, I will have taken on human form and my family can go back to looking me in the eye without fear in their hearts. But right now, I feel like my ice cream cone ran beneath a shower of caramel. In fact, I would eagerly consume a giant swirl cone, several, and not mind a bit if it bore a shroud of caramel! Pray I think clearly enough not to mistakenly cannibalize myself in my present state.
Like I said. I got nothing.
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