Distractions

Distractions. What is their purpose? Events, whispers, phone calls, emails and TV that call us to somewhere else either mentally or physically that interrupt our ongoing lives. They take us temporarily away from something that we are either enjoying or not. Taking us TO something we are enjoying or not.

Sometimes they are unexpected. Things we had not planned in our day that disrupt the way we had planned it. Sometimes, we call upon distractions to take us away, albeit temporarily, from what we are currently involved in and dealing with.

So I guess we could categorize distractions as wanted or unwanted. In a happy place? Don't distract me with reality. In a not so happy place? Distract me with temporary unreality.

How do we distract ourselves from reality? There are so many ways and all of them are the same. A temporary "get out of jail free card" that we all want and cash in at some point or another.

Let's be honest. Real-ality can suck sometimes! So we numb our minds by being a workaholic. Or an alcoholic, drugs, over athleticism, eating, cleaning, gambling. You name it. They are all distractions from something. There are so many that it would take a psychiatrist to label them all. Do you know Anyone without one? Anyone?

OCD. Now that is a classic example of distraction. It's as if the brain has to compartmentalize other things; anything to keep from thinking about something only they may know about.
Wash your hands! Clean your house! Don't step on cracks! An attempt at control where there is none somewhere else.

I must admit that I am a tiny bit OCD. I always wondered why sometimes, if my elbow touches something, that I feel my other elbow has to touch it in order to feel "balanced." Weird. That is on semi-rare occasions. But when I catch myself "in that mode' nothing will suffice until I can "re-balance my world" by touching my other elbow to the inanimate object. For awhile, it was my yard. It HAD to look perfect at any given time. No brown grass. No weeds. I tried to control my life by controlling my yard! At least that was a healthy obsession!

I have a friend of mine whose husband must have his clothes placed in order by color in his closet. Ok. And also, every string on the end of rugs must be straight. Their house always looks like a model home and there is not one piece of paper anywhere. Me? I have my own "orderly pile." Don't touch it, I know where everything is, but it is out in the open! Neatness was never my obsession. Organized chaos works better for me.

For many years, I thought my friend's husband was a bit strange. Then I started to look at my own habits of distractions. It's all about your brain being able to cope you know.

What makes us this way? Is it our own way of "dealing?" It is said they we only use 10% of our brains capacity. That is frightening. Can you imagine the TRUE power we have unleashed in there? Perhaps those that we call genius are at 15%. Maybe those that we deem crazy are really 20%. Who's to say?

Maybe God or the powerful source only allows us to have so much brain function. We don't get no mac daddy use of our brain. Still. Why is it there if we can't use it? A question for those in the 20% category I suppose. It's like owning a Ferrari that you can only drive at 10 mph.

So I gave up on the yard to some degree. Still, I look out the big picture window in my kitchen and sigh. Green grass, where have you gone? I stuff down the feeling to run out there and start pulling every weed in sight. Nobody notices the difference in my yard but me.

So what is my distraction? For a long while, it was cats. I started collecting until at one time I was up to seven. Everyone started calling me the "cat lady." A label hard to live with. I DO love cats and all animals. But I have controlled this urge and now I am down to two through natural attrition. I do confess to fight the urge to turn my car into the humane society when I drive by however. But I am successful at this now.

My other distraction would be enjoying a cocktail. I am not an alcoholic by any stretch. But I do love my libations. I love the way it tastes and I love the way I feel.

I tried all the other stuff when I was younger. Cigarettes, pot, coke and more. Nothing. Give me a martini any day to "take the edge off" and I am one happy camper. At least my distraction is legal and will not break the bank.

What are your distractions? Will you even admit to them? Many won't. It makes you too vulnerable. And people don't like to be vulnerable. Every business book you see tells you to swim with the sharks. Never, never show any weakness. That's why so many hide in the shadows and take their feelings underground.

But they will surface somewhere. Believe me, they will.

I'm just passing by...

Steel Magnolia's

In an attempt to save a little cash, I decided that my every other month to the salon would need to be temporarily halted. You know what that means ladies. Yes...roots. Un-sightly roots.

Because I have my hair foiled and that I lift my hair much lighter than my natural color, it is a fairly complicated process. Not for my stylist, but certainly for a novice. Let it be known that I have attempted to color my own hair before.

The very first attempt was when I was in the 8th grade. I decided that I wanted to be blonde, going from my drab sort of medium ash brown. So, I went to the drugstore and bought a

product called "Summer Blond." I don't know if they still make it anymore, but if they do it should come with a warning label that says "not to be used by young stupid kids under the age of 21." It did not, so I was granted the purchase. I locked myself in the bathroom that I shared with my brother and started the process. Not one for reading directions well (I tend to just jump into things and damn the consequences). I just poured the entire bottle over my head. Mind you, I had luscious hair that was past my waist at that time. Surely God did not really mean to give me THIS color, so I will help him along!

I waited the appropriate time with the kitchen timer ticking away. With 10 minutes to go, my brother starts pounding on the door. "What are you doing in there?" I need to get in." "No" I replied in a loud and somewhat frightened voice. "Go use Mom and Dad's bathroom." "Are you sick?" he replied. "NO!" came back my increasingly high pitched voice. "Just go away you creep." "I'm going to tell Mom," he replied. "Go ahead" I said. I could hear him in the distance as he ran off, "MOOOOMMMM! Karen is in the bathroom and..." Great. Let's just get the entire household involved now. Two minutes later, my Mom is knocking on the door. "Are you OK?" "Yes" I replied. "I'm just practicing how to put on make-up and don't want to show Kenny." "Oh" she said. "Well, let me see how it looks when you're done and don't take all day about it." Good heavens! I only had 2 minutes to go anyway!

I finally unleash the beast! I take my shower and wash the bleach and whatever is left of my natural color float into the sewer. In HUGE anticipation, I towel dry my hair and look in the mirror. Well, it looks different, but it is wet and I have no experience with this. I get out the blow dryer and dry my hair. Well!!!! It is BLONDE. Very Blonde! That's what it promised on the box and by God, it delivered. Capitalism at its finest!

Too stupid to figure out the long-term affect of my immediate gratification, I proudly and finally open the bathroom door and walk into the kitchen where my Mother is preparing dinner to show her my "make-up." When she turns around, all I hear is "AHHHHHHHHHHH! What did you DO? Your hair is white!" Well, it was NOT white, but to her it was!

"OMG (not the term used back then), your hair is going to fall out!"

"What?" I cried. "What do you mean? You don't like it?" I was far too naive to begin to understand that I have now entered the world of the unnatural. I thought, well, I'll just switch it back if I don't like it.

Well, I liked it. Of course, little did I see the long-term expense and consequence of messing with God and his color choices. It was all well and good until the roots started to show and my hair started to fall out in huge chunks. In the next year's school annual, I have a pixie cut and my natural color.

Wouldn't you think I would have learned my lesson THEN?

I saw an article just yesterday about a woman struggling with her finances. In part, the article said "I have given up everything. Eating out. Coffee's. The gym. Having my nails done. But

BY GOD I am NOT giving up my salon colorist!" A battle cry for blondes with roots everywhere!

Fast forward about 12 years. I have been cast in my first starring role. I am to play the young and somewhat naive character in the musical "Gigi." For those of you who don't know, "Gigi" is french and the show is based in long ago Paris.

I think, well, all Parisians have dark hair and in the movie, Leslie Caron has black hair too. SO, if I was to be an authentic leading lady, I had to look the part. I mean, if I was on Broadway, I would be wearing a stylish wig done to perfection every night by some guy named Michael.

SO, I dared to venture once again to the drugstore. "Hmm, this looks like a lovely shade of black. I'll try this one." Without going into it too much further, I'll just give you the final results: Green.

I'm dialing. I'm dialing..."Hello? My ever so kind and patient hairdresser? Yes, can you see me tomorrow?"

Then there was the henna experience. We won't even go there.

Fast forward I won't say how many more years . Here we are in 2009. The pocket change is thin so I once again decide "I can go this." But THIS time, I enlist the help of a friend. She has done her sister's hair before and said that it came out great! I try to warn her that my hair is "different" and whatever color I pick on the box in the store will not be the color that it comes out. I decide to release her of any emotional and punitive damages.

Because I have my hair foiled and she does not know how to do that, we decide to use a cap. Do any of you remember the torture of that process? Having a needle stuck in your head while it attempts to yank out the right amount of hair to color? Well at least if it turns out bad, it won't be my entire head. Just part of my entire head.

We decide to attempt a two-tone. Once with low-lights and then with highlights (or let's

just call that part bleach). We come back from the drugstore and I pour myself a BIG glass

of red wine. I pour her half a glass (I don't need a drunk colorist). I pull a chair into my kitchen where I sit and drink while she rips my hair through these tiny holes. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I say nothing at each tug of my hair. I simply drink more.

We commence with the gossiping, as one MUST do when having one's hair colored. I had these visions of the movie "Steel Magnolia's" playing in my head with all the gals sitting around the beauty shop talking and laughing and of course gossiping. And since both she and I are from the south, it made the moment even more realistic. I felt as if I were the Julia Roberts character about ready to have her diabetic seizure.

Three hours later, we pour on the color. This is going to be good! It's only a couple of shades

lighter than my natural color, so it should turn out fine! None of this going from a 12 shade to a 2 shade! We wait the appropriate time and I run to the shower to wash it out. Cautiously, I inch my way to the mirror as I take off the towel. Hmm. It doesn't look that bad wet. I see some

brassiness, but in general, it's not bad.

Because we are so exhausted (not to mention tipsy), we decide to save the highlights for the next day.

Excitedly now, I traipse my way over to her house for the next round, although something feels amiss in my stomach. This is the bleach part of the process and my past experiences have shown me that my hair doesn't do well with at home bleach. Still I proceed, not listening to my gut instincts. This time I ask for a vodka cranberry. A tale-tell sign of my what's to come.

We continue with the "ripping my hair out by the roots" process again, although this time it only takes 2 hours instead of 3 before we pour the bleach on. Somewhat more tipsy than before, I feel my head starting to sting as the bleach falls upon my already open and slightly damaged from the day before folicals.

We wait the appropriate time according to the I won't mention the brand box and I not so excitedly this time run to the shower to wash it out. Pulling a towel from the rack, I cover my hair without looking in the mirror and walk back into the kitchen. "Well" my friend says in a slightly shaky voice. "Let's see it." Like a cat waiting to pounce on it's worst enemy, I rip the towel off my hair with one fell swoop and stand emotionally naked in front of the mirror. "AHHHHHHHH" is all I hear. Was that my friend or my inside voice coming out? It was my inside voice. What do I see? A very brassy copper color and not in small spots, but large ones. I silently pick up my car keys and walk out the door without looking back.

The next day, still not having looked in the mirror again, I get on the internet to look for "how to take brassiness out of hair" tips. I find some wise and experienced suggestions, all of which make sense! I do read a couple of things that say "your hair may be too far gone and it is time to give it up and call a professional." "No," I think, "I can still do this. I just need to get a purple blue toner and tone down the brass and it will all be good." That is my optimistic and sometimes naive view of reality.

I jump in the car (still not having looked in the mirror again from the night before) and head off to a beauty supply store. As I walk in the door, the girl says to me "Uh, you're looking for something to tone down that brassiness?" "That bad," I think to myself. "Uh, yeah." I refrain from adding "how did you know." She immediately goes over to the shelf and says "we get ladies like you all the time so I know exactly what you need. Be grateful it's not green." I don't even GO into THAT story. "This will fix it up." I pay my $10 and I'm out the door.

I have a limited time to fix this as I am working tonight with a group of VIP's, so I start the

pouring of the purple mixture onto my hair. Half hour it says, and you will be back to normal (whatever that is). This time I WATCH it in the mirror. I'm looking. I'm looking. Nothing.

I pour a little more on just in case. I'm looking. Does it look shinier? It seems to be doing something, but I can't tell.

With little time left, I jump in the shower and wash that toner right out of my hair. Thinking it's done something to help, I rush to the now dreaded mirror mirror on the wall. I look. It did something all right. It turned it orange. Not a lovely copper brassy color like before, but orange.

I'm dialing. I'm dialing..."Hello? My ever so kind and patient hairdresser? Yes, can you see me tomorrow?"

As God is my witness...

I'm just passing by... (and apparently faster than I want to these days!)