I had a Blog entry in mind about being able to do only one thing at a time. Multi-tasking is not for me. (I'd argue it's not for anyone, but it's definitely not for me.) Anyway, I had this topic in mind, and I even jotted it down, but then I got busy doing something else, and, well, while I was doing the second thing, I forgot everything I was going to say about the one thing. *sighs*
Instead I'll write about my hair. (Didn't see that one ocming, did you?) I'm growing my hair. It's easy for me because it means NOT doing something (making an appointment and going to get it cut) as opposed to actually doing something. Over the course of my life, I have grown and cut off my hair in a fairly steady rhythm. I had lovely curls as a little girl, all little girls did back in the day. Then I grew into an extreme tomboy. I insisted my hair be cut very short, and I dressed for play in my brother's out-grown clothes. (I wore dresses to school, of course; girls had to wear dresses to school. With snow pants in the winter. Remember snow pants?)
Then, as a teen, my hair tumbled to my shoulders. Curly hair was out, out, out, and I was among those who laid my tresses on the ironing board and ironed them straight. I wore them spilling over my face (oh, Joan Baez, how did you do it – the sheen of that wall of hair) or, occasionally, in a pony tail on top of my head. That pony tail was the extent of my abilities to work with my hair.
In college (it was the late 60s), it grew longer, and I wore it clasped in the back with a barrette. Hairdo done. After I had my first child and dealt with sticky fingers and mucus being twined in it, I cut it off again. And so it went.
I wasn't really happy with the variety of short cuts I've had since we returned from Russia. (They really know how to cut hair in Russia.), and I thought I would grow it out and wear it in a sophisticated French twist for my son's wedding in March.
Unfortunately, it's a morning wedding, and I can't see finding a hair dresser in a strange city to fix my hair at the crack of dawn. I have to learn to do it myself. I knew it would take time to acquire the skill, so I've been practicing. With the extra inch it's grown in the past month and the constant practice over the past two months (with four month to go to perfect my mad skilz), I can pretty much get it twisted and pinned. The internet advisors will tell you that it is easier to put hair up (and keep it up – keeping it up is the trick) if it is a little dirty. My interpretation of of "a little dirty" is to goop my hair up entirely with thick, cheap mousse and then twist and pin it up. The mousse hardens and there it is: a French twist that stays up!
It will be fine as long as no one tries to stroke or, say, dent my hair. And as long as I don't get distracted while I'm putting it up or try to do anything else at the same time.