Wobbily bobbilies.

I am about to attempt a blog that is probably one of the reasons why Brian warned, “Be careful,” when I began Square Piece. You see, I work with the public; and with the public comes lots of material for writing.  As I’ve mentioned Square Piece to my clients, I’ve gotten a lot of, “Oooo, I bet you have LOTS of stories from working at a salon!” It’s true. I really, really do.  And while I would never want to make light of the relationships that I have with my clients, there are many moments that are too amusing to not give story telling a careful try.

So today let’s discuss the wobbily bobbilies. A wobbily bobbily, to me, is a man, woman or child who consistently reveals an extreme inability to keep his neck and head straight while I’m performing a hair service. It’s my opinion that if it weren’t for my “back straight/chin up” mantra, wobbily bobbilies wouldn’t even realize that they’ve got this tendency. It’s quite unintentional.

There are two kinds of wobbily bobbilies. You’ve got the A) moving target wobbily bobbilies and the B) loosey goosey wobbily bobbilies.

$27.99

Once upon a time my mother requested that, for her birthday, she receive a daily five minute phone call from her children. Moms are good at suggesting the sort of gifts that money can’t buy. This evening during our daily chat she asked what age I’ll be turning next week. We all know that she knows how old I’m turning; it’s just bizarre to actually hear the number twenty-eight out loud. Isn’t it fascinating the way that our minds can lock in a person’s age and throw away the key? I have clients that started coming to me when they were in high school. So even though they’ve graduated college, every year around their birthday they remind me hold old they really are; I’m still bewildered that we’re discussing careers instead of discussing prom. It’s like an annual punch in the gut.

I don’t really mind getting one year older. I can’t remember the last time I actually felt my age anyway. (… if I had a nickel for every time that someone told me that I’m an old soul…) When I was 13 yrs. old I was tested in order to be placed in an enrichment class. The examiner informed me at the end of the day that my mind functioned about the same as someone who’s 21!

No, it’s not the fact that I’m getting older that gets to me. It’s that my next age is an even number, not an odd number. 

Sir Sam-a-lot

This morning I awoke to my cat Samson pacing back and forth across my head.

Meet Samson:

Sir SamaLot

I guarantee that if my hair starts thinning, it’s because my orange tabby is pulling it out. Every morning he somehow manages to press my hair into the pillow with all of his body weight. (I cringe to think where his paws have been.) My alarm clock has been quiet for ages thanks to this morning routine. Most cats, if they wake you up, do so because they’re asking for breakfast. In our case, however, half of the time Samson doesn’t need food. He needs me to show him his food. The cat will not even check his bowl without my escorting him.

The Miss Piggy incident.

The last week and a half has been the longest amount of time I’ve ever taken away from the salon. In about an hour I’ll once again be knee deep in hair appointments, fully invested in catching up with each client. Currently I feel like I’ve got one foot in the real world and another in la-la-land. (Have you ever been to la-la-land? It’s great this time of year.)

It’s critical that I focus, and fast. I’ll give you an example of the sort of thing that can happen when I’m distracted:

When I outsmart myself.

We’ve all been there.

You need something. You walk to the room at the other end of the house to get it. And upon entering that room, you come to a screeching halt. Wait, what am I doing here? I know I needed something…

You might not believe it, but I have a terrible memory. Give me about a year and I’ll probably be reblogging the same stories I’ve already posted. I come up with many ways to describe my limited memory. Sometimes I like to say that I’m “losing my marbles.” On my most optimistic days, however, I decide that it’s not that I’m losing my marbles; it’s that I’m already at full-marble capacity. Anything extra just spills over the sides.

Vacation, day 9. Our Independence Day.

Watermelon, fireworks, independence. Traditions have a way of etching the Fourth of July into a certain shape in our minds. Our shape does not include watermelon.

Today marks our third consecutive July 4th holiday returning home from Cornerstone Music Festival. We always embark on this journey with a week’s worth of experiences and interactions to process during the 14 hour drive. And by process, I mean scheme. We attempt to brainstorm all the ways in which we can hang on to that vacation feeling (and prepare our defenses against the daily grind feeling). Do you know which feeling I mean? I suppose it depends on the types of vacations you’ve had. Suffice it to say, the overall longing in our hearts is to be caught up in what matters, and to never mind what shallow distractions might threaten to drain our energies.