Two days after the Museum of Aviation marathon and 2 days before I became so deathly ill I couldn't move from the couch for three days because walking up a flight of stairs winded me so much I would nearly pass out, I had my hair cut.
No no no.
Not a lot.
It still looks exactly the same as always except it is 2 inches shorter, maybe. The idea of shoulder length hair frightens me so the notion of me with short hair is just completely inconceivable. My short hair phobia is Lala's fault. When I was three and a half Lala chopped all my hair off because I got gum in it and the resulting hair cut made me look like a boy. And considering how offended I was that the Aviation Marathon recorded me as male and that I proudly wear a Run Like a Girl shirt I am sure you understand that I definitely do not want to look like a boy.
Because I am a girl.
So I will have long hair until I can just no longer have long hair. Which Lala is, well, 21 years older than me and until recently she had long hair--and I wouldn't be surprised if she grew it out again since she tends to favor long hair too. So, I think I will get to have long hair for at least another 20 years if it is at all genetic. I do wonder though how and when that grandma hair happens. Is it a slow evolution or does it just happen when you turn 80?
Darn it all.
I am already getting off the subject. Sorry, I am never one for the short or concise, in anything. Which is slightly ironic considering my short attention span but even when I was an art major I never could embrace the "less is more" concept that was so often parroted to me in critiques.
So anyway, not sure if I mentioned it before but my sister Pookie cuts my hair. She is a hair dresser by profession. She's pretty cute too. Here she is with me at party last month:
Which I should add that she did not last long at that party. Oh, wait here is another of us at the same party:
I know I look like the drunker sister but really I wasn't. I don't need alcohol for shenanigans. It helps; but it isn't necessary.
Anyway the party isn't my point. Just wanted to give you a visual on who is Pookie.
Pookie lives in town--ITP for the Atlantans in the house. Me and most of my extended family are OTP and live in the suburbs north of the city. Pookie is nice and drives up here and cuts or colors all of our hair here so we don't have to drive in town and go to the salon. Which would also cost more. So whenever she is up here with her gear I try to make sure I am around to benefit. Generally she does the cutting at Lala's. Which is fine by me since it is only a 10 minute drive to their house from mine.
Okay, so now I am almost to the point of my whole story. So pay attention. I'll set the scene:
Pookie is cutting my hair in Lala's kitchen. Carmella is sitting on the counter next to where I am standing doing a running commentary of everything. Beau is running around the kitchen talking guns with Pop-- who was eating a bowl of the $100 She-crab soup Lala had made the day before. I joke that after I finish getting my hair cut I am going to the grocery store and hope to spend around $100 for 5 days of groceries.
Lala is walking around with her hair in foils waiting for her grays to go blond or brown or whatever it is Pookie does to her hair. And I am just trying my hardest to hold still-- which by the way is very very hard for me to do and I am failing miserably because Pookie keeps letting out exasperated sighs at me. I am also worried she is going to poke my eyes out with her scissors so I am trying to be quiet, which is also hard for me to do.
Pookie changes the subject to running and asks Carmella if she is going to be a marathon runner like me.
Carmella empahtically tells her, "No. Running is boring. It takes too long."
And Pookie says, "You could run track-- or cross county in high school."
And Carmella with her wide brown eyes saucered with disbelief and confusion says:
"You mean like run to New York-- or California? People do that?"