It's Oh So Quiet, Said Bjork

Why is it that every time I type the word ‘deposit’ I type it as ‘deposity??’ This is a very valid question and I’m going to need the answer ASAP because, hello, I need to stop doing that. Even when I tell myself, “You are about to type the word ‘deposit’ please don’t add the ‘y’” I end up doing it anyway- just like I did back there about 19 words ago because obviously I am the world’s biggest freak. I just don’t understand. I mean, it’s a complete extra and unnecessary finger movement- it’s not like it’s a key that’s under the left hand. If I consistently typed an ‘f’ after the word I might could possible understand it. Or maybe even a double ‘t.’ BUT NO. I type a ‘y’ each and every single fucking time. Which just makes my pinky tired with all that backspace work I put it through.

And do you know how many times a day I type the word ‘deposit?’ At last count it was somewhere in the millions. Slight exaggeration, obviously, but still. Very annoying.

You know what else is annoying? Friends. Friends are the most annoying human beings on the face of the planet. I’m just saying. Not the tv show Friends because I quite like that show, especially the early ones when Chandler was supremely funny. Not that he wasn’t as funny in later episodes but because he had to do that whole character arc thing and go from being the sarcastic Could I BE Any Funnier guy to the Grown Up Who Occasionally Makes Witty and Acerbic Remarks guy. So I guess if I’m honest with myself, he did get less funny. This is the kind of revelation that will shock the world, my friends.

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I wish someone, anyone could have been at my apartment last night to witness the true scariness I enacted without one ounce of shame. In fact, if I’d purchased my digital camera this weekend like I wanted to instead of letting my dad convince me to let him buy it online (which does honestly have a better price but I’m a creature of, well, nowishness) I’d have had it handy to permanently capture my visage and it’s startling accoutrements for all the world to see.

Because, dear internet people, it turns out that I pressed my luck just one inch too far. I had my hair cut and dyed on Thursday, the day before my birthday, because I love having Birthday Hair and Makeup. It stems from my younger days when Mom always bought be a new outfit as part of my birthday loot and I wore it proudly to school as if to announce that not only was I the Birthday Girl, I was wearing some clothes that hadn’t even seen the inside of my washer yet. And I most definitely got myself some new hair for the mostly unremarkable birthday age of 26.

To be fair, my hair has been through a lot, especially in the past four months. It started out by bleaching the top half of my hair in a salute to my hidden punkishness. Then when I found out I was going to be an Ass Wiping Specialist I expressed my displeasure by leaving work 5 hours early, ahem, and going home to dye my hair flaming red. At least the bleached out portions. But you should know that the color on the box is now what’s going to happen when you apply it over bleached out, stripped out hair. Bit like bozo, I was. Because having bozo-colored hair totally showed them, eh? Then I died that portion a medium brown. Now, 2 months later, I’ve got the dark tresses I’m assuming I started out with as I haven’t really seen much of my normal hair since 1997. DO NOT JUDGE ME I just happen to like the dye.

As it turns out this dying episode was the final straw and my stylist made the following comment when
blowing out my hair “Boy, you’re hair sure feels dry.”

THIS IS NOT SOMETHING YOU WANT TO HEAR.

I discard the comment because she’s flat-ironed it into submission and it doesn’t really feel that dry to me, just more like she put too much product in. As stylist are wont to do. No judgments.
But then I wash it the next day. And it sprouts up into a brillo pad like monstrosity that truly expresses the might of my hair’s fury at being dyed one more damn time. At home with my mother later that weekend, she suggested pouring olive oil on it (as heavy-duty conditioner was OBVIOUSLY not doing anything) and we heated the oil, poured it over and she wrapped my head in saran wrap while we watched an hour of the home and garden channel.

Sunday night when I came home The Hair was still expressing it’s almighty displeasure so I thought, fuck this
hour long oil shit, I’LL JUST SLEEP IN IT. So I heated up the oil, poured it on my hair and gathered my hair in a knot on top of my head. It was at that moment when I realized I had no saran wrap.
Only foil.

That’s right, I took a 4 foot strip of foil and wrapped my head in it.
Then, because I was scared the foil might slip off, I grabbed the ghetto highlighting cap that I’d saved from some box of highlights from many years ago. I never used the cap, the kind where you shove the weird needle hook through the designated holes and yank out strands of hair to be highlighted which ultimately makes you look like a dehydrated chia pet with weird small tufts of hair sticking out. Why I had saved it, I have no idea. But I took it out of the back of the bathroom cupboard and pulled it over my foiled head, tying the plastic strings together under my chin.

One doesn’t want the oil leaking out onto one’s pillow, now does one?

And then I went to sleep, like a good little worker who has to be up at the ungodly hour of 7am to make it to work by 8am. Okay, 8:15.

So here is my rendition of what I looked like:
*note: kidding. apparently blogger doesn't like me today.