My 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon

I have been told I resemble a variety of celebrities:  Meg Ryan.  Nancy Kerrigan.  Leah Remini.  Leona Lewis.  None of them resemble one another, and I really don't see my likeness to any of them.  However, all are pretty favorable to be compared to, so I am not complaining.

The other day at work, a teenager, who happens to have asperbergs, informed me that I look like Jon Bon Jovi....only in female form.  At first I was insulted to be compared to a male 12 years my senior, but then I googled him.

And had to admit, that I could see the resemblance.  We both have piercing blue eyes, kinda shaggy dishwater color hair, and an angular face.  Mine minus the facial five o'clock shadow (I hope!).   In fact, I can see myself in Jon Bon Jovi more than I can see myself in Meg, Nancy, Leona, or Leah.

(And, a strange aside here, if I ever was blessed enough to have a baby girl, her name would most likely be "Jovie".)

Now how does this all connect to Kevin Bacon, you may ask.  Bear with me.  It has been said that all people can be traced back to Kevin Bacon within 6 degrees, and I found my 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon......kinda.

1.  I have always thought my brother, back before he got into drugs, resembled Kevin Bacon.
2.  I have always mixed up Kevin Bacon and Jon Bon Jovi and can't really tell them apart.
3.  The teenager told me I looked like Jon Bon Jovi.  Since I get him mixed up with Kevin Bacon, I must also look like Kevin Bacon
4.  Since I obviously resemble my brother, who happens to resemble Kevin, it stands to reason that, I too, must resemble Kevin on some level.
5.  The teenager later said that I also looked like Kevin Bacon

Blue eyes, shaggy dishwater hair, angular face.  

So, there you have, my "connection" with Kevin Bacon in only 5 degrees.

It could always be worse, though, a patient once told a staff member that she (the staff member) reminded that patient of Sponge-Bob.  The patient was blind.  Like, for real, she was blind.

My Little Secret

I now know why Superman wears his underwear on the outside of his clothing:

He swaggers down the street with a calm confidence.  He is definitely "all that and a bag of chips".  His shit certainly does not stink.  And nobody is gonna mess with a dude like that.

I get it now.  I really get it.

One of the best things I did on my vacation was to purchase new underwear.  I cannot stop talking about my undies.  I'm telling coworkers, men and women alike, all about how I have robots on my butt.  They are so fun and, like I do with most new things, I have now become obsessed with my panties.

I get out of bed in the morning with a bit of excitement for picking out a new pair of underwear to put on for the day.  As I slide them on, I peek in the mirror, say "oh yeah", and give my booty a love tap!  Oh, my God, I cannot believe I am blogging about my underwear.........times are slow for blogging topics I guess.

Still, my undies are on my mind all day long.  I choose my panty of choice based on my activity of the day.  For example, my favorite pair of underwear are grey with pink robots all over them.  I mindfully chose not to wear them to work one day in case I had to work on another floor.  I did not want to "waste" them on people I don't care about.  So I saved them for a day I was certain I would be working with my usual coworkers.  Does this sound a bit messed up to you?

Nobody sees them.  Or at least, they are not supposed to see them.  But that day I forced at least two coworkers to take a peek at my robot undies.  And last night at a bonfire, I showed the whole crowd (only they weren't the robot ones this time).  I was sober mind you.

Yes, this may seem all a little too obsessive and extreme, but wearing my novelty panties makes me feel happy.  I, too, walk with a little more confidence (I admit my shit does indeed stink, and I don't believe I come with a bag of chips....) all because of the simple pleasure of my little secret under my pants. 

OK, that sounded dirty.... ;)

Letting Go is Not Easy

Dearest Poofy Bang,
I miss you so much!  I cannot get used to this new intruder, the side sweeper.  Desperate as I am to embrace and welcome this foreign being, I just cannot summon the same feelings I had for you.  You were easy, comfortable, and made me feel polished.  Though I know it was your time to go, I just had to make my feelings clear.  After spending over 3 whole decades together, you are hard to let go.  I'm hoping it is just a matter of time before I develop the same affection for my new found bangs.

Ode to the Poof

Dearest Poof, Oh how I miss you so!

It is so hard to let you go.

With your slight curl and ratty way,

Birds could play in there all day!

Full of spray and a mile high

You could almost touch the sky!

A sticky mess when you'd get wet

But to me you were heaven sent.

I'm hoping my new side sweeper

Will better show off my Peepers.

More easy flowing and care-free

I still look like Peppermint Patty.

Entering the 21st Century

An amazing thing happened this week.  It may be a decade too late, but it happened.  I stepped out of the 1980's and entered the 21st century.  My hair style has been updated.  Its been a long time coming, and something I have wanted to do ForEver, but I have never had the courage or the know-how. 

My hair has been a bone of contention for me for my whole life, and I am still not convinced I love it.  It is taking some getting used to.  Yesterday, when I got the ever important "Mom Stamp of Approval", I sighed a breath of relief.  Why my mom's opinion of my hair matters to me is a mystery, but it does. 

So today I took the plunge and got an official cut. Gone is the 80's rat's nest poofy bang, and enter the side swept bang.  Though I don't think she cut it exactly as I envisioned.  Then again, my hair is very different from the general public's hair, and it does its own thing, is far too baby fine, and is lacking a modula (the inner shaft of a hair follicle). 

So I went to my hair stylist with THIS in mind:

But I came out looking like THIS:

True facts.

I am just hoping it is a learning curve, and once I learn to style my hair better, it will look better.  At any rate, I am in the 21st century now.  My luck the poof bang will be back in style just I am learning how to do this new do. 

Really, I'm not a snob

Nearly 20 years have passed since I graduated from high school.  Since then, I have kept in touch with a very select few, and they are about the only ones I remember.  Not that I am a snob or anything; I just have a memory problem.  And, frankly, high school wasn't that memorable. 

Lately though, I have run into a few past classmates.  I know this only because they brought it to my attention,  "hey, I went to high school with you" they pronounce.  "Uh, what's your name" says I.  Its very uncomfortable.  Usually after they reveal their name, I still can't place them. 

To make an awkward situation even more awkward (did you ever notice that the spelling of the word "awkward" is awkward in and of itself?), I have been having run ins with past classmates at my job.  For the average Joe, it probably wouldn't be a huge deal to run into an old acquaintance at your place of employment, but I work in a children's mental health hospital.  Children and teens are admitted for things like suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts, or acting out behaviors.  Whatever the case, its a matter of crisis. 

Once a parent informs me that we were classmates, I find it odd to utter the obligatory, "how are you" since their response could very well be:  "Oh, little Bobby here just microwaved our cat, then grabbed a knife and started stabbing his little brother with it while my boyfriend was passed out drunk on the couch and I was in the bedroom with the neighbor shooting up some heroin".  So I am not sure what my etiquette should be in this situation.

And don't forget, I don't remember them.  And they usually know it so I already come across as stuck up, and here I am in a position of potentially giving them advice on how to effectively give their own child a time out. 

At least I must not have changed all that much if they still recognize me after nearly 20 years.  Of course, I AM still wearing the same hairstyle........

Badge of Courage

My friend and I have reached that point in our friendship where, when talking on the phone, we feel obliged to share our various bodily functions with each other.  We belch for one another, we announce our farts, and, yes, we announce when we are on the toilet while chatting away innocently.  I may have crossed the line today when I confessed one of my self cares of the morning.....

***Disclaimer***
This definitely qualifies as Too Much Information.  You may want to stop reading here, especially if you're a guy.

Our phone conversation goes something like this:

Her:  "Guess what I just did?"
Me:  "Um....dropped a dookie with me on the phone?"
Her:  "No, I belched just for you".
Me:  "Thanks.  Guess what I did today?"
Her:  "NawIdon'tknow, what?"
Me:  "I FDS'd my Vag."
Her:  "What?"
Me:  "I FDS'd my Vag."
Her:  "What is that?"
Me:  "Feminine Deodorant Spray."
Her:  "Gross, why?  What have you been doing with it?"
Me:  "Its Old Lady."
Her:  "Its old....?"
Me:  "Yeah, its all dried up."
Her:  "Well why didn't you use Windex or something?"
Me:  "Um...."
Her:  "Oh, wait, did you say BADGE or VAG?"

'Nuff said.

Big Hair for (Not Even) a Day

My hair has always been one of my biggest challenges in life.  It never really does what most hair does in that styling it takes some creativity and patience.  And even with that, it never really looks good.  I'm still stuck in a boring and lifeless hair "style".  To use the word "style" is being quite generous.  It seems the older I am getting, the thinner and limper my hair is becoming. 

Yesterday I went to get my hair cut.  Nothing major; just a few inches trimmed.  Aside from cutting one side a bit shorter than the other, my hairdresser did a great job and even spent a lot of time with me and my hair.  She talked at length about what could and would make my hair fuller, ways to actually style it, and decent products to use.  She must have styled my hair 3 or 4 different ways (if not more).  Most were OK, some were cute, and others not so much.  By the time she was done with me, I actually had "big hair".  It was the biggest my hair had ever been and it was kinda cute.  I was amped that I had found a new style and was instructed on how to recreate that same style.

Like I said, my hair does not do what other hair does, and within 10 minutes of being at home, my hair just looked weird.  It didn't look like it looked at the salon, and I had a ton of product in my backcombed hair.  There was no way in hell a person could run their fingers through my hair, and it felt thick.  But it also felt dirty.  I couldn't stand the way my hair felt!  I wanted to comb it out.  No, I needed to comb it out.  Just as my hairdresser predicted, I combed my hair out, and because there was so much product in my hair, it got super flat and dull.

Thinking I could recreate a similar look to the one I had at the salon, I decided to rewash and restyle my hair.  Too much work, man!  I am not a high maintenance kind of gal, and styling my hair takes a lot of time and maintenance which I refuse to succumb to.  Plus it didn't look nearly as good as when it did at the salon.  So, this morning I went to work with the same lifeless, dull, boring "do" only a few inches shorter.  I'm thinking I might take up a permanent pony tail.

Actually, my main conclusion is that it isn't necessarily my hair that is the problem.  Its more my face.  This face combined with that hair just doesn't work.  And I don't know how to fix either of them.

Orgasmic Pleasures

When I still lived at home, my mom and I would have little peanut butter races to see who could be the first person to dig their knife into that unopened jar of deliciousness.  Whoever was first would always leave a little "gotcha" message in the peanut butter itself.  A jagged "haha" or smiley face would await the loser.  There are few worse disappointments than opening that jar up thinking you were the first only to find that taunting message.  I don't have anybody to have peanut butter races with anymore, but there are a few other simple pleasures that bring about a similar feeling.

Its not often I get sunburned, and when I do get burned, it usually turns to tan.  How very fortunate I am.  Except, I love peeling off the dead layers.  The crispier the better!  Since I live in Northern Minnesota, it is a near impossibility to get sunburned 9 months out of the year so I would recreate that sensation with glue.  You've done it too, and you know it.  Elmer's Glue, on your hands, let it dry, and peel.  Its fun and it serves to clean your hands while you're at it.  I've even put Elmer's Glue on my face.  Fun times.  There is nothing quite like peeling dead sunburned skin. . . . .

. . .Except the feeling of pulling a stray strand of hair out of your nose or ear.  Ohhhhh, that sensation is glorious!  When I was younger, I would even put a single strand of hair in my various facial orifices just to be able to pull it out again.  However, that never had the same accomplished feeling as when one was a random menace.

For me, the most pleasurable feeling occurs when I am shoveling.  Not just any regular snowfall.  Digging the shovel underneath large plates of packed, icy, chunky chunks is so rewarding.  My neighbor and I would often shovel in tandem.  Her in her driveway and me in mine.  We both loved shoveling those big chunks that had been packed down by repeatedly driving on them.  To finally reach the bare driveway was....orgasmic.  Yes, orgasmic.  For real.

From peanut butter, to Elmer's glue, to hair in the nose, to shoveling chunky snow chunks......all simple pleasures of orgasmic proportions.

Happy Hour My Style

Another Friday night, another Happy Hour.  I'm not talking the happy hour at the neighborhood bar or even the happy hour where appetizers are half price.  No, instead, I refer to the new Happy Hour I look forward to every Friday night.  Its the Bejeweled Happy Hour on Facebook where the x2 enhanced feature is FREE!  Usually it costs 7500 coins (coins you rack up by obsessive playing), but every Friday, they are free.  Go me.

Its a sad life I lead.  This Friday evening, I am bored silly.  Its a good measure of others who have uneventful lives to see who else may be updating their statuses on Facebook on Fridays and Saturdays.  Mostly, though, those are the people who are home with their families.  Or, if they are single like me, they are experiencing a very real hour of happiness.  They are likely NOT enjoying my same Happy Hour. 

In addition to keeping up with the ever exciting world of Facebook, tonight I have taken to reading blogs.  Sometimes its fun to read random blogs, but tonight I went back and reread the other blogs I follow.  That, in turn, inspired me to blog.  My problem is that I couldn't figure out what to write about.  A Bejeweled Happy Hour just is not that exciting.  Yet, it made for an OK blog post I guess. 

Certainly there are other, more productive things I could (and should) be doing, but getting to the top of the leader board on all my online games has become somewhat of a priority for me.  Don't get me wrong, I am not a huge gamer by any means, and once I achieve top billing, my games take a very big back seat.  Truth be told, I am already at the top of my Bejeweled leader board. But, as in life, I like to have a good savings of coins so that when Tuesday rolls around (the day the leader board resets), I will have a surplus to achieve first place once again.

Yes, my self esteem is based largely on my first place statuses of online games.  Now that I am in first place and my blog has been blogged, it is time to go pet the cats.  Sigh.

Elf-Stravaganza!

Tomorrow I am hosting my annual Elf night.  It is when the Christmas season officially begins.  Ever since seeing the movie Elf in the theater, my friends and I have watched it together every year.  The party keeps growing and it is possibly my most anticipated night of the year.  This year, I welcome a newcomer to Elf Night.  Hopefully she won't be scared off by my baking talents.

Rarely do I get the opportunity to bake or cook for more than just me.  Whenever opportunity knocks, I get a little bit excited....and a little bit nervous.  A lot of sugary goodness is on the menu for tomorrow night, and I started my prep work tonight.

Several months ago, I had a hankering for Angel Food Cake and picked up a cake mix only to come home to find I didn't have the appropriate pan but rather I had a bundt cake pan.  Years ago I did attempt to defy all odds and create the perfect Angel Food cake in a bundt cake pan which only resulted in an overflowing mess in my oven.  Lesson Learned.  So I shelved that box of recently purchased cake mix and waited until my Birthday wish for an Angel Food Cake pan was granted.

Since Strawberry Shortcake is on the menu for tomorrow, I thought it would be a perfect time to break in my new pan and make that cake.  All was going grand until it was time for the cake to come out of the oven.  I didn't have the recommended glass bottle in which to place the pan upside down upon so I used a long stemmed goblet.  All would have been fine had the balance not shifted resulting in the pan, and cake, fumbling to the floor.  Quickly I picked up the cake, rescuing it from doom.

Once it cooled, I removed the cake from the pan only to find a very lopsided delicacy.  

I should have my guests sign a waiver:
"Not responsible for choking on cat hair".


My friend said it perfectly when she said, "I'm pretty sure it will still taste delicious! Elf ate gum off of hand railings so a little cat hair Angel Food Cake will be just fine!" 

I'm glad she thinks so since I won't be making another one, and this one will be served along with some exploded mini molten lava cakes.

No special effects were involved in taking this photo.

These will also be served.  They taste delicious!  I should know, I had to eat the "mistakes" though you wouldn't know that only survivors are left.  They all look like mistakes to me.

I'm hoping that the attendees of my Elf party read this blog after Elf has been watched and the horrible food consumed.  One final photo illustrates the challenges of baking in a tiny kitchen with three nosy cats about.  And why I really hope you read this after our party.


I promise she did NOT lick the cake.  For real.



Boil, Boil, Toil and Trouble.

As I was sitting on the toilet the other day, I noticed a sensitive spot on my rear end area.  I took a peek.  Who wouldn't?  You totally would, and you know it.  Anyway, I peeked.  I was aghast to see a swollen reddened area.  Naturally, I consulted my doctor of choice:  Google.  From the photos I found online, I deduced that I had meself a boil.  A boil!  Gross.  From that deduction, I made a further conclusion that I am indeed old.  Not only old, but also fat since only old, fat people get boils. 

Following the advice of my doctor Google, I sat myself on a heating pad, soaked in the hot tub, and kept an eye on it as best I could. 

Within about 2 days, my "boil" was black.  Either I had gangrene or I didn't have a boil.  Then I remembered a scooter mishap I had at work earlier that week.  I was helping one of the little kids put away one of the scooters when I tripped over that son-of-a-bitch.  The scooter, not the kid.  The result was a handle bar to the ass.  Problem solved!  My boil was a bruise.  

Since I did not have a boil, that could only mean one thing two things:
1).  I am not old
2).  I am not fat. 

Whew!  I was worried for a moment.  Though both of those things are debatable.

Prettyful Piggies

I admit I was warned, but I didn't believe it.

"You'll get addicted", they said.

"No, I won't. It can't be that spectacular", was my reply.

"Just wait, you'll see", was their reply.

They won. I lost. I had my first pedicure today and I loved it. After initially getting past the overwhelming fumes of nail polish and nail polish remover, I was hooked. On second thought, maybe I was hooked BECAUSE of the overwhelming fumes. Hmmmm. Anyway, I loved it fumes or not. Here are some photos to help commemorate the experience.



This is the obligatory "before" shot. Yes, my feet are bony and perhaps there is some hair visible. I don't care.



And they are rather "vein-y" too. I still don't care. This is during the relaxing experience that is a pedicure.



Naturally, the after shot. The color was not really my numero uno choice, but it matches a dress I intend on wearing to my friend's wedding. In Vegas. Which is the reason for this, my first but definitely not last, pedicure.

My only regret is that I didn't splurge on a manicure as well. It was only $10 more, but I declined. Just the other day I cut all my finger nails short. Plus I hate my hands, and having them painted all pretty just draws unwanted attention to them. So I'll settle for pretty toe toes and call it good.

Better get busy. I have a lot to get done before heading to Sin City.

I Have a Timmy on my Back

As a person ages, mysterious apparitions appear on various bodily parts. Unsightly age spots, moles, bumps just to name a few. Tonight as I am soaking in my new jetted bathtub that could give me an enema if I was positioned just right, I notice a cyst of sorts. Actually I have noticed it in the past, but always thought it was an ingrown pimple or bug bite. Tonight it occurred to me that I have a Timmy on my back.

Timmy is the mysterious name that my mother gave to her fatty mass on the back of her shoulder. It is this benign, ugly, fatty lump that just sits there. Her lump is quite large and a person could cup their whole hand around her lump if they were so inclined.

Timmy's little brother took up residence on my back. Right in the smack dab middle of my back on my spine. Thankfully he is just a little guy, and I am hoping he doesn't grow up to be a big boy.

Now all you alarmists out there reading this, don't go crazy and start telling me it is some cancerous growth. It is quite simply a benign cyst. An ugly one at that. And his name is Timmy.

Chatting in the Girl's Room

Today at work I entered the ladies Room to do my business. As I am doing my business in my stall, I hear a voice from the other stall:

Voice: "K, is that you?"

Me: "Uh, yeah."

The voice proceeds to ask me questions about the day as we are both peeing. (With close friends I happen to call that circumstance "Dueling Vaginas". I almost always win because I have a small bladder.) But this voice was not that of a close friend. This voice belonged to my boss.

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind having a casual conversation with a friend or a shopping partner or whatever, but in general, I prefer to have silence while I do my bathroom duties. Its just awkward to be chatting about the weather as I am wiping myself. And for this person to be my boss was just wrong. To make it even stranger, she finished her business before me and left the bathroom so we had this whole conversation without even seeing each other. Bizarre.

So, for those of you who are reading this, feel free to strike up a conversation when I happen to be dueling my vagina against yours. (Technically maybe its the urethra.)

Evolution of a Permed Mall Bang Addict

BEWARE: BLOG CONTAINS SCARY PHOTOS THAT MAY CAUSE PERMANENT EYE DAMAGE. VIEW AT YOUR OWN RISK!
As previously posted (I don't know how to link up past blogs yet), I have been pretty candid about my addiction with having mall bangs. Still to this day, I have those fluffy bangs. There have been many attempts to break the cycle of drying, curling and fluffing; but it never fails, I go back to my old ways within a matter of days.

Here is my evolution in pictures. The first few photos are not horrible, and some are even kinda cute. I can't say the same for the final few pictures so let this be your warning.


Here I am at age 1. Not adorable. In fact, my mom always thought I looked like I had Down Syndrome. I think I look like I have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Either way, there appears to be a syndrome of some kind......


Age 3. Cute and adorable even with the owie on my chin. I fell off the counter helping my mom bake cookies. Don't we all have a scar on our chin?


Ok. Kinda cute here. Age 6. Donning a sailor dress and long hair. Mall bangs and perms have yet to touch this virgin hair.


First Haircut. Actually this was supposed to be a mullet cut, but the beautician did not understand my mom's instructions and gave me this short cut instead. I cried because I wanted long hair, but in hindsight, it may have been a blessing. No mullets for me!


My hair is growing a little at this point, and its almost long enough to get a perm....


Ahhhhh, there it is! My first Perm. That was either 3rd or 4th grade. Notice how much body that perm gave me? That was the beginning of the addiction.


Fast Forward to around the 8th grade. Oooff Da! This is what years of bad perms can do to a person. Look at that frizz! I look like a mature dandelion. Blow on me, and all my hair may scatter about. Actually, it almost did....


Complete with teenage acne and a butterfly necklace. Its a wonder I wasn't the laughing stalk of Jr. High.


As seen previously, this was my final perm experience. The many years of perms created brittle hair that broke off leaving an asymmetrical "cut". This picture was my first time wearing my hair down which brought attention to how fried my hair was. Better to have fried hair than a fried brain I suppose. I could have been an 80's TV commercial though: This is your hair. This is your hair on perms. Any questions?


Sadly this is my graduation picture. I clearly remember doing my hair that day. I actually lowered the height of my bangs for my grad photos.

One of these days may find me with a hair make over. I'm not there quite yet. At least I have given up on the perms.

Freak of Nature

Since I have revealed vajayjay issues and also revealed embarrassing Jr. High School pictures, I thought I'd stay on that train. While we're at it, I might as well walk you through the many afflictions that prove I am a freak of nature. Let the Embarrassment continue.....but its all in good fun.

First, I have super duper stretchy skin. Its stretchier than the average person. It affects my whole family and from internet research, we have diagnosed ourselves with Ehler-Danlo Syndrome or EDS. Usually our type is found in a circus pulling their bottom lip up over their nose, but we settled for quarters showing off our skin at neighborhood Tupperware parties. No lie. When I was just a wee gal, my mom showed me the neatest trick ever. She showed me how to bundle up my skin on my knee or elbow to make a penis!!

My stretchy skin has made for some pretty interesting conversations and people who may not necessarily remember me, usually remembers my stretchy skin. At least I am remembered for Something. Even if it is for a Penis Knee.

Affliction #2: My hands. My hands have a million bazillion lines in them. I call them "old lady hands". I have had old hands ever since I was young so it isn't something that just appeared. Years ago I went to a palm reader just for shits and giggles. She told me my palm was unreadable because of all the lines. Then she said I had multiple personalities. Maybe.

I just like to think that I have had many many past lives and they are all reflected in my palm.

Affliction #3: Eye strings. Sorry no real photo available at this time. I get these odd fiber like strings that appear in my eyeball and I have to dig them out! Its like a long strand of a very tiny hair encased with booger stuff. They hurt and make my eye puffy and red. When the occur, I get obsessed with them and must dig them out, but when I pull out those suckers, its immediate relief.


Affliction #4: Varicose Veins. Well, I used to have them. Thanks to my mom and grandma, I was blessed with the atrocity of varicose veins. Ugly, ugly, ugly. As I aged, they only got worse so I had a very minor surgery to rid myself of their presence. Only now I am left with something more disturbing. Now I have little brown holes all over my leg. Thirty-one holes to be exact.

My skin, being I have EDS, does not heal like most peoples' skin. Instead, it forms keloids, or fatty masses, when I get an injury. So now I have 31 little Keloids all over my leg which is just as, if not more, unsightly than those purple bulging veins.

Affliction #5: Clicky Hip. Sometime after age 30, I developed a new talent. When I walk, I click. Simple as that. It sounds horrible; I could probably have a conversation with a remote African tribe just from the sounds of my hip, but it does not hurt at all.


Oh, the embarrassment! Complete with pictures and all! What a lucky person you are to be privy to this circus-eligible resume.

Bad Hair Days

My whole life's dream as a little girl was to have flowing locks of long hair. I adored long hair and envied anyone who had hair below their shoulders. My hair has always been baby fine and very thin. Not only was it fine and thin, but I grew up in the 80's which means I was getting perms by the time I was in 3rd grade. Not even standard quality salon perms, but home perms. Bad home perms. My poor hair was so over processed that it simply did not grow. In fact, it broke off from all the chemicals so it actually got shorter rather than longer. My mom determined it was very necessary for me to have perms because it contributed to my hair having some volume. So instead of looking like a skinned rat, I looked like a skinned rat with cancer.

Fast forward to 9th grade and the 9th grade dance. For this special occasion, my mom takes me to the salon to get yet another perm (a fresh perm so I have more volume). This time, the perm does not take quite so well and my hair is rather limp. A few days later, we return to the salon to inquire why my hair is so limp and the dumbass REPERMS my hair. Imagine all those chemicals on baby fine hair in just a matter of a few days! And that, my friends, was the beginning of many awkward photos.



I can't even believe I am putting this horrid picture out there for all the interwebs to see, but you needed the picture to get the full effect of what a bad hair day really is. Unfortunately, there are worse pictures of me out there somewhere.

See, what happened is that those perms broke off all the hair on one side of my head so I went through all of Jr. High School with crooked hair. Kids were kind. I didn't even get teased. But I should have.

Of course we (my mom and I) didn't think that all these perms were damaging my hair, and we thought something was medically wrong with me. Or that I was lacking in some hair vitamin. Oh, I even had lab draws to determine why my hair was so awful, but all came back normal. Then it was recommended by that same dumbass beautician that we send samples of my hair in to some obscure lab to be tested. So for the bargain price of $10, I let that lady take 4 separate hunks of hair from each part of my head. Right down to the scalp. It was all I could do to sacrifice all of that hair because I needed every little strand of hair possible. So away to a lab went my hunks of hair.

The results came back saying that my hair did not have a medulla. Apparently that is the middle shaft of a single strand of hair, and it holds a curl. My hair is unlike most peoples' hair in that the more you try to curl it, the straighter it gets, which would also explain why instead of getting nice curls with my perms, I would get frizz. Along with a medulla deficiency I had very "fragile" hair.

That was the end of my perms. Unfortunately not the end of my bad hair days. They are getting better, but I still live in the 90's and have some lingering effects of the infamous "mall bang" look. Oh, I have tried and tried to give myself make overs and get a different, more updated hair style, but my hair doesn't work like that. And I am so petrified of having more pictures like the one I just posted for all the world to see. I can't believe I actually posted that picture. Don't use it to blackmail me, please!

(Just as an *aside*....those suspender pants I am wearing were MC Hammer meets Zubaz. They were big and flare-y and cost me a lot of money!)