Sunday, November 13, 2005

Olga Sorebutt

Yesterday, I apparently put far greater demand than usual on my gluteus minimus, gluteus medius, and gluteus maximus (especially the gluteus maximus). Evidently, planting 40 tulip and daffodil bulbs is more than my ass can take, because today it is exceedingly and deeply sore. It’s bizarre, I mean, I could understand if I had sore shoulders or forearms from digging all those four- to six-inch holes in heavy clay soil, but what was my butt doing getting so involved in the process? I guess I probably did a lot of repeated squatting and kneeling, but aren’t I in better shape that that? I do hike up a lot of hills (and mountains) and I’m never sore after that. It’s pretty pathetic when gardening is capable of putting your ass out of commission.

It’s weird to be so keenly aware of my derriere. I’ve been dragging around the house moaning and giving B updates on its status (I think it’s getting worse!) all day long, which inspired B to quip, “If you were a gymnast, your name would be Olga Sorebutt," which I thought was a riot. I have such a weakness for bad puns.

I think two paragraphs about my bum is enough.

I have another body part that requires discussion. Remember my boring hair? Well, as so many people urged me to do, I called up M, my stylist, and told her I wasn’t at all pleased with her efforts of the previous week, and that I wanted something more dramatic and contrasty and life-altering. She was very cheerful about the whole thing and booked me in for a re-do—at no charge (triple underscored!) I went in Friday. The first thing she did was haul out these big heavy books of color swatches. She pulled out one swatch that was the color of a stop sign! Not quite what I had in mind.

She had a few other more natural-looking choices, but she warned me that they might end up looking pretty carrot-y and that it was a bit difficult to predict what the outcome would be (which she hardly needed to tell me, given what happened [or failed to happen] before). I sat there with the swatch book on my lap, placing the various red options on top of various dark- brown swatches to try to gauge the overall effect. Because my hair is already so color treated, the bottom line seemed to be that she was probably not going to be able to achieve the results I had dreamed of, i.e., dark-brown hair with striking coppery streaks in it. I thought about just telling her that I would stick with what I had and then leave—the spectres of stop signs and carrots were scaring me. After all, my hair was totally nice looking, just boring. And boring is better than catastrophic electric carrot hair, right? But I was there and it was free and I’m not all that good at being decisive, so I did what was easiest. I stayed and picked the most middle-of-the-road (and, I hoped, the least likely to go carrot on me) choice.

M put in the foils and then dyed the rest of my hair a shade or two darker brown (to help heighten the contrast). I’m happy to report that there is not a trace of carrot in my hair and, as for the highlights/streaks, well, you can’t miss ‘em.


But what color, exactly, are they? I’ll tell you: Zinfandel.* I figured that out last night while at a wine and cheese party. I realized that I was basically drinking my hair color. I did get at least half a dozen compliments from people at the party, so at least I know I achieved my goal of being noticed. But whether my hair truly looks good rather than freakish, is not so easy to determine. People fib to be nice sometimes, you know. No one (at least no one who’s a friend of mine) is going to come up to me and say: “Your hair looks like shit! Shit with Zinfandel poured over it!”

I do sort of like it. I think it’s an improvement over what I had before, but it’s a bit more radical and edgy than what I originally wanted. Also, the Zinfandel color will definitely start to fade after a few washings (all reds do), and I’m kind of living in fear that it will fade to some dreadful shade like bubblegum pink, which is why I haven’t washed my hair since I had it colored on Friday and why I am wondering if I can let it go a few more days. Oy!

*The streaks may not look Zinfandel to you, but, trust me, they are. It is nearly impossible to take a photo of one's own hair, just so you know. I spent 20 minutes and took 40 different photos of my hair, and I didn't get a single one that accurately captured the color. I posted one of them anyway, just to justify the ridiculous amount of time I spent contorting myself into different poses in a vain (in more than one sense) attempt to get a good photo of my hair.


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