Go ahead! Bling up your noggin. Why be sexy only in the privacy of your private areas? Jennifer Love Hewitt may swear by vajazzling, but I say nogazzle your way to a new and confident you! Here are the steps to transforming your noggin into a gorgeous, shimmering gem (and just in time for summer!):
For old time's sake, I played Life with my sister on New Year's Eve. Thought it might be fun to gamble on an old classic as we welcomed in a new decade. I had fond Life memories; sitting around the dinner table with my family, my sister in long pigtails, my brother wearing a t-shirt and a grin, and I perched on my knees in the swivel chair sporting a black leotard and jeans, we advanced though the different stages of Life—school, marriage, babies, insurance, and retirement—with my mom typically winning at the very end as she dumped all her earnings and belongings on one number and betting she would hit that number with a quick twist of the white spinner nob. However, as I opened the box, I was much dismayed to find that I had a newer version of Life. Damn you Life!
Every autumn I prepare my garden for the winter. This is a shameful process; yanking up 3-foot tall weeds, leveling my overgrown mint dynasty, peeling a frozen green tomato off the wire support stand, and uprooting a bush I mistook for parsley (no wonder that tomato sauce tasted odd), I must come to terms with the obvious truth that I am a terrible gardener. And, the cold, hard truth is not very pleasant for me. Now, I do like the idea of having a garden. It looks pretty when it's in bloom. But, if I had the extra cash, I would hire someone to make it perfect. Because, I can't make it perfect and that bugs the shit out of me.
That might actually be worse than not having a perfect garden—knowing I can't make something perfect. Damn my flawed human hands! So, in an effort to be the first to laugh at my imperfections and failings as a gardener (and possibly as a human being), I decided to photograph my ineptitude—not hold anything back. I stand poised with my black bucket that I consider to be a more mobile, cheaper version of a wheelbarrow. No bothersome wheels to get in the way of progress. Just lift and toss. And, of course, no gloves for me. I like to feel the pressure of the dirt build up underneath my fingernails.
Why did I apologize to the hairdresser? I told her I was sorry. As she was putting the finishing touches on my bangs, I asked her to revisit the back of my hair. It wasn't short enough. I told her that I should have brought a picture and that I've had a long day and I couldn't communicate properly as to what I was looking for in a decent 'do. It was my fault. I said if I hadn't pushed to have my haircut professionally, I would have taken scissors to my head later on that night. Then I went on to surmise that my hair looked like a Lego person's hair—like a plastic head cap of solid color that doesn't move unless you pop it off to snap on the bicycle helmet headpiece. But then I would be androgynous. Nothing to differentiate me from the male Lego people in town. Again, sorry to be a spazz. Can you just razor the crap out of my hair?
I wasted my precious adolescence on trying to be a cool kid. The effort I poured into being mutually acknowledged by others who oozed cool so naturally—like they were active volcanoes continuously producing molten lava at the expense of the poor suckers in the village below (shit, that volcano is hot, yet, so cool...it's been dating Donnie the quarterback)—always ended up getting me burned, and burned badly. Not because I eventually was ignored or made fun of, but because I thought I wanted to be close to these people, or better yet, be these people, thus being blinded to what should have mattered the most: my brain.
Growing up, I was consistently torn between social acceptance and fear of my dad. I wasn't afraid of him, physically, but feared disappointing him. I, me and all that I am, was slow-cooked in a thick stew of responsibility, self-worth, inner drive, and Catholic guilt. I was the tender, uncooked meat being purposefully braised with these "flavors," and over time, I would be the perfect morsel my father could be proud of. Doesn't she taste delicious! Better, yet, doesn't she look primed to win a blue ribbon in a chili cook-off?
