The final chapter of my hair saga.

Remember how upset I was about my hair? Almost a week later, I still couldn't shake the feeling, so when I happened by a salon in Chicago offering 20% off for new clients, a force took over me and I found myself explaining my problems to the lady behind the counter, who could tell immediately what was wrong with my hair (it was that bad).

A tiny Kim Kardashian (I thought she was prettier, but her hair was almost exactly the same -- I'm growing out my hair now) came out and told me what she would do. After about 45 minutes, I walked out with this:

But a few days later, I trimmed my bangs. They look good, but I need to hide the scissors now. I don't really want bangs, I just wanted to control something (those darn anxiety issues).

So, this is the end for about 3 months. Or 30 days, at the very least.

Under The Table.

Under the Table: Saucy Tales from Culinary School

On Sunday, my mom asked me if I would go to a few stores with her. Because I've kept myself cooped up out due to a recent bout of the blues, I said alright, but only if we get coffee at some point.

Our first stop was the discount bookstore that I forgot all about. Ever since Borders closed, I've been lamenting the loss of my favorite Christmastime tradition, buying books for family, enjoying the more close-knit, familial setting of the employees than Barnes & Nobles could ever hope to offer.

I digress.

This discount bookstore was in a strip mall that I often drive by but never stop at because it's tucked in where I don't want to be -- by the bowling alley, Steak & Shake, and ABC Warehouse. But once I walked in I smacked myself on the head.

The books are all laid out on those fake brown tables that look like wood on top, but is only a heavy laminate. Some were on shelves. They had thank you notes, journals, and just about everything you can find for their full price at the B&N. So as my mom looked for the books she needed, I perused the nonfiction novels while I waited. I saw some personal tales of hiking and mountain climbing. I saw some other stuff. Then, I saw this book. It's kind of cliche - a girl leaves her day job to go into debt learning how to cook from French chefs with delusions of striking it rich as a famous chef. Of course, she's blonde. However, it's a lot better than that. You won't get a play-by-play on the inner workings of culinary school, but you do get a few tips on the different kind of stocks (brown and white; no salt; fish stock, falling into the white category, is the quickest of them all and never use carrots), which are the base for all sauces and more; why chocolate is always a better choice than vanilla when it comes to ice cream; cream puffs!

There are no pictures in this book, but there are recipes at the end of a few chapters.

She isn't as mean as the Amazon reviewers make her out to be. To me (I'm halfway through the book), her narrative reveals her inner dialogue, which is always more raw and honest than most of us will ever reveal to the world. She's blunt. Although you get the sense that she's playing the role of a caricaturist in the descriptions of her fellow classmates, like a caricature painting it's just a more enhanced version of their true self. Aren't we all a little dramatic?

Her writing style draws you in and isn't overly twee or dramatic. She just is what she portrays. When you're in a high pressure setting, it's easy to doubt yourself. Then, you pull yourself out of it and, even for a brief moment, think you are the most amazing person on earth. It's not false humility, it's human nature.

Anyway, as with all reviews, take them with a grain of kosher salt. I'm going to keep reading.

Nothing is certain but death and taxes.

And you most definitely cannot ever be certain of getting a good haircut. Observe:

It looks passable now that I've fixed it a little, but it a) doesn't look quite like that style should look, b) looks almost, but not quite, entirely unlike what I wanted, and c) looks nothing like the picture I brought in.

I cried. There is no point pretending like I'm not that girl. Usually, I give myself a week before deciding how terrible a haircut really is, but this was just horrible. Here is how it began:

I arrived at the salon on time for my appointment, which had already been pushed back half an hour due to a previous customer whose appointment ran long. Instead of having to wait an extra half hour (which worked out for me), I ended up waiting more like a full hour before said customer was finally finished.

The owner asked another stylist to please get me started by washing my hair. She gave me a really nice scalp massage that I normally don't receive from my usual guy. (For some reason, I expect guys to give better haircuts than women. Yeah, I know.) My hair was looking pretty good after that, I noticed.

After the blonde with long hair left and the remnants of her scalp were swept off the chair, I sat down and showed him a picture of my desired cut. It was shorter than I have ever gotten before, but he gave me a great haircut last visit so I wasn't worried. He pointed a little less than halfway down my neck and said, "According to the picture, this is how short it will be. Is that okay?" Yes, it was.

Only, when you cut wet hair you have to account for the fact that it shrinks as it dries. Right? Even I knew that. Strike one.

Instead of cutting the blunt layer, then a top layer a 1/2 inch or so shorter, texturing the ends to lie softly, he ended up cutting and texturing graduated layers so my hair would round itself, like so. Big strike two.

By this point, I just wanted to jump out of the chair, but found myself paralyzed and gazing into the mirror in a frozen state of panic. You'd think that would be the end, but it gets worse. He was styling it so that my hair would poof out instead of lying flat like the picture I showed him (think soccer mom bob). When I kindly asked him why my hair poofed out like that, he said, "Oh, that's kind of what I do!" I just didn't know how to respond to that. You'd have thought he hated me. Yes, I tip well. I even praised the guy on Yelp. STRIKE THREE.

Yet, I still tipped him. Our final conversation went something like this:

Him: "Do you like it?"

Me: "Uh huh-sure-great-here's your tip-no, I'll call-gotta go!"

I'm amazed I didn't cry in the car. Somehow, I managed to save my tears for when I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.

Finally, we get to my hair in the first picture. I parted my hair deeply off to the side and smoothed it out with the flat iron I thought I broke because I had smacked it against the counter a few hours earlier in rage. (I never do that.) I kind of have a butchered Katie Holmes 'do now (in fact, if you Google image search "soccer mom bob", a picture of Katie Holmes' famous bob, and the ex wife of Jim Carrey, is one of first images) only not as intentional and, I repeat, not at all what I wanted. It needs to be fixed but I don't want to go back to this place ever again, and I'm too cheap to pay for another haircut so soon.

Such is my life.

ETA - Now that I'm a little less hysterical, I realize I'm making a much bigger deal out of this than the situation warrants. It's less about the hair and more about the lack of control. I actually think the style looks kind of cute in a 20s bob way, though I can still see faults with the shape. Who knows, I might even keep it this way if I don't like how it grows out.

What I want to know is... And hair musings.

Why my package was shipping on a Sunday, but not at all on Monday. Hmm? It's as if they realized they were ahead of schedule and had to slow themselves down. I'm looking directly at you, USPS.

So, I'm getting my haircut on Friday. I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to do, though I've (sort of) decided to cut it much shorter than I ever have before.

And then I see pictures of myself with long hair (like the outdated profile picture) and I question my sanity.

The thing is, my hair is already short (hits my shoulders) so if I wanted it long again, it will take a while. And as cliche as it sounds, I WANT A CHANGE.

Here's what it looks like now. I'm looking at this picture hoping that its hideousness will propel me towards drastic changes.

I look sleepy without any eyeliner.

My first step towards being a drastic person was dying my hair "natural blue-black" in May. I've always been curious as to what I'd look like with black hair. Well, it wasn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me, but far from my best look. It has since faded and looks a little highlighted. My roots (half an inch of light brown) are beginning to show and I should probably do something about it, like a dark chocolate brown.

Anyway, I've rescheduled this appointment thrice, so it needs to be Friday already.

lost needles.

Let's start with my most recent disturbance. I am currently knitting fingerless mitts (a Ravlery link -- you'll need to sign in to view it) when I realized I knit too far ahead when instead I was supposed to remove stitches to spare yarn. As I was backtracking, the stitch marker flew off towards me. It took upwards of five minutes to locate the tiny green circular marker. Afterward, I looked back down to my knitting and counted three. Three size 1 bamboo double-pointed needles. (When you knit with double-pointed needles the stitches get divided between three needles and the fourth is used to work the stitches.) This is how my search went:

Lifted up and carefully shook out two blankets that were on the couch.

Lifted up the couch cushions to look underneath.

Looked under the couch with a flashlight, feeling around to see if it fell under.

Got some help moving the couch out a few inches from the wall. (I'm very weak.)

Finally, after these efforts proved futile, we wondered if the thin needle somehow fell into the crevasses of the pull out mattress. (It was very dusty in there, and now I'll have to vacuum.) I was just about to resign to my fate and hope it would suddenly appear when I no longer needed it, because that's usually how these things work out. The needles are packaged in a set of five, which is another reason I don't mind spending a few extra dollars on this brand, so I would still be able to continue knitting. Suddenly, we spotted the needle, it having landed vertically, stuck up right next to the wood panel that runs along the bottom of the couch on the inside.

That was fun.