I would like to start this blog post by discussing hair. No, not my hair, or your hair, or the hair of those brave souls who do strange things for fashion’s sake. Not ObamaHair, or the hair of 70’s rocker bands, or hairy butts.
No. Just plain and simple dog hair. Just the kind of hair that is everywhere in my home. It moves from the floor to the bed, crawls up the walls and onto my nightstand, defies gravity and invariably floats its way into each and every wine and water glass. It clogs the bathtub and the sink and the other sink, and collects in big, gross, hairy puddles in the corners every single day. The kind of hair that sheds often enough that a wig for the cancer-afflicted could be made, perhaps several times a week. The kind of hair that keeps on coming, no matter how much you brush and brush and brush.
That’s the kind of hair I’m dealing with. It’s on my mind.
And between losing a plane ticket, being unemployed, and dealing with so much extra stress, the past month has been kind of… well, hairy.
Upon my return from a wonderful vacation in Utah, I attended my first live jazz music session last night and was absolutely blown away by the jazziness of it all. I immediately wanted to learn the stuff, and had some excellent chats with other participants. Even though I was about 150 years younger than everyone else there, the folk (particularly the men, who generously donated their business cards) were welcoming, fun, and outrageously talented. Unfortunately, one cannot eat business cards, but I had a wonderful time. I plan on returning post haste.
You’ll be glad to know that in between sweeping Lois’s clothes off the floor, I am keeping up on laundry and occasionally finding time to think about having a piano in my apartment. Sometimes, as I stand in the shower and watch little black hairs float past my feet, I sing to myself and get really excited about the future. Other times, I gently brush a lock of fur off my shoulders, and attempt to stop stressing about the fact that my car may or may not be in my parking spot next time I go to work. Overall, however, I am feeling younger by the minute and find myself altogether broke, but fairly content.
I still accept donations of free foot massages. Don’t all jump at once.