Multiple Bang Style Personality Disorder

I'd like to show you the only movie star with whom I'll ever have a physical trait in common: Carole Lombard, who also was a Hoosier, by the way.

I bet you can guess what it is. It's certainly not a smoldering, sexy glare, now, is it.

It's that thing. That billboard over my eyes. "The Lombard," as I call it. I've disliked it all my life, along with other facial things (long nose, huge nostrils, moon face). In photos, I literally have to have George place his head BEHIND my head so that I don't appear to be two inches from the camera while he is at normal range. He knows the drill: we get a photo, he backs up a smidge.

 My head has always been big.


                             Exhibit A: Baby picture.
                   Dang. How did my neck hold that up?                                                                    

Normally, I wear bangs of some kind. Lately I've been sporting what would normally be a heavy, blunt bang, except 14 hairs that make up bangs can never look heavy:

But then I started to feel like I was reincarnating this:

I think I look rather pensive for a second grader, don't you? I was probably dreaming of being the line leader again, the best classroom job ever.

I'm not big on side swept bangs for myself. I think it reminds me of 8th grade. Yikes.

George never has much to say about what I wear or how I wear my hair. I just can't get an honest opinion out of him. In 29 years of marriage, the only preference he ever uttered was that he liked me with bangs better than without.

So I guess that's another reason I've kept the fringe.

But I just can't settle the issue, and every day of my life, I decide to let them grow out and then promptly trim them. Anyone else have Multiple Bang Style Personality Disorder?

Anatomy of a Procrastination of a Run

Morning runs are best for me. At age 50, I'm finding it more difficult to get up earlier and retain the enthusiasm from the night before when I set my alarm.

Nevertheless, a couple of nights ago I did set the alarm, and this is what happened before I ever got out the door:

1. Awoke to dog mess in my laundry room. Had to clean up poo before I was fully awake, before coffee. Hello, cruel world.
2. Allergies burst forth like the grand finale in a fireworks display. It was nonstop sneezing and blowing for about 15 mins. How can a body manufacture this much water?
3. Coffee.
4. Checked Twitter and Facebook, because, you know, I might have missed what you posted about the weather or what you ate for breakfast or what art project YOUR dog made for you this morning.
5. Used the bathroom. Many, many times. This is OCD imperative for me. I freak out on a run if I have to ....
6. Checked the weather, both out the window and on two apps. Not happy about any of the results. Checked weather in Siesta Key. Much better.
7. Selected running clothes. Long-sleeved sweat-wicking shirt, pants with zippers at the ankles (who thought up that skin irritation catastrophe?) Nathan belt for tissue, pepper spray, phone, Band Aids. New socks. Shoes. Ponytail.
8. Bathroom again. 8b. And again.
9. Grabbed Ipod. Headphone wires tangled like a Zentangle.
10. Tried to download new tune from Itunes, technical difficulties.
11. Couldn't find sunglasses. Wore dollar store variety.
12. Couldn't find Chapstick. Wore actual lipstick because I couldn't stand the dryness. Stunning coral lipstick, SO appropriate for a run.
13. BATHROOM

*Out the door!*

Stopped at mile 1 to get tiny rock out of shoe ....

This Actually Happened

You know how, when you come back from vacation, you say to yourself, "Self: Now vacation is over. You have got to get your crazing eating under control. You probably put on a few pounds, but don't panic. You just need to get right back into your regular just-a-notch-under-crazy eating habits and things will be better." You feel kind of bloated and guilty, but you decide not to dwell on that negativity and just start over, right? Well, imagine leaving your vacation with this kind of guilt and then this actually happens ....

Scene: We're leaving Florida, boarding the jet for home. As I enter the plane, the steward reads my sweatshirt and says to me, "Ahh, you've been to Siesta Key." 

By the way, I rarely ever wear words. I just don't. But I left my fashion comfort zone and bought a hot pink hoodie that clearly says, "Siesta Key."

So the steward remarks about my shirt and asks a typical question like, "Did you have a good time?" or some kind of small talk chatter. I smile, say yes, and keep moving. 

Jorge is right behind me wearing a visor which says, "Siesta Key." 

The steward then remarks to Jorge, "So you went to Siesta Key. She went to Fiesta Key, and you went to Siesta Key. Well, well!" I realize that the steward has mis-read my shirt. He is not joking; he thinks we went to two separate places. After all, he has no idea we're a couple. 

So he made a mistake, but who holds up a line going into the death tube in the sky to make that kind of trivial correction? (Also by the way, regarding my fear of flying, the pilot was playing Words With Friends as we entered, not exactly a pilot-y activity, if you ask me. He should have been reading up on physics or something. And did I mention we saw the Denzel movie "Flight" while we were in FL? Eek.)

As I said, though, I was about to let the error pass, when I hear the steward say, "So she ate and you slept, huh?" Jorge laughs nervously and says, "Yeah." And the steward chuckles and says, "Well, that's what it looks like: she ate and you slept!" 

?????????????? Excuse me? (They don't make enough incredulous question marks for me to type here.)

So I look over my shoulder and protest, "HEY." 

And you should have seen those two bucks in the glare of my white hot stare. I think the steward realized what he had done, and Jorge just hurried me on down the aisle to avoid being thrown off the plane if I should  stop everything and file a formal complaint about the steward calling me fat.

Once we sit down, I say, "What was THAT??" Mocking the steward I go on, '"You look like you slept, but she looks like she ate for the duration of the vacation." "I mean, what was THAT?"

And then like a good toady, Jorge says to me, "You know who he sounds like?" 

"No, I don't."

"Like that donkey in Shrek!" 

Jorge is a comical genius and diplomat. I let the steward live and keep his job knowing that when I lumber around talking with all that food hanging out of my mouth like sloppy water grass out of a hippo's mouth, at least I don't sound like a cartoon donkey. 

So we land and decide to eat at Cracker Barrel. Just as I finish my meal, our server stops at our table and remarks: "Wow. You're done already?! Gee, you didn't have to hurry through it like that. Wow. No need to chow down. Take your time and enjoy your food!" etc., etc.

???????????????????????  Are you SERIOUS??

I can't even tell you what else he said because I was in the Land of Disbelief - that a server would say that to a  customer--a female--ME!

And he didn't even sound like a donkey. 

So here I am, back in the land of the Non-Beach-Dwelling Corn-Fed People, two days before Thanksgiving.

I think I'll have TWO pieces of pie Thursday, in honor of my two biggest cheerleaders. Or maybe think of them ever so fondly when I see turkeys roasting in ovens. 

And so here is another post filed under, "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up." But I don't. This actually happened ...

On Turning 50: Just Do It

Yesterday I turned 50 years old.

I can't remember my 16th or 21st birthdays. I do remember my 30th. I woke up 9 months pregnant and had a burst blood vessel in my eye. My iris appeared to be swimming in bright red blood. It was hideous. All salt in the wound of turning 30, which I saw as the gateway to moth balls, short, tight perms and snap-up cotton housecoats. To the 30 year-old me: You have no idea how young you are. I am rolling my 50 year-old eyes at you right now.

Fifty has been looming in the back of my mind for a few months. I knew there was no escaping it unless I died, which I'm relieved to report I did not. So I decided to mark the inevitable by doing something different on that day.

I made a list. Following are the details of my day, in case a great-great-grandchild someday gives a tiny care or needs a document like this for school or whatever they do for learning in the future.

Woke up. (Admirable start.)

Had absolute sneezing fit due to allergies before I could get out of bed. Was afraid to look in mirror in case I had burst another blood vessel in my eye from the pressure of sneezing, but I didn't. I did note that my dark circles are darker than ever, though. Benadryl for breakfast.

Met Crystal at my bedroom door as I was leaving. She was holding the 10 month-old twins and a sign, "Happy Birthday Nana." I loved it, even though I realized that this is the first birthday I'm actually "Nana" to someone. Last year I was still in my 40s. This year I'm a 50 year-old Nana.

I headed out the door with my new Nathan belt, which is a glorified fanny pack, but don't say that to runners.

I began my long, long journey toward my first goal: Run my own personal half marathon on my 50th birthday, just to prove that I can. I called it the "Poking 50 in the Eye Half Marathon."

The weather was perfect. The autumnal scenery was perfect, minus roadkill. In fact, I even stopped to take pictures. Look at Indiana:

I was on an emotional high.

I felt invincible. I even dared to take this pic of me sans makeup at 50 years old and post it on Facebook.

Then, in the scenery, I spotted the Ragweed and wanted to tuck my tail and run like it was a rattlesnake, but I said to no one, "Hey. I'm 50. I'm strong. I'm running a half marathon (I was about mile 3). I'm invincible. I'm picking this Ragweed up and touching it, just to show how invincible I am!

In fact, I'm 50, and I eat ragweed for breakfast--not cowering before the "weed of rag" anymore.

By mile 8 or 9, I was experiencing pain in my right hip which subsided and then reared its head in my right knee. Then that pain then migrated to my left knee, which began to holler. I stopped at Westside Park, locally famous for various bad things have happened to people throughout the years. I sat on a bench for 5 minutes. I hated to sit because I do not like to walk during a run, let alone sit. But I told myself that this run was about endurance and longevity, not speed or beauty as far as form (Which was very smart of me because if it had been about speed or beauty, I would have called for a ride at that point. You have to know how to lie to encourage yourself when you run.)

I resumed running but couldn't resist stopping for a small Coke from a Burger King. ?? I know, I know. Bad form! But I was thirsty, and it was my birthday, and I had money in my Nathan belt  ....

So I drank that while jogging.  Picture that.

Here are the bricks down the middle of the campus of my alma matre, Ball State University, at about mile 11. If you had told me in 1985 that I'd be running down McKinley Avenue when I was 50, I would have died of embarrassment. As it was, I was dying of exhaustion.

About 2 miles from home,  I dropped on a curb for a few minutes. On a curb, I tell ya! Oh the indignity.

When I stood, I realized that if I insisted on running the rest of the way, I could damage the knee. So I decided to run 100 steps then walk 100 for the rest of the way home.

No, I will not tell you how long the run took me. It was about endurance, remember??

I showered and soon George was home from work. We ate at a locally owned restaurant called Kacy J's. This is here where I met my second goal: To drink my very first beer. Yes, you read that correctly. While I have enjoyed various wines and flavors of margs in the past, somehow I have missed beer. I could not decide which one to order because I had nothing to go on, except that Rachel Ray says Sam Adams is the #2 choice for domestic beers. So that is what I ordered. What did I think of it?  Just OK. I'm not a huge iced tea drinker, have to be in just the right mood. That is how it would be with beer. Right mood, icy cold, maybe.

Goal three of my plan was go downtown to the free Art Walk where various vendors had booths and America's Hometown Band played many patriotic tunes, or the same patriotic tunes different ways, and set off a couple of fire works. It was at the art walk where I had what I would call my birthday cake: a chocolate cupcake frosted with peanut butter frosting. Goal four: Decadence. Satisfied by cupcake.

When we returned home, I proceeded with my fifth and final goal, to re-watch an Oprah show that I recorded February 4, 2011, called Supermodel Legends. I saved this episode for a year and half just to watch on my 50th. Oprah's guests were four former supermodels who were there to talk about aging: Cheryl Tiegs, Beverly Johnson, Christie Brinkley and Stephanie Seymour. There were also short spots, one featuring Paulina Porizkova, which I particularly enjoyed. I've seen her speak about aging elsewhere and have come to really like her. I found this Oprah episode to be VERY inspiring and uplifting; I highly recommend it. And it is from this show that I lifted Ms. Porizkova's line, "Aging is not a right; it is a privilege."

She's right. I'm privileged to have more time here than did my friend, Diane. I'm privileged to spend more time with my beloved and see my children grow up, graduate college, get jobs, get married and have children (All of this is happening right now in my kids' lives). I'm privileged to know my parents in their old age, to share memories with my brothers. I'm privileged to share life with some amazing female friends. I'm privileged to have a body that still works pretty well and can accommodate requests like, "OK, Half-Century Old Body: Get up and run 13.1 miles!" I'm privileged to breathe in and out, to sit, to stand, to hold a cup of coffee, kiss a baby's sweet face.

I made it to 50. I'm here for a reason. I'm not invincible, but I am strong. I know that the year ahead holds many joys and many sorrows. But I'm privileged to wake up each morning and just be here, for other people, for the joy of being, just because of the love of my Creator. And that is what I want to remember throughout this next year.  Waking up is not a right; it is a privilege. No whining about creaking and wrinkling. Just do it.

Mugged by Muggers

Oh, how innocent they look.

But this morning, I was fixing their first bottles of the day, when all of a sudden I felt 40 hands pulling on my sweat pant legs. Then I heard a chorus of wails, completely synchronized: "WAIIIIIIL, {breath} WAIIIIIL, {breath}". I'd been hit by the shortest, swiftest gang in town.

They pulled my waist band down over my hip. De-pantsed me, if you will. Mugged, by the scoundrels pictured in the mug shot above. Has anybody seen this gang of two? Oh yeah--there they are! Headed for the outlets, cords and every other dangerous thing in this town.

Babies Who Live on the Edge of Danger

Here's what life feels like, times two, since both babies are crawling and pulling up. You probably won't have time to to watch or even want to, but for my future readers (like the twins when they're older) I hope this link works.

Dear Laylah and Josiah: You babies are making us nuts. You crawl from one danger to the next, seeking one thrill after another, getting stuck under tables, hitting your heads, putting your toes in precarious places and licking the floors of wherever you are. You're killin us. The worst one is you, Josiah, you who stiffens and falls backward because you can't figure out how to bend your knees and roll with it. You pull a book out of a shelf, and with the backward momentum of the book, you just keep going backwards! It's horrifying to watch from across the room, and we kill ourselves tripping over toys and furniture to reach you. Seriously, stop beating us up, Babies!

Breaking Drought

Like most of the Midwest, we've been in a drought. The only good thing about a drought is fewer mosquitoes.

Yesterday, the crunchy yellow grass that Zoe refuses to walk on ("L'il Tenderfoot") received a refreshing drink, like Niagara Falls. It was crazy. Parts of my city are now without power due to lightning. I was in the grocery store when the sirens went off, but for some reason, I was not alarmed.

Well, I was on a mission--a mission to bring home my daughter's favorite kind of yogurt cereal bar, the one I couldn't remember.

Background info: I bought a certain brand one week and she loved them. The next week, I tried to repeat this Great Act Of Motherliness for my beloved daughter, but I couldn't remember the brand and brought another brand home by mistake.

So yesterday, I texted her during the sirens and storm, "What was that original brand of yogurt bar I got you that you liked?"

She replied, "Idk. [I don't know.] haha."

I failed to see the humor, but I was, as I said, on a mission.

So I looked some more while people around me rushed to the front of the store to look outside and the employees were using mops to push water back out of the entry.

Whatever. I had bars to find.

So I texted her again about it, and she said, "Whichever is OK. I liked the 2nd one better, anyway."

Oh no. This meant I had to then go back to the aisle and retrieve the 2nd one.

So I sent one more text, and again, she replied with a bunch of "ha ha's."

I thought, "What is wrong with her. Why is my yogurt bar search so funny."

Later last night, she told me that when the storm began, she was sure I'd be "freaking out" worrying about her, so she texted me right away, "Hey, I'm at Heather's. There's a big storm comin!"

And apparently, my reply was, "What was that original brand of yogurt bar I got you that you liked?"

Then she replied with "Don't worry. I'm staying inside. Are you guys inside?"

And that's when I said, "Oh no. What was that 2nd brand?"

And THAT's when I got, "Hahahahaha."

If this conversation seems convoluted ... um, yes.

I NEVER saw any of her storm texts.

I'm just glad we all survived the big storm. I would hate to have my last words to my daughter be: "Hey, did you know it's waining?" (Trying to be cute.) Yes, she knew.

Station Wagon Memories

My dash read 102* today. The intense heat reminds me of childhood summers spent in the back section of a turquoise stationwagon without air conditioning. Blistering vinyl, trying to catch a hot breeze through the rolled down windows. Only bright spot was the radio and catching my brother's hand crossing the imaginary mid-line so that i could slap it or his arm or leg. Those were the days. It looked like this car. Just looking at this pic makes me think of Three Dog Night and Ross Grocery on Hoyt Ave and sweating.

Check out the song of the summer I remember the most:

Lid Vs. The Lid

A couple of months ago, I was bringing up the big green garbage bins from the road to the back of the house. (Just because I'm rich and famous in my imagination doesn't mean I'm too good to bring up the bins.)

Just as I parked one, it somehow flipped toward me and tripped me so that I fell down on the open lid and was catapulted into the bin, slightly.

I don't remember the last time I fell down. It might have been 1968.

So I was quite shocked to find myself in a bin on my knees in a location where everyone at a four-way stop could see me. I got up, immediately looked around to see who might have seen and might possibly blog about it and embarrass me, then got up, came inside and laughed it off. Also, washed it off.

Today, the same thing happened again, only this time, the garbage bin meant BIDNESS.

I fell again, this time scraping open my knee in two places, spraining my wrist and twisting my neck. I don't know how this part happened, but the right side of my head was plastered against the inside of the bin.

I mean, really, the bin was just way too up close in my personal space. Or maybe it was trying to tell me that I was too much into its personal space. We had a falling out, in any case. Or falling in.

This time, I just sat there saying, "Ouch." "Ouch." "Ouch." You get the idea. I thought about calling for the babies' mom, but I knew she couldn't hear me and probably shouldn't leave two six month olds alone in the house to come and lift me out of a garbage bin. Then I crawled out and never looked at the intersection because true pain doesn't care who sees.

So here I am tonight, husband in Albuquerque, two babies who do not care that I am old and achy, just care that I keep that food coming in. Moral of the story? CLOSE the lid on the bins when I bring them up. Or leave it until Jorge comes home. I'm liking option two.

 What's the last clumsy thing you've done?

Rootie Tootie Freshen The Rooties -Month 2

This is installment 2 of the scientific experiment which stems from my thesis: "My hair does not grow." I have hypothesized that when I get a haircut, I will sport that cut for three years before anyone can tell a difference in length.

I took pics at month one as seen in this riveting post: I Got My Hur Did & It Don't Grow to prove my point. I wanted a pic at 4 weeks and then 8 weeks.

Eight weeks. Wow. The roots, they are a showin'... like those of the old oak which got blown over by the "Big Storm of Aught-Seven," or something Ingalls like that.

My sister-in-law posted a message on Facebook about coloring the roots: "Your natural color is beautiful."

Beautiful? Yes, if you like the color "cement." I mean, look at that black and white pic. That is basically the color of my real hair.






You don't see this shade offered very often.







So even though I'm technically 5 days early, I just couldn't take the gray on gray anymore. Tonight was the night.







So I chose L'Oreal 8G, Golden Blonde. I go a little more brassy in the Fall/Winter. Note how this product instantly turns your hair into Taylor Swift hair.


Now, I just happened to find this beautiful person with equally beautiful hair at The Small Things through Pinterest. She has a tutorial on how to work this miracle on your own head. (Please don't fail me, Tutorial Lady!) I bought the duck bill clips she suggested. I colored the hair while watching Biggest Loser. And then I styled it according to Tutorial Lady. Here is what it looked like. I have on no make up. That's not true. I put on lip gloss. (Don't say a word).

Ok, so hers is going back and mine is going forward. Funny thing is, mine usually wants to go backward. Oh well. If I had a cute little Barbie nose like that, mine would lay right, too. And hers is fuller, but I didn't want to tease mine up so much at bedtime. I told George, "I think I'm OK-happy with my hair. Wow. I bet you haven't heard that in a long time. When is the last time you heard that?"

George: "Never. Ever. In my life. I think I need to lie down."


So yeah, on the left is my root growth last month. On the right is this month. You'll notice .... NOT MUCH DIFFERENCE.


And here is the collage: day of cut in August, 4 wks, 8wks. NO DISCERNIBLE GROWTH. However, a very discernible loss of tan.

Oh well. At least I have my duck clips for tomorrow morning. Bring it, Wednesday!

Splitting Hairs Over ... Hair

Remember this post: I Hate My Hair (or something like that?)
I said I was going to let the new haircut grow out and do periodic "check-ins" on here to prove how slowly my hair grows, which would legitimize my whining about my haircut, mainly that once I get it cut, it stays cut for like, a year. And then it sort of grows a little, if it feels like it. Or it might just decide to break off and give me that natural layered look, like Madge, here:












She can say, "I meant to look this way," and it's cool. That doesn't work for you when you're a 49 year old church secretary. You just end up looking like Ramona Quimby:

But I don't know if I can do this--that is, not color the roots.

Not that my natural hair color isn't a lovely shade of back-of-the-writing-tablet cardboard gray, because it's just awesome, if you like the "recycled paper on your head" look.

But it is taking all the willpower I have in the world to wait to color these roots until October 16, the 2 month marker of the haircut.

Is this proof that my hair is indeed growing?

Not so fast. I am one who cannot stand any rootage showing. So I colored my roots probably entirely too often. Which may explain the Ramona look.

But I'm hanging in there, in the interest of science (rate of growth, empirical evidence), social science (How will others treat me when they notice the line of mushroom colored hair in my part), and psychology (How long can I mentally stand it before I grab a box of L'Oreal 9G and get after it?)

This could be the longest 10 days of my life, excluding the 10 days I was overdue for Katie or the 10 days before Donny Osmond came to the Indiana State Fair in 1973. You get the idea. This is monumental.

"I is Kind, I is Smart, I is Important, and I is OLD"

Siiiiiigh

Yesterday I turned 49.

You know what that means.

One year from today: 50


Yes, 5-0, just like SNL's Sally O'Malley.

In my posse, when you turn 50, they do this to you:


They force a Red Hat Society hat and boa on you, amongst other hiLARious treats.

But even though I woke up and found myself 49 yesterday, it was still better than when I awoke at 30.

When year 30 dawned back in 1992, I was 9 months pregnant. During the night, a blood vessel burst in my eye, and I looked as though I had bright red blood all over the white of my eye. My hair was permed. I had on a big, dark green maternity tent and was on my way to church. And someone snapped a picture.

Ever since then, he's been known as "Jorge the Lefty."

So in an effort to be the best I can be in this my final year in the decade of what I once foolishly thought was old but now realize is not, I registered for the Indianapolis Indy Mini-Marathon in May. This means I have about 200 days left to ready myself to run 13.1 miles.

I is kind, smart, important, old and I is CRAZEE.

Anyone else out there fall in the same category?

Haircut: 1 Month

This is my "one month checkup," thus the #1 in the pic. Let me explain. Maybe you can relate.

It has never been thick or luxurious. I joke that I have the same exact amount as I did when I was 6 months old. But I guess I'm more attached to it than just by the root.

Oh, the hair woes of cut and color that I have known.

On August 16, I got it cut, and I have been mentally flogging myself ever since. I do not like the haircut.

"What?" you say. "Big deal! Get over it! It's only hair! It will grow back! Be thankful that you have some!"

Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes.

But I don't like the haircut. Never doing it again. I will let it grow into three long scraggly strands and braid them up on my head-- or whatever I do in the future, I will NOT cut it like this again.

We went to the Columbus Zoo a few days before the cut. Here is what it looked like. Again, not great hair, but OK hair.



Then I went to see my new stylist (who fixed me up for Katie's wedding in June, as seen here. I loved this look):



So I LOVE my stylist. She is a great person and great stylist. This unhappiness is not her doing. I agreed we should take up the back a little to make it look healthier and a little more trendy. And here is what it looked like the next day:



I had cutter's remorse. I felt like a 50 year old boy, which is bad, since A)I'm a woman and B) I'm only 48. Somehow, I just felt less feminine, and a little exposed.

I felt like:



And that weekend, I had my 30th class reunion, and here's what it looked like:



Oh good merciful heavens. I hate that above pic with a white-hot hatred rivaled only by the white-hot hatred of my ghostly white skin.

The thing is, my hair grows very slowly. Some people swear it all grows about the same length per month, but I disagree. I will have this length for MONTHS.

So to prove myself either right or wrong, I'm going to take a pic every month to chronicle the growth or nongrowth, whichever.

So here is Month 1:



Yes, it's brassy. That's because I desire a warm blonde, not ashy or champagne. I'm ok with brassy.



And just in case you can't tell how much growth there is, here it is in "heat map."



I am not happy wearing it straight. I am not happy turning it under. I am not happy flipping it back, as it is here:



This is how I feel when I leave every morning for work: "I hope this doesn't look too weird." And every time I see myself in the mirror, on the inside, I'm making this face.



So here is haircut vs. 1 month. NOT MUCH DIFFERENCE.



I've had worse. I've had orange hair done by a salon of high reputation. I've cut my own hair worse. I've won a "Worst Bed Head" contest. Still, I am not a happy haircut camper. It's my blog, and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to ....

I'm living with it because I have to. If I weren't an old lady, I'd get extensions.

So what can I do? Nothing. I just can't wait to see how long it actually takes to grow out again. And so, being a glutton for punishment, I'm chronicling the re-growth here.

What's your bad cut/color story?