There’s a reason why I’m sporting Pete Wentz bangs: I’m growing out my hair.
Don’t panic, we’re not talking the shaggy, yeti-inspired ‘do I once rocked (hair to the middle of the back); I’m just looking to get it a bit below the shoulders, then proceed from there.
But wouldn’t you know it, growing your hair takes FOREVER. So I looked up some ways to make it grow faster. Because I’m a girl with STUFF to do. Here’s what I found.
1. Eat a lot of protein. Hair is made up of dead protein cells, right? So this seems to make sense. Sidenote: I once had a teacher whose leg hair stopped growing when she was pregnant because the baby was greedily stealing all her protein. So she had to start eating a spoonful of peanut butter everyday, and magically her hair started growing again. So peanut butter, anyone?
2. Head massaging. Apparently this will stimulate blood flow to your hair follicles, and this will make them work harder/more efficiently. Not to mention the fact that head massages rule. No complaints yet.
3. Wait…patiently. Oh…yeah, I don’t do that. Fortunately, my hair grows pretty quickly.
There is a bit of a debate about whether or not trimming split ends is beneficial for longer hair also. In the trimming camp, the word is that if you trim off the dead or broken ends, your hair will grow stronger and not keep breaking. But the “leave ’em be” camp says you should just let it grow and keep your grubby, scissor-flicking fingers off of it so it can do its thing. I think I’ll just trim my own split ends and let everything grow for the most part.
In other news: WISDOM TEETH SURGERY ON FRIDAY. EEEEK.
Ok, I know, the headline is too cute for its own good and doesn’t actually mean anything. But I’m having a rough day, so just let me have this one little thing, all right?
The point is, it’s official. The wisdom teeth will come out next Friday, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m trying to be positive, though, so here is my list of pros:
1. It has to be done sooner or later, and if I do it now it’s on my parents’ insurance.
2. I will be totally knocked out through the whole thing.
3. My family will have to be nice to me while my face heals.
4. I will be unconscious for the whole procedure, and heavily drugged the following day.
5. Usually people lose weight?
6. I won’t remember anything about the operation.
So I’m really jazzed about this anesthesia stuff, huh? Anyway, think of me fondly on the 23rd. If I don’t make it, remember me as charming and witty, k?
Ok, I KNOW I already posted today. I promise I’m not just obsessed with logging my thoughts in cyber space–I can’t sleep. So in the spirit of turning my suffering into something positive, I’ve compiled a list of ways to entertain oneself whilst trying to doze off, no sheep required:
1. Google yourself. Sure, it SOUNDS self-centered, (probably because it is…a little), but it also serves a very practical purpose: You should know what the Internet says about you before your future employer does. To guarantee that you’re still hire-able, it’s a good idea to check it out now and then.
2. Twitter’s “Everyone” feature. Ok, I was originally a critic of Twitter and tweeting and whatnot, but I have to admit, it’s kind of cool to be a part of something much bigger than yourself. Even if you’re just creeping on people’s 160-character posts from around the world at 2 in the morning. If you find anyone especially funny, you can follow them for ’round the clock entertainment. (Incidentally, you can follow me at https://twitter.com/justinelorelle.)
3. Write it out. Usually the reason why I can’t sleep is because I have a million thoughts bouncing around in my head. (And sometimes it’s because I drink a bowl of coffee a couple hours before bed. Get off my back.) The only way I can get my brain to shut up is either by making extensive lists of all the things I need to do or by writing a letter to whomever I can’t stop “conversing” with mentally. (Not crazy, I swear.) Letters you never send can be incredibly therapeutic.
I don’t know why I keep making lists of three….great. Yet another thought to keep me up…
I’m not a big crier. I swear. I mean sure, I get choked up when a little kid starts talking about miracles or their older brother or how much they love their kitten, and I wept like someone had killed MY boyfriend at the end of West Side Story. But who didn’t? (Besides robots. Because you would have to be INHUMAN not to cry at the end of that movie.)
But despite my will of steel, I always find myself practically hysterical when I get frustrated or supremely disappointed. Which happened today. In public. And even though I ran away from the problem and drove the twenty minutes home, I was STILL sobbing, which led to making my emotion-phobe roommate incredibly uncomfortable. (Although she hid it well for my benefit. Gotta love her.)
The point is, I hate people seeing me cry. I am NOT a pretty crier. You know what I mean: I’m one of those mascara-running, snot-dribbling types. Plus, I work pretty hard on this invincible exterior, and I don’t like having the illusion spoiled by sniffly tears. So I googled ways to keep yourself from crying. Here’s what I found, in order of helpful-ness:
Least helpful: Calm down by taking slow, deep breaths.
Oh really? Oh, I should probably just get it together then, huh? Thanks for that world-rocking advice. Thanks a lot.
Maybe helpful: Shift your jaw forward and press your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
The theory is that by making a face not compatibly with crying, you will confuse yourself enough to hold off the waterworks. Sounds plausible, but with my luck I’ll just end up an uglier crier.
Most likely to be helpful: Anticipate situations where you might cry and visualize yourself dealing with them.
Practice makes perfect, right? Usually I cry when expected to explain myself (yeah, SO helpful), so it makes sense that mentally preparing would help me keep it together.
Eventually, though, everyone needs to have a good cry now and then. I’d just prefer to have mine while in my pajamas with the Jets and the Sharks.
You know what ISN’T good right now? The job market. And is it just me, or does it seem like the media is getting hit especially hard right now? I mean, I get it. Magazines are a luxury that people are likely to forgo in times of need. On the other hand, magazines–especially luxury publications–are a perfect form of escape. Unless, I suppose, you DON’T enjoy lusting after pricey designer handbags after reading the email about your revoked Christmas bonus. To each her own.
The catalyst for this musing comes in the form of a series of layoffs that occurred at the publishing house I work for. I mean, the woman who HIRED me was laid off. I don’t think I’m in any danger–the lowly intern salary is hardly the one breaking the bank–but it’s still a little surreal when the negative effects you read about on Gawker hit home. Especially when you were planning on starting your career in six months.
Anyway, in an attempt to scrounge up extra cash until then (in the hopes of warding off starvation, eviction, etc.), I’ve been applying to write blogs for various companies/publications. So far I’ve applied to two: Barnes & Noble and a men’s blog. I’ll keep you updated. (You’re on the edge of your seat, I can tell.)
I’m officially giving up on the idea that I’m original. Every time I hang out with someone new, they invariably turn to our mutual friend and say, “Doesn’t she remind you of Janet?” or “Isn’t she just like Allison?”
To be fair, I’m fairly average in most ways. Average height, average size, brown hair, etc., etc. But I still liked to fancy myself as SOME sort of stand-out. As is, I guess I just have to be happy that most people are comparing me to someone they like.
This was all too true last night, when I met my best friend Annie’s new boyfriend. We’d been hanging out for an hour or so when he just couldn’t contain himself. “She looks so much like _____!” I, of course, was unsurprised that I reminded him of someone, but to her credit, Annie gave him a look until he backed down. “Ok, she’s better looking than her, but still!” As he insisted and Annie kept discretely shaking her head to me, I tried to overlook the fact that he was essentially telling me I’d “been done before.”
If not less attractively.