Hair ready for fall

I’m not yet, but I’m going to be.

Here is what I look like today with my two hair options side by side. Ignore the fact that I have no idea how to use photoshop or the paint program on my computer. That is not the point.

To smell like fox's pee or not. That is the question.

So. The Germans will be working on the hair this afternoon. I’ll post later to show the results. Wooo.

***UPDATE:
The Germans took matters into their own hands and made me brunette. I like to call myself Little Truffle now, because the brown is actually pretty dark and somewhat scary to me, but when you call it truffle, it sounds delightful and fancy.

So. That’s my new look for the next month or two. It’s going to take a bit getting used to, as I keep scaring myself when I look in the mirror. Oh well. Here’s to being impulsive and only living once.

It’s Thursday, and I feel like a dressed up cat

Well, sort of.

It should disturb me that I can relate to this, but it doesn't.

The cat picture is actually just a filler that made me laugh and I thought it’d cheer me up. I’m not hungover today. I’m not really anything today. I’m just lacking motivation. I’m not peppy and I’m in a mood and I’m tired maybe because I didn’t sleep again last night, primarily because I had a horrific dream about snakes falling on my head, which Mr. H easily explained,

“You’re really not happy about these dreads, are you?”

No, I’m fucking not because they are multiplying at an alarming rate but I didn’t even think that I was dreaming about snakes because of my nappy hair.

In my dream I was at some German dirt bike race and I was walking straight into the lanes of oncoming bikers and couldn’t seem to get myself out of the way every lap until it was last minute. With each time I jumped to the side and saved my own life, I learned no lesson and found myself in the middle of the race again two seconds later.

It wasn’t until I heard someone calling my name in the woods did I think to take some beaten path to see who was calling me. When I didn’t find anyone, I kept walking until it became dark and all I could see was branches and leaves high above my head.

With one gust of wind, the tree tops all began to shake and dirt from the path blew into my face, blinding me. Before I could run or understand what was happening, snakes shot from the sky like lightning bolts. There were hundreds of them, falling fast from the darkness above. They slid down the back of my shirt, bounced off my shoulders, fell at my feet, landed on my head. I was screaming and attempting to not die of a heart attack and couldn’t run because I didn’t want to step on them but couldn’t stay because I didn’t want them touching me.

And then I woke up.

I don’t know how many times I have to explain this but I FUCKING HATE SNAKES. The fact that snakes are taking over my dreams, just like hair snakes are taking over my head is outrageously unacceptable. And it’s making me bullshit.

So. While this post is just bizarre and weird, let’s be honest. The cat picture is a big bag of awesome.

I’m off now to pout about who knows the fuck what.

Until tomorrow.
Yours,
Medusa

Shit I do when left unsupervised

So I got up this morning a bit early to deep condition my dread head and nothing fucking worked. Granted, I didn’t take the time last night to go buy a brush, but STILL. I had faith in this $20 bottle of conditioner and that shit failed me. I’ve spent 30 years using my fingers as a comb and now that I’m over 30, shit starts falling apart.

Mr. H said to me, while watching me pull at my dreads in the mirror, “Just wait until your hair appointment Friday and let the Germans deal with it. You can wait that long.”

I made a pouting face and said, “You’re right.”

But then he left the house and when unsupervised, I am badly behaved.

And so this happened.

This doesn't prove I have common sense. Just that I'm insane and impatient.

I actually cut three like this. It seemed like a good idea to get rid of the dead. And it was, until my hair dried and I had three pieces one inch off my head that now stand up like cowlicks and don’t fall into line like the rest of the curls.

Another example of my lack of common sense. Happy Wednesday.

When your hair takes over and dreads….

Alright. I’m getting concerned. My hair has taken over and done what it wants and apparently it wants to dread itself like a Jamaican.

Not quite here, but in my head I am.


So now I assume people are probably whispering about whether or not I sell weed out of my house.*

Seriously, though. During the exercise, I’m playing with my hair, one of my many terrible, nervous habits, and my hand gets stuck. So I’m all, what the fuck is the problem. I only use conditioner on my hair, have used a brush maybe 4 times in my life because my fingers are just fine, thankyouverymuch, and I never use anything that requires heat on my head.

Now all that being said, I’m used to having crazy and chaotic and unruly hair. I love it. I’d hate to think of what my life would turn into if I had to put this thing called effort into getting ready in the morning.

But this, this dread nonsense is a bit much. Not only do I have ONE dread. I’m up to counting FIVE, and those are only the ones I can feel and see. There may be more.

So we’re at this amount right now.

Focus on the amount of nappy hair, not the duck face I'm making.

And this is a close-up of my nappy hair.

Told you.


WHICH REMINDS ME. This is a perfect example of how to use the word NAPPY.

“Shit, my hair is wicked nappy today. I have NO IDEA why it’s dreading itself. Weird.”

So anyway. I tell my coworker about my hair again and show her.

“I’m going to cut all these parts out. Let’s cut them off right now with the office scissors.” I assume she’ll love this idea, as it’ll give us a fun project for the day.

“We’re not cutting off your hair.” She looks at me like I’m losing my mind. I assumed she’d be sympathetic, as she UNDERSTANDS nappy hair. She doesn’t have nappy hair, but I have seen her with hair that on a bad day could get out of hand in the nappy nature and she is my only close African-American friend with knowledge about all things African-American and if I’m not Jamaican, I’m just turning African-American in general and SHE IS, so this is technically why I’m consulting her. Like the time I consulted her about African-American girls getting eyebrow tattoos. She was full of wisdom then. This time, however, she says,

“Just get a damned brush and brush your hair for once.”

Like that’s the motherfucking solution.

And besides, I already know the real solution.

Helloooooooooooooooooo pixie cut.

*Which I do not. Besides, that would be impossible in Germany. It would require Germans to grow something that if taken, would lead them to calm the fuck down. Doesn’t exist.

The circus is gone

Alas, today, the lot has emptied
Furiously, the circus came
Just as fast, it’s disappeared
Empty lots of concrete
No traces of tight rope walking
or swallowing of swords
or lions through flames
or bears on bikes
The stale smell and creepy crunch of popcorn under foot
Elephants, monkeys and bearded women, vanished
Box carts full speed out-of-town
Until next year, the circus is gone

Things I did when I wasn’t dead….

Contrary to popular belief, I am not dead. I have just been (I swear I’m not lying) busy being responsible at work. This exercise I’m working turned out to be kind of a big deal this year, mostly due to the fact that I ran my mouth about wanting lots of big time players to come visit and well, I got what I asked for. The big guys came and went and were happy as can be and I get to walk away *winning at my job.

And, as a bit of a reward, during my big portion of the exercise, I got coined by a three star General, which in this world, is kind of a big deal….for me at least.

Yep. Wicked happy.

But anyway. No one wants to hear about how I went to bed on time at night and showed up sober, showered and ready for work every day. You want to hear about my summer camp activities. Well, the difference between this year and last year is that last year it seemed as though I was attending summer camp. This year, I think I ran summer camp. So the ridiculous antics were kept to a minimum, which seemed to disappoint the world. And I do mean the world, or at least 40 countries. If I had a euro for every time I heard, “When is fun Heather coming out?” (never, she was locked in a closet at home) or “Where have you been for the past 4 days?” (hiding), I’d have enough money to buy a yacht and retire. But let’s be honest. I did find time to socialize and play Ambassador of the World, per usual.

One of my personal goals this exercise was to battle the British full-on, full-force. This is a typical task of mine throughout the year because they are a mouthy lot and they deserve to be put in their place. Fancy accents or not, they are a bunch of international hoodlums and one of my worldly duties is to knock them down a peg or two any chance I get. Hourly, if time allows. And so this episode of, “How to Beat the Brits” goes a little something like this.

Last conference, during some dinner or meeting or drinking event, I stated again, for the millionth time that it is fucking unbelievable that for two English-speaking countries (or few countries) it’s funny how we never understand what the hell the other is saying. Well, it’s not just that. It’s that and the fact that the British are so fucking literal. Example. What do you put beers and ice in during the summer? They would say ice box. It’s a cooler.

But it doesn’t stop there. There are a million words that just don’t match. And so it had to come to a game in which flashcards were made and surveys were taken. Below you will find the flash cards. Each flashcard features a picture of a common item found in the world. The game part of this was to print out these flash cards and bring them to social events and quiz countries in which English is not their first language. So, for the record, the fucking Irish don’t count. No offense.

I will admit, as of today, the last day of the exercise, the results are split. So far on my side I have one German (shock of the day), Canada (but fairness to me, FRENCH CANADIANS, who typically are on my banned list but for today’s purposes, are not), France and Denmark on my side. UK has taken another German (who lived in the UK for 5 years so really, he doesn’t count), Bosnia and Herzegovina, the Irish (they can’t even pronounce “th” in a word so um, yeah, they don’t count either) and I think an Italian. Obviously I need to hit a few countries like Moldova, Portugal, Montenegro and Serbia or something to make a real game out of this, which is exactly what I’ll do during the closing ceremony today when I’m supposed to be doing something normal like focusing or working or maybe just listening.

Anyway. Here are the flashcards.

flashcards

And in case any of you need an English refresher that doesn’t involve a crown wearing old biddy, here you go. Flashcards are as follows.

1. This is a faucet. It’s not a tap.

2. This is a bum. Also acceptable is hobo, but hobos usually have bags tied to sticks and wander dirt roads. What this is NOT is a tramp. A tramp is nicer version of a slut. It is not someone who sleeps the streets. It is someone who WORKS the streets.

3. This is a wrench. It is not a spanner. I can’t even say spanner without shaking my head.

4. While I agree with the UK that this is a wardrobe, many of my fellow Americans would just say closet. Except really closets are set inside walls so I’m not really sure this slide is valid.

5. This is a mother fucking flashlight. I say this violently because in the UK, it’s a TORCH. Well. No. The. Fuck. It. Is. NOT. A torch is a piece of wood with some sort of cloth on the end that is lit by fire and then you walk around with it in the woods while wearing a fur carcass that you just skinned off a wild boar. That is a fucking torch. Flashlights run on batteries, NOT FLAMES and I don’t want to hear anymore about it.

6. That little thing on the baby’s ass is a DIAPER. It’s not a NAPPY. Nappy is what happens to my hair when I don’t use anti-frizz solution. Nappy is what I take on a rainy Sunday if I’m feeling really lazy. Nappy is not something you strap on a little person to catch the bad stuff.

7. These are sneakers. Not trainers. I know you’re training in them, but REALLY.

8. This is a pitcher. I SUPPOSE it can be a jug if you want but it’s NOT A POT. A jug is actually bigger and a pot is for plants.

9. This green veggie is zucchini. It’s not a courgette. Well, actually, it IS a courgette but that is FRENCH and hey, UK, you can’t tell me the fucking French word because I AM NOT BATTLING THE FRENCH THIS ROUND. You lose. But speaking of the French…in my survey with one French participant, his answer to, “What is this slide?” was, “Sex toy.” He’s a special one.

10. Same goes for the EGGPLANT. It’s not an aubergine.

11. Rotary. Traffic circle. Both fall above ROUND ABOUT, though I’ll admit none in this case are very fun or original.

12. This fancy yard tool is a WEED WACKER. Now I know that’s pretty literal, wacking weeds and all, but I’ll tell you one thing this is not is a GARDEN STRIMMER. What in the FUCK is a garden strimmer? And for the record, while we’re at it. The land behind your house is a YARD. A BACK YARD. It is not a garden. A garden is the luscious little plot of land in which veggies are grown. It’s not where you sit your ass in the sun to day drink and grill meats. Clarification.

13. And lastly, but most importantly, THIS IS A GRILLED CHEESE. It is one of the world’s most delectable treats and it deserves to be addressed with respect. It is not called a cheese toastie. It cannot be made in a Panini grill thing. It cannot be put in a sandwich press machine. And it most certainly cannot be put in a basket thing and dropped in a toaster. Are you fucking out of your mind?? Grilled cheese is to be made with special bread that crunches when it’s cooked. It involves processed cheese of the flourescent variety. It involves massive quantities of butter. And it involves a slow grill on level 5 or 6 on the stove to get a good crisp and melt. I am a goddamned master of the grilled cheese.

So yeah. For anyone that was worried that fun and crazy Heather had been replaced by some quiet, responsible imposter, there you go. I’m still the same and I’m back.

Hope you missed me. 😉

Getting to know the world…

This is where I am for the next four weeks for work.

I’m here with over a thousand people from around the globe. I absolutely love this part of my job.

Over the next few weeks, I hope to post daily pictures and funny country stories. And, I think I might create a questionnaire to distribute to all 40 countries, because when do you have that much access to so many different people? Here are a few of the questions I’d ask:

1. Name three national heroes.
2. What is your favorite quote?
3. If you could travel to a new country, where would it be?
4. What is your favorite American food? What is your favorite food from your country?
5. Name your second least favorite American President. (I am removing Bush for obvious reasons)
6. What are your three most favorite words in your native tongue?
7. What is your national drink? (alcoholic)
8. What is your favorite national tradition?
9. What is your favorite swear in your language?
10. Related question: How do you say fuck in your language? (this is very valuable information for me)

That’s all I got so far. I am tempted to open it up to fun questions such as,

True or false, you don’t get the hype over the Queen of England, either.

On a scale of 1-10, how much do you love/hate Americans? (this is my favorite question, really)

What is your national version of grilled cheese?

Do you believe in ice and cold beverages?
Follow-up: If not, is it because you have bad teeth?
Additional follow-up: Is teeth brushing a daily practice in your country and do you know how many flavors of paste are made these days?

Related question: Your thoughts on deodorant. Go.

What protein do you cook for Christmas dinner?

I have a lot of really inappropriate questions, but I’ll keep it simple and PG. I’d like to keep my job…

If anyone has any fun questions I can add to my questionnaire, I’d be happy to add. I get one chance a year and this is it.