There’s a dichotomy in me. I blame it on TV. Actually, more on TV commercials. And fashion/health/beauty/cosmetic-procedure(!) magazines. And Internet and mannequins in store windows—and my memories of all these things that are indelibly inked in my mind from years of subjecting myself to them. Silly-ass girl.
(By the way, if/when you read my memoir, I would like to note that at that time I was in the midst of this image-oriented not-mid-life mess, which means there’s a lot of funny shit in that book I should be ashamed of except that I say never should on yourself or others. So I refuse to be ashamed, yet I cannot help but be slightly abashed for the overt ugliness of my beauty obsession during those short [not] years. You’ll just have to wait for the details when the book comes out. One day. Eventually. At the end of this rambling post, you will find a link where you can subscribe to book release updates. Thank you.)
Where was I? Oh right—appearance. Speaking of appearance, it usually takes me about an hour or so to write a post. (You thought I was going to write get ready, right? Not anymore.) I don’t think, I type, but it’s taken me damn near an hour to get this far in this post because I have a difficult time typing with one hand whilst picking this zit on my chinny chin chin. (Does this blemish make me look youthful? One can only hope.)
What am I doing with a pimple anyway? Aren’t I almost 43? How is that fair? Why do I care? Because … I still do. That’s my point. I care what I look like and I care what others’ think. Damn it, I am still a human attached to my ego. Silly-ass ego.
I preach about spirituality and self-acceptance and true beauty. But this is a new path and the neurotransmitters routing their new paths in my noggin haven’t caught up to my sometimes seemingly self-important (Read: Narcissistic) pulpit sermons.
So what does this mean? It means: HairMax!
HairMax is a magic, Jedi-laser shooting, pulsating, Made-in-China hairbrush that is going to whip my failing follicles and scalp into shape. Oh yeah!
All those years as a stressed out, ball-busting business woman built up my shoe collection but took down my thyroid function. When I became a vegan for the 6 months that I was in Venice last year, the stress and diet combo finally hit me where it hurt—my hair!
Here’s the simple version of how it works:
Stress = excess cortisol.
Vegan minus nuts, especially cashews = inadequate cholesterol. (True story, who knew?)
(I skipped nuts because I thought fat was bad, for crying out loud. Not true, I found out.)
Excess cortisol causes adrenal shut down which causes thyroid slow down, which causes …
Mid-section donut and hair loss!
Wait—there’s more! Inadequate cholesterol causes hormone imbalance and lack of a specific hormone that supports thyroid function, which causes …
Mid-section donut and hair loss, people!
Amongst other nasties, such as lack of energy, difficulty sleeping, depression, napping—but to the degree where you pull over and park because you’re going to fall asleep at the whee lkdfgj’ag…
… What the hell just happened?
Apparently, I’m not over the symptoms … Anyway, it also causes dry skin, nails, hair, constipation—no shit, literally—and several other icky symptoms, all of which I’ve suffered from. It sucks big time.
For a long time, I thought I was simply burnt out—which I was! You try putting in 15-hour days for 20 f’ing years. (Yeah, now who’s sorry?)
Carrying on … it was a combination of choices I made (taking responsibility here) that led to my listless locks. And to be honest, I didn’t care much about the other stuff. I even kind of like naps. Like, a lot. Just not while I’m operating a motor vehicle.
I saw doctors and had blood tests, and I conferred with naturopaths and took supplements. I met with a quack and his magic wand and ate bacon-wrapped-bacon until the hogs came home.
But my hair is still limp and wimpy.
So now here’s my morning routine—you’ll see why I couldn’t have a day job if I wanted one because all this shit takes a lot of time.
I wake up, stretch, smile, look at the clock. It says 3am. I frown. I grab my iPhone and ear buds. There will be no wasted waking time; I’m still highly tuned to efficiency from years of multi-tasking. If I still had an assistant, I’d try to get him to grow my hair for me but, alas, he’s in Canada. I am poor now and I don’t think that’s in the Employee and Human Rights Act. Plus, it’s 3am, and he’d probably have bad breath and a bitter attitude about it all. Sheesh.
Ear buds in, I listen to two hours of self-hypnosis meditations varying from heal yourself to attract prosperity to inspire creativity to problem solving and finally to getting out of your body and travel the world in an imaginary fantasy life with Gerard Butler—oh, wait, that last one I usually make up myself. (It often has the happy ending. *wink*)
I (re-)awake at 6:30am, or sometimes 7am if I force myself to keep my eyes closed, then I:
get up, which is really laying in bed being awake while reaching for my iPhone;
check emails (again, old habits die hard);
try to remember the new word of the day, forget it immediately;
drink the rest of my glass of water, regret it right away because now I for sure have to get up and pee, damn it—silly-ass cashew-sized bladder;
read my daily A Course in Miracles lesson;
read my cool Bible (I’m so going to rewrite the Bible for laypeople and rednecks; there’s some seriously f’ed up shit in there. Very titillating. Just sayin’.);
(new habit:) make best ever coffee in the European percolator, add whipping cream and coconut oil—sounds gross, but it … Is. So. Good;
crawl back into bed; and
read one or more of the usually-three-other books I’m reading (one self-help, one spiritual, one memoir)
Here’s where the vanity get-my-health-back stuff happens:
Find Eckhart Tolle interview to watch (or maybe something Fukoshima or some other depressing earthy documentary), prep ear buds, put on my electric socks—my Iranian friend, Azer, gave me this device to help fix my hip (caused back in the midst of a not-mid-life party trick [the splits] in Bedazzled costume) whereby I wear these flip flops with zapping buttons that send electrical impulses shooting from my toes to my tatas. It’s supposed to be like acupuncture or acupressure, or maybe both; I just know it makes my feet vibrate and my nipples tingle. This might be a good thing except I’m distracted because I’m also watching and listening to Eckhart, which defuses the effect. Either that or I’ll get horny whenever I read anything Tolle. (That could get interesting.) Because I wasted so much time sleeping and self-hypnotising, I’m making up for it by also trying not to scald myself with coffee while brushing my hair at the same time with the HairMax. The package says Don’t look directly at the red laser shooting out of this innocent looking buzzing hairbrush or you’ll go blind—or something like that—so I don’t, but I have no problem pulsing that light on my scalp in hopes that it’ll help my frail follicles. But I am careful not to let the laser beams flash across my high beams because no one wants a woman with hairy mams. (Well, maybe Rosie O’Donnell does but she’s not my type.)
Twenty minutes later, I’m enlightened, lasered, electrocuted and a little zapped. I take another nap with find your soul mate binaural beats because I figure—why the hell not? Soon I’ll have thick, full, lustrous hair again! Plus, it’s not a Farmers’ Market day, and I’ve got 15 hours to fill now that I’m no longer working. And let’s be honest, I don’t write (or Facebook) that much.
What have I (re)learned? I may appear all hippy-dippy dowdy, but this down-to-earth tree hugger does still lean on appearance. I’m still vane. And even though a little less so, I may one day break out the shoes again. (But not until after this breakout makes its disappearance.)
1) When I stop feeling bad about still being vane all this effort won’t be in vain, therefore: Stop feeling bad. (Check.)
2) Hats! Silly-ass hats are the answer!
3) Nap time.