Saturday, March 22, 2014

I'm pretty sure
I'm pretty sure this doesn't happen to you. You are surely more in control of your life and your world  and can't be undone by a simple things like your hair. Also you are a deep and serious person with spiritual goals and you know that true beauty can't be seen in the mirror. I, on the other hand, am clearly a superficial, materialistic lightweight who is obsessed with finding the right couch and getting caramel highlights. I also get an illegal amount of joy from finding that slim cut boyfriend jeans exist at H&M for only 29,99. So sue me. I like to think that I just have an artistic vision about little things in life that lift my spirits. It's not that relationships with actual human beings aren't much more imortant than the gorgeousness of finding the perfect pair of Fall boots, it is just that I can't deny that things like spending the weekend painting a thin gold trip around our doors and putting gold hardware on the edges of the dressers will boost my mood considerably. And if I could ever just once leave a salon in better shape than I entered it and have the results last more than seven days .  . .


After being over the moon with joy about my new caramel hair color for about a week, it was time to cover my roots. Sure enough, Elisa at the fancy salon sold me a dye that turned my hair black again. Luckily, I only used it on the very front. I made a new appointment. I patiently counted the moments until said appointment. I walked thirty minutes under a passageway that is truly not scenic and across several lanes of cars and I asked Elisa to exchange the at-home hair color  for a lighter shade. I also asked her to re-do the blackened front for me. She never apologized for having messed up in the first place, and she seemed sort of annoyed to see me. Surprisingly none of my hair drama has to do with the fact that I couldn't express myself clearly enough in Italian. I have a newly expanded vocabulary that is now just filled with Italian hair salon words, weird as that is. I should have been suspiscious about how quickly Elisa finished the job; 45 minutes this time compared to two and a half hours last time. Instead, being the Italian people pleaser that I am, I gave her a huge compliment in front of her boss. This was even after she told me that I would have to come back next week to get the at-home color because they are, despite her assurances to the contrary last week, out of stock.


 Then I got home and looked in the mirror, after the restaurant owner downstairs saw me and (gasp!) chuckled at me, only to find that the front of my hair was red again. I debated whether I could bring myself to call the salon again, but I did. Elisa told me she was too busy to see me for the next five days and she did not apologize at all. I did what all immediate gratification poster children do in this situation and went back to the drug store brand to try to fix the problem myself. It is better, but not perfect. I don't want to ever go back to Elisa, but she is the only one who gave me my HG (holy grail) color after thirty years of waiting. What to do, what to do.


Here I am looking miserable about the red hair. It is not that bad now, but I hate selfies, so I'll show you later.
I discussed this problem of hairdressers who don't acknowledge when they have made a mistake with one of my favorite English students and she launched into a horrific tale of medical woes. Apparently if you think a lot of Italian hairdressers are difficult to deal with, you should meet some of the doctors and surgeons out there. This week I have already heard four stories about botched operations where the doctors could not be sued afterwards because they were famous and belonged to the masoneria. These doctors knew that the results were their fault and denied it and had other doctors cover it up for them. It takes so much money to pay Italian lawyers and the court process is so slow that almost no one bothers to even try to sue for damages unless the tragedy is such that they want to devote their lives for the next ten years to the cause.



In May I am planning a hip hop dance party because my friend Melissa said we could use her huge, gorgeous apartment. I wanted to go to this popular club in Florence, but then it would take so much effort to get there and home and you never know if the music will be good that night or if the men will be too aggressive or if someone will try to ruffie you. This seems like a much better option.


 I used to be the hostess with the "mostess," but lately I have been losing my touch. When I invited one of my other English students to dinner, he looked really horrified. I mean he is shy, but I think the thought of spending an extra hour a week with me really sent him over the edge.


You will forgive me if I update you on my progress since giving up sugar. If I were going to tell you that my skin was glowing and that I was full of energy, I could see how that would be annoying. Rest assured that I am tired as old age home resident, and that the only thing glowing is my hope that I can have a gelato in two weeks. Nevertheless, the fact that I am clearly having serious withdrawal symptoms is enough to make me think twice about going back on sugar anytime soon. I think I can live with occasional red wine, dark, dark chocolate and a gelato once a week. I don't know how the heck I will be able to eat when we go on vacation this summer because of all of the processed food and all of the tricky things they do in restaurants, but here it is relatively simple to eat un-processed foods and stay away from the cookies, cakes, and juice. I can't really imagine putting tablespoons of honey in my tea anymore, but I do still have one or two serious weaknesses and their names are: Oreos and Twizzlers.

This was achieved with a simple cheese slicer. Well worth the time and effort, I'm sure.

Listen, I know things could be worse. BTW, here are some pictures I forgot to share from my mother-in-law's visit.







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