Category Archives: style


Gnomes snuck into my bed last night. And no, this is not some cutesy way of saying my children slept in my bed. There were gnomes, and they styled my hair.

Perhaps a little back story is needed to fully understand. I went back to work this week, and since I pretty much destroyed any sleep schedule I may have had before I took a two and a half week vacation, I have been up at all hours of the night, and waking up at 4 in the morning has not been fun. It is only Wednesday and I am exhausted.

Last night I wanted to wash my hair. I got in the shower, lathered up, was doing what I normally do, and right before getting my hair wet I realized that washing it would only take ten minutes, but then I would have to brush it, and style it, and put product in it, and, and, and then I just rinsed myself off and stepped out of the shower before letting a single drop of water touch my head. I would rather spend two hours on Pinterst than doing my hair. I have my priorities.

Not to mention that if it doesn’t dry properly (which it almost never does), I would have to restyle it in the morning. No thank you. Besides, that is what pony tails are for.

So, after doing absolutely nothing meaningful for a few hours I went to bed, anticipating a pony tail or braid or something in the morning. I woke up, and my hair was soft, fluffy, shiny, twirly and in overall great shape. I wasn’t expecting it to necessarily get worse over night, but I most certainly was not expecting it to get better. And where did the little twirlies come from? It smells good too. Not that it smelled bad before, but it really didn’t smell like anything, and now I smell as if I have been dipped in wonderfulness.

Either I am losing my mind, am deliriously exhausted, or gnomes broke in, snuck into my bed, and styled my hair. I am going to go with the last one.

P.S. The picture above is not recent, but my hair today looks just like that plus the added bonus of strategically placed twirlies. I would have totally provided a current picture as proof of said gnomes, but while my hair looks amazing, the rest of me looks like a tired mess, and nobody needs to see that. However, Tanya did see me today, so she can testify to how marvelous it is. Just ask her. Seriously, I am sure she would love to field numerous emails in regards to the status of my hair. Go ahead. And while you are at it, ask her to go into vivid detail about the twirlies. She is great with descriptive words, and if enough of you email her about this, I am sure she will have a few choice ones for me.

P.P.S. Tanya, when you describe the color, make sure you call it by name, not just “red.” And also, don’t forget to reference the smell. I made it a point to shake my hair in your face on several occasions at work today so that you may better remember. I didn’t mean to make you sneeze, I was just trying to be helpful.

It Was An Accident

My teaching style happened accidentally. Before I started teaching I didn’t know what it would be like. I thought it would be like giving a really long in-class presentation, but I would be the only one presenting. I had ideas gathered from previous professors, but no clear outline of what I was going to do. While everyone has been extremely helpful/supportive/encouraging, you can’t really teach someone how to teach. Not really.

I knew I wanted to have a lecture type setup because that worked best for me when I was a student. I know the material, and more or less what aspects of it I want my students to learn about. I have plenty of notes. But then it came time to actually teach.

The idea was terrifying. Minutes before class I sat in my office wondering what I had gotten myself into. How can I be responsible for the academic career of so many other people?

Also, what was I going to do up there for three hours? I had notes, I had what is in my head, I had the books, but what was I going to do up there for three hours?

In my first class on Monday night I have my youngest students, so they don’t really know any better. I described the course, went over what will be taught, and expected. I showed them which books we will be reading, went over a little intro, and sent them home. Not so bad.

The entire one and half hours they seemed absolutely mesmerized (or terrified, take your pick).

Second class didn’t go too badly either. Different course, harder material, and more reading. For the most part they were just as enthusiastic as the first group and had all sorts of questions. One girl got up and left fifteen minutes into the lecture, before I even finished going over the syllabus. Extremely encouraging. I spent the rest of the evening writing terms on the board, introducing them to the connections between the texts we will read, along with the theme of the course.

Yes, all my classes are themed. Not only does it make it easier for me to organize my texts, but this method lends itself well to intertextual studies. So I teach the way I enjoyed being taught.

By Thursday I found a method of lecturing that wasn’t just successful, but felt natural. It wasn’t intentional, hence my teaching style happened accidentally. But instead of teaching, I had a (quite lengthy) one sided conversation. My lecture became the equivalent of a very long verbalized blog post.

I don’t know if I will keep this format, but for now it seems to be working for me. The students seemed genuinely interested, taking copious notes, and I felt casual. So far, so good.

Change Can Be Good

I wanted a change. Every once in a while I buy a new shade of nail polish, or revamp the way I do my make up. But this time I wanted something bigger. Maybe not as drastic as about six years ago when, after having been a blond my whole life, I suddenly died my hair bright red, but somewhere in that neighborhood. I didn’t want to go back to blonde. I didn’t want any other color. And there is not a whole lot else I could do. For a few months I played around with the idea of cutting bangs, but really the upkeep on those would be far too difficult and I would probably end up with my hair looking unkempt. And I can’t have that. At one point I cut my hair really short. It was cute. But I was a lot younger. Meaning everything was cute back then. And by everything was cute back then, I mean I thought everything was cute back then. I would offer some pictures for debate, but I don’t think I have any. So, in making a short story long, on a whim I decided to get a perm. And I really do mean on a whim. I was sitting in my Theory class and this was my thought process:
So this one man said this about that… note note note
This other man countered it with this other stuff… note note note
This third man combined the other two theories, added an extra one for good measure and said this… note note note
I should get a perm
This fourth man is from an entirely different school of thought and he said this other stuff… note note note
Oh look it’s break time… I am going to call the salon and make an appointment. And I did. And then I got a perm.
I have never gotten a perm before, so I wasn’t sure what it entailed. I knew there were curlers involved, and some type of solution. Apparently I have a lot of hair, so they had to use two solutions. What I hadn’t anticipated was that the whole thing would take over three hours. I got to the salon a little after five, and they said the tips of my hair were damaged and I needed a trim. I acquiesced, and the man got his shears out. He performed something that looked like the trimming of a bonsai tree with red strands flying every which way, and five minutes later my hair was “fixed.”
Then the fun started. He got out what looked to be about a hundred of the smallest curlers I have ever seen. I mean these things looked like they came out of a Barbie salon play boutique. He then proceeded to spray stuff all over my hair which he said was water, except it burned every time it touched my skin. And from my experience with showers I am pretty sure water doesn’t do that. Then he wrapped my hair in little pieces of paper at the tips and began using all the itsy bitsy curlers. I swear he wrapped each one of my hairs individually onto a different curler, or at least that it what it looked like. And it took him almost two hours to do this so I have reason to believe I was correct in my assessment. Then he poured two bottles of solution all over my head, put a giant bag over my hair and put me in this large helmet heat process machine thing. Apparently the heat was supposed to activate the solution in my hair and produce the desired curls. Translation: more burning.
I was a total trooper, and sat through this process for forty five minutes. After which his assistant took me over to the sink and began yanking the many curlers out. It took her almost as long as it took him to put them in, and did I mention all the yanking involved? If not, let me tell you, there was a lot of yanking. Translation: burning pain. Several hours passed, the salon had already closed, and they were attempting to get the solutions out of my hair, with three people washing and scrubbing at me like the place was about to burn down. They didn’t speak English so I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I have to admit, all the screaming and shouting was rather alarming. The dramatic arm gestures didn’t help alleviate my panic.
I asked if everything was okay, they all told me not to worry about it. When people say that is usually when I start to worry. A few minutes later they took me away from the sink, plopped me in front of the mirror and started massaging my hair. It was still wet, but they said they could not blow dry since more heat would damage my hair. As is I was in a hurry to get home, so I was perfectly happy leaving with wet hair, especially since it was still unbearably hot outside. As I was paying, the main lady said “don’t brush your hair this week, it might fall out.” Oh…