Hairy Cairy

Today, I find myself in a rare situation. Both of my kids are "hanging out" with other kids, my husband is at work and I am sitting in silence with nothing to do. This isn't true, there's always something to do, I guess I have no motivation to start a new something. Yesterday I made an appointment to have my hair done. Through anxiety and tremendous trepidation I arranged to have my hair cut and colored at a Salon I had heard little about. This is in stark contrast to the last place I was butchered at where I had heard and read rave reviews, so why not? The original person I was scheduled with was suddenly, and regrettably unable to take me within an hour and a half of my appointment, so I was given to someone else. Strike one. I arrived on time and met the girl who was going to fill in. She was cute and edgy and willing to listen to my past tortured hair-situation. Unfortunately, I think I scared her to death. Immediately she spilled bottle water on me, she pinged me repeatedly in the head with combs, brushes, and clips. She accidentally flung a piece of hair she had just finished coating in bleach and caught me in the eye with its tip. I then followed her blindly to a sink where I stuck my face under freezing water to rinse out my eye. I sat the rest of the four and a half hours with exactly half of my face resembling an abstract watercolor, ducking, cringing and holding my breath every time she whisked about my head with a pair of scissors, or razor blade. Strike two. I also crushed a little inside every time she made comparisons between me and her mother and told me that I now looked like a "sexy mommy". Strike three. Despite the emotional and physical dangers I experienced I will go back, and I will even go back to her. The reason is because she did an amazing job with my hair (think along the lines of Mary Tyler Moore circa 1960s with an edge). I love it! This ordeal made me wonder why I would "put up with", and possibly risk my life, merely in the name of a fantastic haircut? I think we (particularly women) "put up with" a lot according to the end result. This "putting up with" extends beyond the hairdo (e.g. paint color of the living room, your husband's favorite shirt, and even foreplay).
I recently got back from visiting my brother-in-law and his wife who live in Seattle. In the name of cutting down costs and developing a stronger relationship with family, my husband and I decided to stay in their home with them. We had a blast. We are in love with them and we will gladly go and visit them again, but we'll probably stay in a hotel some place close to them, next time.
My brother-in-law and his wife go a million miles an hour. I thought I was a go-go-go kind-of person, I have nothing on either one of them. Because they are constantly rushing in their life, there is a lot of energy bi-product in the form of numerous projects consuming their every living space. The contents of these projects are complex to me and appear meaningless, but to my sister-in-law, she knows exactly what they contain and what their value truly is. What I interpret as chaos, they view as a home where life is worth living.
Today, I discovered I know nothing about living in a home. I have lived in the same house for ten years and have not yet created a home. I live in a dwelling that I am always complaining about and fantasizing about moving from. I don't have close friendships around me because I simply don't like who I've become while living in my own neighborhood. I have morphed into a stressed out tyrant who sulks within a house, desperate to change my circumstance without truly knowing where to start. I live in a house, not a home. My in-laws live in a home. I realize how hard it is to share your life and your home with someone and how generous it was that they would so easily share with us. So I don't mean for any of this to sound negative. I am positive if the situation were switched, they would find my life and my house, perplexing and probably down right boring. I have learned from this vacation, that I love them for themselves. Perhaps on our next visit, I can love them from the solitude of a hotel room.
Last night on my way home from my hair appointment I was telling my sister about the experience. She laughed and gasped and all the things a sister should who has also experienced hair calamity. By the end of the phone call she said she was sorry about my hair. I was confused. No I like my hair. I plan on going back. She laughed and I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear where I noticed I had been clipped and was bleeding. I'll be aware next time. And will possibly make sure my health insurance covers maimings. But I will go back because my hair looks so awesome! Besides, in understanding I at times self-sabotage, maybe someday I will realize the importance of how to achieve an actual home run and be happy with where I am and who I am.