The Entropy Filter

This is where you learn that I am a contradiction.  I do meticulous research.  I am incredibly impulsive.  I also just shaved my head.*

*This is a follow-up to an earlier post but it's not necessary to read that one to follow this one.  Wait, read that one.  It's funny.

I don't think I can do this justice without photographic evidence, but be warned that the photos are annoying selfies because I am enjoying unusual alone time.  Holy cats! this place is quiet.  Plus, my husband takes horrible pictures.

These gratuitous selfies will all contain a blurry area about halfway down and towards the left.  My toddler dropped my phone.  Then I dropped it the other twenty-seven times.  Apart from the absolutely obliterated screen, my phone works fine, so I'm not getting a new one.  I prefer to call this unintended photographic effect "the entropy filter."

Since you've now caught up by reading the previous blog, I'll jump in.  Nothing worked.  NOTHING.

Just how a person gets from long hair to bald is a matter of circumstance.  I couldn't find any other way out (meticulous research) so I grabbed the scissors (impulsivity).

Let's take a walk.

I had to work in one hour.  Time to get this show on the road...

Before.  I'm was excited as I appear.

I found that the cord for the clippers made it almost all the way to the tub so I almost had a super easy time cleaning up.  Instead I made a huge mess but at least I had someplace to sit.

The scissor bit.  Guess I'm really doing this!

Cutting the hair was pretty okay.  I totally get why little kids sneak off with their safety scissors and go hog-wild on their hair.  The power is intoxicating.

I thought I would waste a bunch of time cutting different wild styles but I wasn't anywhere near a mirror and typing that out loud just now makes me realize how ridiculous it was.

Hack job mess.  And I am now holding clippers!

This is not a drill!!!

Buzzing your hair is liberating.  It's almost too quick and easy.

Somewhat nauseated.

I was going to stop with "pixie" short, but it didn't look right to me.  When I go in, I go ALL in.  I swapped the guard to a cool number two.

Deep breaths.

It grows.  It grows.  And so will I.

Buzzed.  What do you think of my new 'do?

The response has been interesting.

My kids love it.  I now have the least hair of anyone living in my home, human or feline.  

I've always wanted to do this.  Do it at least once.  I keep a list and I've been trying to fulfill those "someday things."  Really, why not?  Next on the list are: snowshoe racing, playing ragtime piano (which means improving my level of proficiency from "she plays piano by ear" to "she actually knows what she is doing and can really tear it up") and hang gliding.  And painting my kitchen.

People keep asking me if I donated to a cancer charity.  I'm sad to say I did not.  Could not.  It disappoints them.  I get it.  Even if there was no issue within, my hair had sustained too much damage to be shared.  Last year I wanted to join in an event where people fundraise then shave their heads for cancer research.  I was too nervous but not for the hair-cutting, but of having to ask lots of people for money.  It's something I find challenging.  Maybe next year.  

Others think I did it in some kind of self-actualizing celebration of personal liberty, throwing off the shackles of the imposed feminine ideal.  That sounds pretty awesome.  

I don't usually share the true impetus of the cut.  It's too long, somewhat personal, and they are just curious because it's an unusual choice.  Nobody wants to stand there for the unabridged version.  It's boring.  

Usually, I just smile and say: "Hey, it worked for Sigourney Weaver!" 

Image by Lewis Cozzi

Takes them a minute...

True love is head lice, and other realizations

I spent last night on the couch, waking every forty minutes or so to again try not to scratch my head and neck.  You're just imagining it, I would tell myself.  Then I would flip over, readjust my pillow and blanket, pretend I wasn't too cold to sleep, and try not to think about the possibility that right then, dozens of head lice were feeding and breeding on my defenseless scalp.

I'd been itchy for a week or so.  I noticed it most during shifts at work when I was running around a lot busy and a little sweaty.  Well, it is hard work.  Must be some major winter dryness, I remember thinking.  Once, I checked my six-year-old's head to see if *I* might have lice.  Nah, he was clean so I was, too.  Everyone knows that if your household gets hit by lice, it was brought home by the kid who is in school.  

Yesterday morning I woke without an alarm clock for the first time in forever.  I was supposed to be relaxing, and I had big plans to paint and meditate and read and NAP, but I couldn't shake a horrible feeling that something bad was going to happen.  I was filled with dread.  I told my lapsed-Catholic Irish-Italian husband about my premonition which only stirred up his superstitious side.  I considered telling him he couldn't take the kids with him to visit family but the worry began to wane, and off they all went. 

After they left, I decided to take a shower.  I shampooed my (presumably winter-dry) hair and then looked down.  What is that?!!  I washed it again.  Two, three...is that a fourth?  I squinted at the dark spots on my hands.  I turned off the shower and dried my hands.  I pulled up the internet and did a search: "Bugs in hair not lice?" It brought me pictures of head lice.  No matter how I worded my desperate pleas of denial, the universe sighed, heavily, and fed me the truth in photo form.  

[expletive deleted]  Dude, you have head lice.

Dude.

My husband and kids were off visiting his family and this was supposed to be a relaxing morning to myself before work which rapidly deteriorated into mild queasiness, a mental tally of all the laundry we would need to wash, and a warning call to my MIL when I couldn't get ahold of the spouse, who was still on a long bike ride.  I followed him on Garmin LiveTrack and cursed him when he didn't stop to call me back.

I called out of work and rushed to the drug store.  When the cashier asked how I was, I told her I'd been better.  Then she looked down at my items--two generic lice solution kits and a fancy package of combs and magnifying glass with a light.  Truthfully, I had no idea what I needed, I just felt better buying something.  She nodded in commiseration.  "I've been there," she said, "I had little kids, too."

To that point, I assumed the whole family was likewise infested and that we were going to have a battle when they returned.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  Everyone had a good wash with the kit to be safe, but it appeared that in my home I was Patient Zero, which makes sense because I've always been lucky.

I tossed and turned all night on the couch, then decided I must have those super lice I've heard about.  Working in a medical facility, you better believe anything you catch there is going to be hardy.  Pure luck.

Embarrassed (but not too embarrassed to admit it now), I had my husband call urgent care and ask if it was possible for me to be seen--or, better, just to have pity and write me a prescription for the demons on my scalp.  Yeah, I went in.

They assigned me the coolest nurse with the most beautiful, long and free-flowing gray hair.  This seemed like a mistake.  It would take hours to comb out all of her hair with that little plastic lice comb.  And these were lice on steroids!  Undeterred, she assured me that 1. she had previously been deloused on an international medical aid trip to Africa and 2. I wouldn't have to shave my head.

I returned home with my prescriptions (one was a mercy filling of an anti-itch med that also helps you sleep), a little bit of hope, and a note for missing work which always makes me feel like a little kid.

After showering with the new stuff, I sat on the edge of the tub while my husband spend the next hour trying to snip out anything even faintly resembling an egg.  I felt great love for him as he meticulously searched my entire head.  I reminded him that he was only supposed to sip the single strand of hair that had the egg on it.  "Hmm...oops," he muttered to himself.  I sat, helplessly, as he cut thick sections out of my hair.  I said nothing as he repeated this ruthless but well-intentioned butchering side-to-side and front-to-back and then around again for good measure.  I'm still not sure what it looks like, because I thanked him, with genuine gratitude, and then headed downstairs without looking in the mirror.

I might just skip the mirror for a while.  

How to know what you don't know: Am I truly meant to be a cyclocross diva?

I'm a trail runner.  It doesn't matter that I haven't run in over a year, does it?  I'm a self-identified awesome athlete with no particularly convincing evidence to back this up.  Ice climber?  Yes, that's me!  Oh, well I haven't actually gotten around to it.  But I've joined all the forums and I have my equipment carefully researched and selected.  And I even get updates on sales, you know, for when I have the time and money.

Mostly time.

My husband, the Irish Italian (you're welcome, dear), is an AVID cyclist.  He is usually in training for something.  He always has big plans and tends to follow through.  (Show-off...)  To him, 100 miles in a day is actually possible.  It's the equivalent of taking the stairs instead of the elevator.  It's upping your incline on the treadmill (I'd call it a dreadmill, but I kinda like them.  I'm weird).  It's like no sugar all week.  Another thing he manages with great success.  While some people look at his data and feel sympathetically winded and vaguely nauseated, HE is looking at the people who do more, and who do it faster.  He has mad goals.

Since he has always been one with the bicycle, you'd think I would have been swept away in a sea of spandex ages ago.  Togetherness and all that.  Well, I did have a road bike for a hot minute.  I was super excited.  Okay, it was poorly-fitted and the brakes were only 70 percent effective, but it was me who quit.  I could have persevered.  I could have found a different bike.  I took that disappointment and put all that energy right into avoidance.  Maybe I'm meant to run...

While I pretended to be completely over cycling, I would still think about it.  Did I want to go for long, unforgiving hauls like my bonkers spouse?  Meh.  Did I want to launch my body all the way down steep twisty-turny sneaky-rooted mountain trails?  Not on a bike. You know, bones breaking and all that.  Besides, that's what my feet are for!  You know how the joke goes that the mom in the house is the only one that still has to keep going when she is sick?  Well, I have three itty-bitty ones.  I'm not dragging broken bones up and down three flights of stairs in pursuit of exercise and thrills.  Plus, work would like me functional.  But...I still want this thrill.  I'm almost 40 but don't tell me the thrill is gone.  I won't have it!

Enter cyclocross.  Really.  Like I want to enter cyclocross events.  It's perfect.  The fun of charging toward deliberate obstacles smacks of the reckless joys of my childhood when I was never without my bike.  Let's devise wild and wicked courses to test our bravery!  Yes, let's!  Let's push ourselves to the point of giddy, well-earned exhaustion.  Let's race towards the mud like mad geniuses of physics.  Wait--people still do this?  I'll admit to being nervous about running, er--riding, with a field of fitter, fearless wonders, but I'm game.  So how do I get started?

That's exactly what I asked superbrain and wildly weird cyclocross maven (and complete enabler) Jen Murphy.  (You must go read her blog, but not before you finish mine, because I eked it out while sick and kids were shouting at me for more gummie snacks)  Per usual, I've joined forums and peeked at gear and prices.  But I want more.  I need the dirty details.  How much is it going to cost to feed my soul?  So here we go...

I need a bike.  How much should I have set aside for a decent starter bike?  What type of frame?  Any components I'll want to change out sooner rather than later?  I'm also between sizes--my problem with bike number one--so do I want to size down for control?  Give up and buy new trail-running shoes?

Let's say I have this bike, see, and I want to know how to maintain it.  When I rode horses, it was a source of pride how well-kept your horse was.  I did everything.  I'm not so mechanically-inclined.  Actually, I have no idea.  I actually think I could be.  So how do I learn everything I need to know from flats to bar tape and when to call the shop?  I'd ask my husband, but he's already 100 miles up the road...

I like to shop, but my husband always jokes that I can't shop outside of clearance sections.  He's right (don't tell him), so how will I know which equipment is okay to bargain-shop and on which gear I need to spend spend spend?  Is my husband lying when he says the expensive Sidi's in his online shopping cart are better than the brand that was on sale and that he has to pay more for the helmet that matches his kit?  I need to know.

Do I need a license to be this cool?  Are there some events that are just for kicks and some that are for points?  Where should a gal start?  I'm a big joiner!  Just check out the "clubs and activities" section of my old yearbooks.  It would be embarrassing if I wasn't proud.  Oh, and what is the "season?"

I'm...a bit..less fit than I was prior to gestating all my perfect children, so how fit is fit enough?  Is there a routine that's more beneficial than another?  An area to target? (Please don't say core...please don't say core...please don't say core...)  You are going to say core.  I sensed a disturbance in the force.  Okay, so core and what else?  Pilates is the devil so I'm sure I need to do even more of it.  Yoga is like candy, so please tell me I can have more of that.  That's strength and flexibility, what about endurance?  I'm sure you've done well when you feel like your lungs are exiting through your mouth because you were really really pushing yourself, but I want to have enough stamina to make it through the entire race before collapsing, triumphant that I survived.  Smiling, even, because this is wicked amounts of fun.  So what do you suggest?  I'll start right away.

What is the culture like?  Every activity has it's own culture.  I used to ride horses cross-country (alternate universe cyclocross for horses?  Also, how you know I am brave as heck--go watch some videos on YouTube) and there were spoken and unspoken rules and traditions and even ways of showing your individuality within the cultural mores.  So tell me what you know.  These could be my people.

Finally, what is the one thing you wish you knew before you started?  Yeah, I want the secret stuff.

Awaiting your wisdom,

Me.