“Most certainly. You have a textbook case of what we doctors call ‘Snickers’ knee’. You see, the constant bumping into, bashing about with, and falling onto – your knees – has given them that uneven nutty look. Couple that with suntanning in a bent knee position, which has darkened the outside layers into a nice milky, chocolatey caramel color, while just underneath all that coating lies your cartilage, now a nougat, from all the wear and tear over time. See? ‘Snickers’ knee. Satisfied?”
“Yes, doc. Very. What are my options?”
“Steer clear of short pants. Or we can use a large sword-like knife and cut those kneecaps off and replace them with Silly Putty so you can mold and remold them no matter what life throws at you. We recommend the Silly Putty.”
“The reward for conformity is that everyone likes you but yourself.” ~ Rita Mae Brown
Thoughts, Tuesday, October 11th, 2022
I’ve fallen under the impression that I can cut my own bangs on average about once every few years. Occasionally the first round of wisps looks pretty good, so… I keep going, thinking this is easy. I’m actually better at cutting my own hair. How about a little… Shit!!
A few moments after the initial shock, staring into the mirror – unable to process or move away… crisis mode sets in. An emergency call goes out to all the nearest salons as I desperately seek any stylist close by who is available NOW. Then I run to them, jumping over babies, dodging buses, and I enter the salon heaving, crying, and freaking out – saying I just got the worst haircut ever – leaving any mention of my hand in this out. Completely.
The hairdresser, “So they just left it patchy… uneven like this?”
“Yes!” I glance up, peering through sweat and tears. “I’m so afraid. Please do whatever you can to save my hair.” Then I look down quickly and escape into a make-believe world. It’s out of my hands now.
I close my eyes and believe magic will occur and that they’ll be able to fix this situation, and my bangs will reappear, long and normal once again. I sit nervously, quickly opening an eye, glancing from scissors to hairstylist, then close my eye, pray and repeat.
When they’ve done all they can do, I leave, swearing I’ll never go back to the stylist who destroyed my hair heretofore. Then with bangs still brutally mutilated, I gracefully and blindly walk away with fresh tears.
“It looks… so much better.” (a whimper escapes). “Thank you,” I whisper while feeling for the door.
There are many cures for boredom, but I am not a hair stylist, I am not a hair stylist, I am not a … just a little bit here, just a snip…
“Want to know a secret? Someone out there can’t stop thinking about you. You are beautiful. Don’t ever believe differently.” ~ Drake