Jan. 24th, 2011

duckduckthrall: (Default)
Ooo, the next two subjects are just *so* interesting. My hair, and how I feel about lactose intolerance. Well, at least it's better than the one on chairs? Yeah, that one went nowhere quite fast, apparently.

So, I have brown hair, normally. It's currently blonde. I don't think that it has set out to try and be my natural colour for a few years now. It seems like every time my roots grow back in, I choose another hair shade. Some have been successful: I was purple for my sister's wedding, bright pink for TSE, blonde leading up to TSE, a really ugly bluish black sometime before the blonde, and a purple that faded and faded and faded until it was kind of the colour of red wine. It's not that I have a problem with my natural colour, I just happen to like all of the other colours better.

However, due to the subtle undercolourings of my brown hair, my blonde never seems to get past this slight reddish tint. I mean, the front of my hair is currently kind of flaxen, but the overall effect is one of strawberry blonde. Not a bad colour, but not precisely what I was going for. Also, blonde is generally only ever a stopping stage on the way to bigger and bolder colours. This time, I think I'm going to go for blue.

Speaking of hair, I currently have way too much of it. It's just this huge mop of hair on top of my head. I'd say it's like I'm growing a mullet - business in the front, party in the back - but it's kind of a party all over my head.

I have had bangs ever since I can remember, and the one annoying thing about them (other than the fact that Emily Deschanel *really* can't pull them off), is that they grow too long, too fast. I'm finally to the point where I'd really like to grow out my bangs, and tuck them aside, but it's like, right when you need those motherfuckers to grow at an exponential rate, they clam the fuck up and don't grow anymore. If I didn't want them to grow, they'd likely be down to my feet by this point. They just never seem to be long enough to tuck behind my ears.

My hairstyles throughout life kind of went shoulder-length, some form of ugly bowl cut that made everyone think I was a boy (I didn't have the huge tits back then, you see), long, longer, longest, shoulder-length, Carter à la Season 7, super-short, and this... *thing* that's currently happening on my head. Now, Ruy wants me to grow out my hair, which is sort of happening involuntarily. It's growing, whether I like it or not. I have a hair appointment booked with my old hairdresser soon, which should get me at least a trim. Something to take the weight of all that hair off of my precious head. Ruy thinks she'll probably butcher it. I think I could probably live with butchered at this point. Butchered is good, as long as it's shorter.

Which brings me to my next point. I have been going to the same hairdresser almost literally since I was born. She's been cutting my hair for 25 years, and the rest of my family's hair for at least that long. She's moved places about 8 times in 25 years, and we keep following her. I think she's finally working out of her basement, which she always threatened she'd do if she ever got tired of walking the literal 10 minutes to work.

Very nice lady, but has been giving the same style of cut since the 70s, and it's, well, it's always a lot poufier than I wanted it. I'm almost afraid I'll go in there next week and find that I have somehow ended up with that one cut I've always hated. For the 49 millionth time.

It's not even about feeling pity and going to her because she's been our hairdresser since time immemorial. This whole situation has made me realize how much I despise stylists in general. The first stylist I ever went to that wasn't Lynda, the stylist said very nasty things about my haircut (never mind that I had attacked my hair with scissors in frustration), generally made me feel like crap, and made me wary of ever getting another hair cut outside of the comforts of my childhood again. The second one I went to was from the same place. She was nice. I just haven't had the time or the money to go there again. Which is unfortunate, because I have needed a haircut for what seems like about a bajillion months now.

Also, I can't seem to read and follow hair-dying instructions to save my life, to the point where I always seem to end up with a burning scalp or pink streaks down my ears. The price I pay for fun hair.

Well, that's just about exhausted the topic of my hair. Long story short? There's too damn much of it, and I'm actually starting to get tangles in my hair again - something I thought I'd left behind with the long hair.

Speaking of hair, Ruy got his hair cut today. However, he did not get his beard cut (very much). He reminds me of an odd root vegetable. Possibly a turnip or a rutabaga. Whatever it is, he resembles it, and resembles it well. I guess I should be thankful that my hair doesn't grow like his. When his hair grows, it doesn't really get long, it just grows... out. It's almost amusing if it didn't paint me a grotesque mental picture of his father from the early 80s.

It's funny, as a strictly straight-haired person, I have never wished for curly hair. I just don't see why it be advantageous. I'd have to spend hours in the shower getting all the shampoo out of it, I'd never be able to get a comb through it, and I'm sure I'd be one of those fortunate people who kind of look like they got their finger stuck in a light socket.

Word Count: 1033
Word Count to Date: 14665
duckduckthrall: (Default)
Lactose intolerance, eh? Did you know it's almost 02:30? I could be sleeping right now. Instead, I'm going to go eat some ice cream. And cheese. Because nothing stirs up nightmares like cheese. Which may be an old wives' tale, but since I've actually had some pretty wicked awful dreams under the influence of cheese, perhaps it's not so faulty an idea.

Some lucky people, those special lucky people, don't produce enough of the enzyme lactase, to break down the sugar (lactose) found in milk. This can be caused by simple luck of the draw, or it could be a secondary condition due to problems in our good friend, the small intestine. Right around where the villi get flattened during celiac disease, is where lactose is supposed to be broken down. If the villi can't do their job, and no enzymes get spat out to deal with the lactose, the lactose moves swiftly on through, stopping at nothing, on its way to freedom. As such, people diagnosed with celiac disease are often also told that they will be sensitive to lactose, until the gut begins to heal.

Unless, of course, you had lactose intolerance in the first place, in which case, bully for you, you just can't spit out the enzyme, regardless of the state of your intestinal villi. This is very sad. I can attest to this.

Also very sad is when you continue to eat lactose, delicious, delicious lactose, even when you know what the overall outcome is going to be. Why would they make cheese quite so delicious? How else am I going to meet my stupid daily calcium requirement? Exactly. Ponies.

Even though I know I shouldn't be eating this cheese, it doesn't seem to be stopping me. Even the consequences seem inconsequential when compared with the delicious taste of this cheese. Damn you, cheese.

I'm currently reading through my Google Reader feeds (as I eat this forbidden cheese), and it appears I'm still back at the beginning of January. Everyone's wishing everyone else a happy new year, people are making resolutions, and Macaulay Caulkin and Mila Kunis have broken up. That must be really quite sad. Especially so, since I didn't even know they were dating until they broke up. Again, not like I care so much, but if they're going to mention it 8 or 10 times, I'm going to remember it. Also, it turns out Pete Postlethwaite died. Not even a clue as to who he is. Also, they want to amputate Zsa Zsa Gabor's leg. I hope that by the time I catch up to more recent news, someone will have actually made a decision.

Once you find out that you're lactose intolerant, you begin to find that *every* *single* *thing* has milk in it. Obvious things, like ice cream, cheese, and, well, milk, and more obscure things, like meatloaf (huh?) or that frozen chicken breast Lisa was eating. I'm sincerely at a loss as to what kind of sauce to use on my pasta, since the tomato sauce is a big no right now, due to the tomato acid issues, and everything else seems to be cream-based. I am faced with conundrums like these every day. It's a sad world.

Cheese, universally, isn't much of a problem. There's enough fake cheese-flavoured loaf out there to coat a small city in cheese sauce. It works well enough. Milk is easy enough - either drink the lactose-free kind, or soy/rice milk, depending on the application. Ice cream tends to lend itself to trickiness. All milk-based ones are out, obviously. Soy is out, since I'm allergic to uncooked soy, and it's not like you can (or would want to) bake your ice cream. Finally, you happen on rice ice cream (rice cream?), but then you discover that it's full of nuts, which you also happen to be allergic to. So you either give up on the delicious, or you take the risk of anaphylaxis.

I'm trying to clean up the living room while I write this and eat cheese. I've discovered we have a lot of money sitting around on the floor. Change from various and sundry, I guess. Still, I think we could fund a third-world country just with the coinage I've found on the floor.

My goal is to finish tidying the living room before I got to bed, which means I need to hurry up this snack, have my stomach decide whether or not it's going to handle it or just give up the ghost, and then finish up the tidying. The problematic part of this isn't so much the tidying as it is the coming across of things that I just don't know what the hell to do with. We have about eighty billion coats, which I suppose we will need to wear in the coming months, but damn if I can figure out where to put them in the meantime. Seriously, I would settle for any place other than the floor, which is where they currently are.

So, I guess that packing is like a particularly malicious bowl of ice cream. Hmm. No, wait. It's kind of the exact opposite. With packing, the whole process kind of blows, but you are generally happy when you finish and accomplish something and can put it off to the side, whereas the bowl of ice cream is delicious while you're eating it, but the results leave something to be desired.

Yep, it's now past 03:00, and I don't even remember a thing I've just written. I suppose this will make it somewhat amusing to go back and revisit at a later date. Or incredibly embarrassing. Seriously, the words are just kind of tumbling out my fingers without really stopping anywhere in the brain to consider whether sense make good.

And so I shall leave you pondering. Do you really want that bowl of ice cream? Or would you rather be in my living room packing? If the latter, please enquire within, because I'm kind of tired of doing it. Who knew we had collected so much stupid clutter in the time that we've been here? And who knew that so much of it actually belonged to *Ruy*? Well, I could have guessed, considering that he comes home at the end of the day and essentially shrugs off everything attached to him. Clothes, bags, receipts, you name it, it's off at the end of the day. For me to find while I'm cleaning up and excessively headdesk.

Word Count: 1085
Word Count to Date: 15740

February 2012

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