How to Remedy Trashtacular Hair Hell

Ever wake up after a hard night’s sleep, take a gander in the mirror and immediately want to wave a white flag in defeat?

About last night...

About last night…

Surrendering any hope for good lookin’ locks for the day, you know when you show face (or dark roots, rather) in public folks will be talking behind your back about what a trashtacular turn for the worst your looks have taken? How you’re letting yourself go? How you must be broke as the top three inches of your hair are shades darker than the rest of your locks?

There's Something About Mary hair.

“There’s Something About Mary” hair – only greasier.

OK, so I don’t generally go in public decked out like a dork.  But I do often wake up longing for hair that magically grows a light blonde out of my scalp (instead, I have to visit my magician every six weeks) therefore alleviating the need for me to wash my hair every.single.day.  If I miss a shampoo, I look like I have taken Crisco to my roots by noon.

How does one cover up the trashiness growing from her mane?

Here are a few remedies I’ve found work for my hair indiscretions.

#1. The Snooki

Snookie

The Southern version of the Jersey Shore ‘do.

Requirements: two barrettes.

Two barettes

Objects may seem higher in the mirror than in actuality.

This overall style saves me 25 minutes of hair hell in the morning.

#2. The Bang

When I was bitching at work regarding my greasy, grimy mane, a girl turned around and said, “Just wash your bangs in the morning.”

No shit? Being blonde is hard work.

Wash your bangs. Duh.

Full frontal cleanliness.

Requirements: shampoo and blow dryer.  This version of “clean” hair saves me 20 minutes of primping.

#3. The Bret Michaels

Every rose...

Every hair has its thorn…

Requirements: scarf (and no ponytail the day/night before).

Louis Vuitton to the rescue!

Talk dirty to me.

This is an ultimate time saver, as I can truly bounce out of bed, tie a scarf and go (but I have to remember to pack a Sharpie marker in my purse for all of the autographs I’m asked to sign while sporting this style), which saves me 30 minutes of hair agony.

#4. The Bun

This was an accidental oily hair cover-up, as I tossed my locks up in a bun one day at the beach.  But when I realized it would stay put all day, the look was added to my dark root arsenal.

An accidental beach miracle.

An accidental beach miracle.

Requirements: one scrunchie (yes I said a scrunchie – I’m too cheap to buy the bun sponge helper thing. But it doesn’t count as a scrunchie in public if you can’t see it. Ok? OK?!) and bobby pins.

Bun it.

Just dreaming of Jeannie and wishing I could grant wishes.

Behind the bun.

Behind the bun.

This ballerina remedy adds another 15 minutes to my day.

#5. The Hat Trick

Greasy

Can’t tell I’m a slimy mess under the fedora, can you?

This is the simplest remedy of them all. Grab hat. Put on head.

Requirements: any kind of stylish head topper.

Put a cap on it.

Playing hide and seek with the horrific dark roots.

This trick saves me 35 minutes of messing with my tresses.

After all of the five remedies above have been tried and tested over the 42 days between salon visits (minus the nerd look), it’s time to visit my miracle maker.

Preshy

Getting blonder (not smarter) by the second with my precious sidekick, Precious.

My roots breathe a momentary sigh of relief as I let them come out to play in all of their newfound blonde glory.

FullSizeRenderBlonde!

Back to blonde(r) requires celebration, naturally.

If you happen to see me in any of the above states, you’ll know I’m either trying to eek out seven weeks between salon visits or avoiding the hair wash (because I’m hung over, tired from a long weekend, hung over or just plain lazy).

It’s possible you won’t recognize me in all of my “I-swear-I-don’t-live-in-a-house-on-wheels-although-you’d-never-know-it-with-my-three-inches-of-visible-dark-roots” various, incognito giddy ups as you mistake me for Bret Michaels. Or any guest from the Maury Povich show.

Cheers to good hair days!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Be a Four Eyed Drunk Girl

One of my many blessings in life is my eyesight from hell.

Without aid from the wonders of optometry, I can’t operate a vehicle, I can’t see the alarm clock from my bed and I can’t find a contact lens when I’m drunk.

Hello Gorgeous

Hello Gorgeous.

Since gracing earth with my presence I’ve worn glasses and adapted to doing all kinds of activities in the lovely plastic specs that took up half of my facial circumference daily.

Dancing in tap class? No problemo.

Tapped my

Four-eyed Ginger Rogers at her finest.

Eating birthday cake in gigantic red goggles? Got it.

Cake

I wish I may, I wish I might have glasses that cure my poor eyesight.

Playing catcher for a girl’s softball team? Easy peasy.

Putting a catcher’s mask over my subtle, cherry red eyewear was about as much fun as you can imagine. Especially when I’d dramatically rip off my  mask (and also accidentally tear my glasses off in the process) in an attempt to catch a foul ball behind home base, which never happened as I couldn’t see shit without those Coke bottle sized lenses in front of my eyes.

Catch this.

I got it! I got it! I got it! Wait, I can’t see it….and now I have dirt in my eyes. Help.

When I was presented with the opportunity to swap my daily face accessory with contact lenses, I jumped at the chance. Surely, by getting contacts I would magically turn into a gorgeous mini version of Cindy Crawford, Heidi Klum or Gisele Bundchen.

The transformation was amazing…

That's it!

From totally geek….

Yeah...didn't make that much difference.

…to totally geek.

But that didn’t thwart my attempts to be a Midwestern model.

Eat your heart out Gisele.

Eat your heart out Gisele.

While forcing plastic lenses (gas permeable, mind you) into my eyes as a kid surprisingly didn’t turn me into a supermodel, they did help the moderate to high astigmatism that plagued my eyeballs.  Having contacts also taught me the importance of routine, as I had to clean the teeny tiny lenses morning and night which years later is as much a part of my daily activities as sipping a Skinny Pirate.

Speaking of routines and alcohol, I never ever go to sleep without taking my hard contacts out. So even when I’ve had five two cocktails too many, my body goes through the motions of removing my seeing aides.

One recent evening after happy hour, I popped my left lens out and instead of having it fall into my palm as usual, it suddenly disappeared.

Into thin air.

Scene of contact crime

Anybody see it?

Thing is, hard contacts are about half the size of your pinky nail. And my contacts are clear.  Upon realizing my mistake, I immediately became a statue, trying to not move a muscle while reaching for my trusty old spectacles.

Then I started to slowly gaze over the mounds of beauty products in an open drawer next to my contact case.

No luck.

Then I lightly combed the vanity with my fingers hoping to recover the hard piece of plastic.

No luck.

Ugh

Yeah, it takes this many pieces to put my puzzle together.

Then with a slight pit in my stomach, I looked toward the floor covered in khaki carpet.

No luck.

Little. Clear. Carpet

Anyone see it?

Slightly drunk, kinda blind and after crawling on my hands and knees for half of the evening, I threw in the towel on trying to locate the little bastard.

Classless and contactless.

Swapping gas perms for goggles.

The next morning, I was getting ready to hop in the shower and went to grab my towel that hangs on the door directly behind the sink where my contact went missing.

Shower time.

A witness to the great contact caper.

And what to my wondering eyes did appear?

Grab'n'go.

My mother fucking contact.

There was a miracle that morning, folks. My thumb slightly brushed up against the piece of modern medicine that makes my eyes happy on the pink terry cloth.

So how did my contact end up on a towel that was behind my head when I popped it out of my eye?  It will forever be a mystery to this slightly drunk and kinda blind gal.

I’m just happy I don’t currently have four eyes.

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Almost Burn Down a Mini Manse

I’m a woman of many talents.

I photobomb like it’s my career, my dainty laugh makes 80-year-old men want to fight me,  I have a knack for getting strange dudes to send me dick pics and I’m on the brink of being Nashville’s cray cray cat lady.  However, I recently uncovered a new ability of mine when I almost burned my entire apartment complex to the ground with a microwave and a glittery paper plate.

All that glitters is not gold. It's more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

All that glitters is not gold.
It’s more of an orange color with a yellow tint that when combined together create a blaze.

It all started with these gorgeous red paper plates, rimmed in silver sparkles because an ordinary white hue was all too normal for me to purchase.

Of course I had to have them.

Food tastes better when combined with glitter, yes?

Maybe it was because I had five one too many Skinny Pirates the night before but I thought it was a good idea to throw the shimmering piece of flimsy cardboard into the microwave in order to heat up chicken fingers (also from the previous evening that may or may not have sat on the counter all night long).

Don't worry. I'm sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Don’t worry.
I’m sure I have at least 22 brain cells left.

Upon closing the appliance door and setting the timer for 30 seconds, I stepped away from the kitchen, distracted by one of New Cat’s many attempts to commit suicide by sitting on the banister of my second balcony porch.

No energy to thwart suicide attempts by New Cat.

Thinking long and hard about how rough he has it in my mini manse. Fucker.

In the mere seconds I was away rescuing my idiot pussy, something started happening in the microwave.

A stench started to quickly fill the air.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, flames were bursting through the microwave door as the timer counted down to zero.

For a moment, all I could think about was the loss of my chicken tenders. My hungover ass then snapped out of it and flung the door of the appliance open to find a smoldering, disintegrating plate with burnt to a crisp pieces of poultry attached to it.

So glitter doesn't warm well.

So…… sparkles don’t warm well.

Mourning the loss of my food like broken high heel, I was further pissed off thinking that the manufacturer of this piece of shit plate didn’t list any danger warnings about putting a metallic glitter plate into the microwave for all of the dumb asses out there who apparently don’t know foil starts on fire in a microwave like yours truly.

Then I turned the crispy plate over.

WARNING

I may have missed something here.

Once I realized I wasn’t even close to being the most mediocre genius on the planet, my feelings of grief were geared toward the loss of my beloved red (because white is too normal) microwave that now smelled like a year-long bonfire had taken place inside and ceased to run properly.

Um...

The not so sparkly remnants of a small kitchen fire.

Much to my hungover delight, Target (my mothership) had a shiny red appliance just waiting for me on the store shelf later that day.

Forced to invest in a new appliance.

It’s a kitchen miracle.

Forced to utilize my lingering brain cells, I tried to figure out how to unplug the old glitter cooker from behind the refrigerator without having to move the 250 lb unit.

Not going well.

This might as well have been brain surgery.

You guys, it’s hard being a blonde with so many talents.

Help.

Help.

Who wants to come over for a fancy chicken tenders dinner and watch me put my new microwave to use tonight?

Don’t worry, I got new glitter plates.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

How to Remedy Hair Hell

Ever wake up after a hard night’s sleep, take a gander in the mirror and immediately want to wave a white flag in defeat?

help

I gave up. Obviously.

Surrendering any hope for good lookin’ locks for the day, you know when you show face (or dark roots, rather) in public folks will be talking behind your back about what a trashtacular turn for the worst your looks have taken? How you’re letting yourself go? How you must be broke as the top three inches of your hair are shades darker than the rest of your locks?

There's Something About Mary hair.

“There’s Something About Mary” hair – only greasier.

OK, so I don’t generally go in public decked out like a dork.  But I do often wake up longing for hair that magically grows a light blonde out of my scalp (instead, I have to visit my magician every six weeks) therefore alleviating the need for me to wash my hair every.single.day.  If I miss a shampoo, I look like I have taken Crisco to my roots by noon.

How does one cover up the trashiness growing from her mane?

Here are a few remedies I’ve found work for my hair indiscretions.

#1. The Snooki

Snookie

The Southern version of the Jersey Shore ‘do.

Requirements: two barrettes.

Two barettes

Objects may seem higher in the mirror than in actuality.

This overall style saves me 25 minutes of hair hell in the morning.

#2. The Bang

When I was bitching at work regarding my greasy, grimy mane, a girl turned around and said, “Just wash your bangs in the morning.”

No shit? Being blonde is hard work.

Wash your bangs. Duh.

Full frontal cleanliness.

Requirements: shampoo and blow dryer.  This version of “clean” hair saves me 20 minutes of primping.

#3. The Bret Michaels

Every rose...

Every hair has its thorn…

Requirements: scarf (and no ponytail the day/night before).

Louis Vuitton to the rescue!

Talk dirty to me.

This is an ultimate time saver, as I can truly bounce out of bed, tie a scarf and go (but I have to remember to pack a Sharpie marker in my purse for all of the autographs I’m asked to sign while sporting this style), which saves me 30 minutes of hair agony.

#4. The Bun

This was an accidental oily hair cover-up, as I tossed my locks up in a bun one day at the beach.  But when I realized it would stay put all day, the look was added to my dark root arsenal.

An accidental beach miracle.

An accidental beach miracle.

Requirements: one scrunchie (yes I said a scrunchie – I’m too cheap to buy the bun sponge helper thing. But it doesn’t count as a scrunchie in public if you can’t see it. Ok? OK?!) and bobby pins.

Bun it.

Just dreaming of Jeannie and wishing I could grant wishes.

Behind the bun.

Behind the bun.

This ballerina remedy adds another 15 minutes to my day.

#5. The Hat Trick

Greasy

Can’t tell I’m a slimy mess under the fedora, can you?

This is the simplest remedy of them all. Grab hat. Put on head.

Requirements: any kind of stylish head topper.

Put a cap on it.

Playing hide and seek with the horrific dark roots.

This trick saves me 35 minutes of messing with my tresses.

After all of the five remedies above have been tried and tested over the 42 days between salon visits (minus the nerd look), it’s time to visit my miracle maker.

Getting blonder by the second.

Getting blonder (but not smarter) by the second.

My roots breathe a momentary sigh of relief as I let them come out to play in all of their newfound blonde glory.

Magic.

Back to blonde…for a little while.

If you happen to see me in any of the above states, you’ll know I’m either trying to eek out seven weeks between salon visits or avoid washing my hair (because I’m hung over, tired from a long weekend, hung over or just plain lazy).

It’s possible you won’t recognize me in all of my “I-swear-I-don’t-live-in-a-house-on-wheels-although-you’d-never-know-it-with-my-three-inches-of-visible-dark-roots” various, incognito giddy ups as you mistake me for Bret Michaels. Or any guest from the Maury Povich show.

CBXB

CBXB!