I like buns

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I like buns.

But that's not why I wear my buns high, usually.

Usually the reason my hair is in a bun is because I am cleaning or I am jogging or I am refusing to comb my hair.

But lately, if you see my hair in a constant state of bread-roll, uppity, tightly twisted strands it is because I haven't managed to carve out time to get my hair colored.

Because tight buns mask unsightly roots.

Tight buns tell the world I am trendy and casual but in my world, my roots tell a tale of a life that is a bit topsy-turvy.

No time.  Must rush.

A twisted up-do lets me get up and go even though I'd love to get down and sit, comfortably, in a swivel chair and have Gina turn my heinous brown hair into a golden delight.

I love Gina.  She knows what color suits me well even though I beg her to let me go red, just once.

"No." She insists. 

And so it is.

I'd like to put my nose in a magazine and stew under a heat lamp until the bleach has divinely altered the color God thought would fit me best.

I'd like to sip on un-sweetened, over-priced, iced-coffee while the tingling burn of chemical seeps into my brain.

It sounds horrendous.

But it's actually quite lovely.

And there was a day, last week, sometime just after 3 p.m. when I could have gotten my hair colored.

But I opted for a nap.

I needed a nap.

An afternoon snooze.

Maybe I snored.

I don't think so... I don't do that...

But I would not know because my sleep was that deep.

It wasn't long.

Too short.

But this week,

Or next,

I will let my hair out of hiding and make time for a visit with Gina.

She who can magically make me a better version of myself.




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