Cottage Critters

The hubs and I are big fans of the comedian Jim Gaffigan. He came to Cincinnati last weekend and we went to see him. I was laughing so hard, my throat hurt. If you haven't heard him, you simply must. He is hilarious and his jokes are not raunchy or dirty. He does one bit about the outdoors and camping. He is against the whole idea of camping and says that if it is so nice, why are bugs always trying to get inside? It is funny because it's kind of true. 

Now, Troy has helped me realize that I do love to camp and be in the outdoors. I never went camping when I was a kid - (Jim Gaffigan would say that was because my parents loved me.) In fact, my parents were shocked when I told them I liked camping, since I am the girliest girl they have out of us three sisters, but it's true. The trick is to adapt to your surroundings. You have to know that when you wake up in the morning, you will either be scorching hot or freezing cold and there will be at least ten of those tiny bugs flying around the top of your tent who scornfully laughed at the "protection" of your netted windows as they shimmied through the teeny squares. There is a good chance your pillow will be damp and and smell like campfire embers. But you signed up for this. You know what to expect and there are other things about camping that make it great, like s'mores and good conversations with people you care about.

The other nice thing about camping is getting home, to your controlled environment where you can regulate the temperature, go to the bathroom without having to putting on shoes to walk a 1/2 mile to the john, and living in a place free of critters. Or so you think. Last night, you would have thought that coming to our house you were entering one of those creepy-crawly buildings at the zoo that you only go into when you're on a field trip and the kids beg you to go inside.  

I was going down to our creepy basement to get a load of laundry out of the dryer when I saw it. At first I thought one of the girls decided to leave a little gift on the basement floor instead of in their litter box, but then I realized that this poop had eyes and then saw that the poop was moving, thus I deduced that it wasn't poop after all. Genius moment. My initial reaction was first relief because then I didn't have to clean up poop, but then I was slightly panicked because now I needed to figure out what to do with this slimy creature who we learned via the internet was a slug. When I realized what it was, I had a minor freakout, which involved me calling Troy and begging him to remove it, but as he was looking for his flip flops, I came to my senses and realized, this slug was more disgusting than dangerous and the little slimeball was quickly scooped up with a piece of cardboard and flung outside. Of course, we were hopeful that our fearless felines would aide us in our slug removal venture, but all Molly did was poke the slug with her nose until he contracted into a chubby ball. After our unwelcome visitor made his necessary departure, I put on my detective hat and found his trail began at the drain in our basement. Eww. We chalked it up to this being an old house (it was built in the 40's) and old plumbing.

Once that excitement was over, we brushed our teeth and got ready for bed. I went upstairs and found Molly crouched down, looking at something on the carpet. When I got a better look, I didn't like what I saw. It had a hard shell plus six legs and was the size of a half dollar. This sum of this equation is never pleasant. Begin emotional meltdown - I mean, are you kidding me right now? I just got rid of slug that was the size of a fruit roll up and now this?! I ran downstairs to get a glass to cover him with. (It was literally the only solution I had at that point.) Then I hollered for Troy for the second time that night. This time, I wasn't going to be able to take care of it myself. Anything with legs that moves quickly gives me the sweats and the goosebumps all at the same time. Once again, Molly was zero help, as she was just pressing her nose to the upside down glass which where the entrapped beetle was scurrying around. My knight in shining armor - or the hubs in a Chicago Bulls warm up tee - trapped the beetle in the glass and flung him outside as well. 

As I was laying in bed, I was grateful that we are only renting this house and decided that my desire to live in a "historical home" was stupid. I also had a minor panic attack of what other creature will come crawling into our little cape cod cottage over the next two years. Then I thought back to Jim and his comment about if the outdoors are so great, why to the critters keep trying to get in? I decided to look on the positive side of things. After working all summer on this house, it is finally cute, cozy and (despite the critters mentioned) clean. Who wouldn't want to sneak in and freeload. The snail and the beetle probably saw Molly and Olivia laying around all day doing nothing and figured this was a good set up. So, thank you Snail and Beetle for your complements to my house, alas, you are not invited without adoption papers. Olivia and Molly are the only cottage critters we will be taking in, at least until the next furry animal steals our hearts.

Negative Jokes

I love humor, but then again, who doesn't? When I am in a lousy mood, one big belly laugh usually does the trick to snap me out of my funk. I tend to be an equal opportunity aficionado of humor as well. I love a good dry sense of humor - especially if the comedian happens to be a grandpa, particularly my grandpa. Then I love it even more. I love what I call academic humor, where you need some educational experience to understand the pun or have an excellent memory from your sixth grade history class. I love cheesy jokes which require a groan after the punchline has been given. I love kids lame-o jokes because you know the kids think they are funny.

There is one kind of humor which I feel is not funny at all. These are the kind of jokes that require a fake laugh that sometimes I cannot even muster because of how I loath them . . . the negative jokes. The term "negative jokes" is really an overarching umbrella for all jokes that are the snarky or rudely sarcastic where the "comedian" thinks it is funny but they generally poke fun at someone. These jokes usually have a truthful undertone that allows the person telling to joke to say what they are really feeling in a way that would make the victim seem like a whiny baby if they called the person out on it. These jokes tend to be used by people who like to make themselves look good at the expense of someone else and the victim always ends up feeling foolish. I will sheepishly admit that I tend to be the butt of these negative jokes due to my naivety. It honestly really bothers me because if you know me, you know I am naive so I feel like it is a cheap shot.

Don't get me wrong. I love sarcasm. Love it. It is a part of my personality. I remember one time my youth group went on a retreat. The guest speaker was talking about sarcasm and how we need to be careful in how we use it. My youth pastor literally leaned forward in his chair and eyed each one of his sarcastic youth. We of course thought he was being sarcastic and saw his act as funny. In an effort to do research for this blog (you're welcome) I tried to refrain from any sarcasm. My goal was to do this for a whole day. I forgot for a split second and ending up failing before I even had breakfast. It doesn't help that Troy is a fan of sarcasm as well. 

I guess I am a little bit of a humor snob, but at least I am a snob who wants to promote good over evil. Negative jokes or making someone feel stupid is a big no-no in Friends 101. Now obviously, in our culture, it is natural to embrace some form of sarcasm. As long as you know the other people isn't serious, minor ribbing is okay. You can dabble in this kind of humor if you are with excellent friends who know you're joking and if this is not your go-to humor tactic.

Or if you are Troy and all of our guys friends we grew up with from church (yes, church). For some reason, those guys can rip on each other and still stand up in each others weddings. I honestly think that when one of the guys tells another that he throws like a girl, what they really mean, "I love you, man."

You'll Grow Into It

When I was a kid, we went clothes shopping once a year for new school clothes. My mom would look at the jeans, sweaters and shirts and throw desired items into the crook of her arm and when she was satisfied with her selection, my sister and I were ushered into a fitting room. I specifically remember the pants always being too big. My hips would get swallowed in the waist and I was certain I could pull them down without unbuttoning them. My mom would bend down and roll the pant legs up. Then I would hear the same message as I heard the year before, "They're a little big, but this way you can grow into them." After all, we only bought new clothes once a year, my mom wanted to make sure I didn't have a growth spurt and grow out of them.

After we got our allotted pants and tops, we would head over to the shoe department for a new pair of gym shoes. We got to pick out the shoes we wanted but my dad was in charge of the sizing. He would help us get the right size and tie our shoes. Then we got the "Toe Test." We would stand up and my dad would say, "Wiggle your toes." While we were wiggling our littlest digits, he had his thumb on the toe of our shoe to make sure that we had enough room. When he thought we had the right fit, he would say, "Yeah, those will be good. You'll have some room to grow into them."

I thought that when I became an adult, and stopped growing, I could forgo this phrase that is said by almost every parent on the planet. I don't need any more room. I will not grow into anything anymore. However, it seems I still have to grow into one more thing . . . my name.

Pamela is a name that my dad was set on naming his first daughter. My mom liked it too and ironically, her dad would have named her Pamela, but the deal was if she was a girl, her mom got to name her, so alas, Pamela would need to be shelved for the next generation. Growing up, I knew a couple of Pamelas, but the majority of them were older than me, like my parents' age. Usually when I introduce myself, I hear comments regarding Pamela Anderson (of whom I am not equipped to be compared to), Pam Beasley from the Office (who is awesome yet fictional) or the cooking spray (that has gotten icky, quickly).

Since moving to Cincinnati, Troy and I are on the hunt for a new church. Yesterday, we went to the community church in our town. When it came time to greet others around us, the woman in front of me turned around to introduced herself. The woman looked to be about 60 years old and cheerfully told me that her name was . . . Pam. Yep. Then when she turned to introduce me to her husband, she excitedly told him that she met another Pam. His response, "Wow, I thought they stopped making those."

This is the issue I run into all the time. If I meet a Pam she is usually about my mom's age. Don't get me wrong, I like my name. I like that people have heard of it but that it is not too common. I can usually find it on a coffee cup if I was interested in purchasing such kitschy souvenirs. I like that I can walk into a room and usually be the only Pamela there . . . unless I happen to be at a Baker's Square for the four o'clock dinner rush.

Someday, I will grow into my name. My kids and grandkids will talk about the name Pamela like my generation talks about the names Betty or Helen, as "Old People Names." And at that moment, I will not have to wiggle my toes to check my fit. I will have grown into my name. 

I hope I live that long.

English Thinking

In college, I was a waitress at the Cracker Barrel. One night, a young couple came in with their toddler. When I went to greet them and take their drink order, I was pleasantly surprised with their English accents. It pretty much made my shift. At the end of their meal, like a fool, I told them that I loved their accents. They kindly replied that they liked my accent too. Then I ran into the kitchen like a school girl and I quite possibly giggled as such.

I don't know what it is, but I just love accents and English accents are in my top three. (In case you are wondering, the other two are Irish and Australian.) There is something so classy about English accents. I went on a Europe trip when I was in college. Our first stop was London (one of my favorite places) and we were there for four days. While on my trip, I kept a journal to remember all that we did. I found that as I was writing the events of the day, I was thinking in an English accent. I kid you not. It started to seep into my daily thinking too. I would get hungry for lunch and want to say something like, "Shall we pop into the pub for a bit of fish and chips?"

Recently my "English Thinking" has come back. Last Friday was my birthday and Troy and I should have been celebrating at The Melting Pot for drinks and fondue, but I caught a cold which inhibited me from smelling or tasting, so we took a rain check for the Melting Pot and ordered a pizza. I decided to peruse Netflicks and see what girly thing I could tap into when I stumbled upon a little show called Downton Abbey. Also known as crack for your eyes. I had lots of friends tell me that I needed to watch the show especially since I love historical fiction. So, I decided to give it a go.

The show is about Lord Grantham and his family living in an enormous mansion in the countryside of England. The first episode takes place the morning after the Titanic sinks. This already tragic event is compounded by the news that the family's heir was on the ship and the family struggles to figure out their future with a new heir. The costumes are fabulous as is their way of life. It is so interesting to see how the elite lived with their rituals and social graces. After the first episode, I wasn't sure if I was a fan, but after episode two I was hooked. It have been four days since I was introduced to Downton Abbey. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I have already finished seasons one and two. Due to my surplus of Downton Abbey viewings, I have had a hard time getting much of anything done and my English Thinking has come back.

Unfortunately, my execution of English accents is very poor. I have always wanted to pretend to have an accent when I go to a restaurant or store or something, but my acting is not good enough and I know I would start laughing. I think the only way I could get a real English accent would be to move to England. Troy said that I am like a sponge with accents, but I need to be immersed in the culture. I had a Chicago accent until I moved to Minnesota, and now I say things like "Ufta" and draw out long o sounds like Sarah Palin. After we move to Cincinnati, it is only a matter of time before I start saying "ya'll" and offering people grits with every meal. So, I guess the only way to get my English accent to match my English thinking is to move to England. I'm in.

I wonder if the Crawley's have any room for me at Downton Abbey?

Chapstick Challenge

My lips are on fire right now. I am nowhere near my beloved tube of chapstick. All I want is to grasp my beautiful Burt's Bees and slather that goodness on my lips. Before you call the police to inform them of a kidnap, I am safe and sound in the comfort of my home, but I have been without chapstick for approximately 22 hours

Let's rewind and get you up to speed. Last Tuesday, Troy introduced me to my chapstick challenge. He wondered if I could go without chapstick for a full 24 hours. My first thought was panic. I had just applied my chapstick before going to bed and if I accepted his challenge I wouldn't be able to reapply until bedtime the next day! My next thought was that I wasn't sure if I would be up for the challenge. I mean, I always have chapstick on me. You know how some men have an outline of their wallet that has worn through their jeans, so even if their wallet is not in their pocket, it looks like it is? I have had that happen to me except it was a chapstick outline in my front, right pocket of my jeans. I wish I were joking here. I tried to figure out how long I have been nursing this habit and it has been at least since high school. So when I say that I wasn't sure if I could complete the challenge, my fear was valid. I was being asked to change a behavior that I have exhibited for over ten years!

I must have been off my rocker, but I accepted the challenge. I still don't know why. Anyway, the next day was awful. I purposely left my chapstick on my night stand. I couldn't trust myself to put it in my pocket because I already knew that there are times during the day when I subconsciously take it out and put it on. I realized that I was completely addicted because I reached into my pocket for my chapstick probably ten times that day and every other minute, I thought about how chapped my lips were.

I knew I was going to need a plan of attack if I was going to make it through the day. Unfortunately, they don't make Nicorate patches for chapstick addicts. I decided that every time I wanted to take a hit off my chapstick, I would take a drink of water. Besides getting more of my daily fluid intake, I thought that I would take this addiction head on - psychology style. Here was my theory. I learned in my psychology class in college about Freud, and while I think some of his ideas were completely delusional (I am referring the envy he claimed women had to the male genitalia) there was one stage that I thought maybe I fit in, the oral stage. People who fixate on this stage may have issues with smoking, biting their nails, or in my case, habitual chapstick usage. I thought if I could substitute one oral habit (chapstick) for another (drinking water), I might be able to lick this (no pun intended - to my psychologist friends, thank you for laughing at that one). It didn't work. Long story short, I still wanted my chapstick and on top of that, I was in the bathroom twice as much as usual. On the bright side, I was not at all dehydrated.

Chapstick was all I could think about. It was all I wanted. And yet, I could have applied at any time. Why was I putting myself through this? I have two theories:

1. Competition. I have realized that I am a very competitive person. Mostly I am competing with myself, which also explains my perfectionist tendencies. When Troy challenged me to the chapstick challenge, I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. Though I still think I should get a gold star or a sticker or something for this.

2. Addiction. I seriously think I am addicted to chapstick. It kind of bothers me how my life almost revolves around chapstick and it wasn't until I took this challenge did I realized that I didn't like being chained to this habit.

I did complete the challenge, successfully. At bedtime, I was allowed to put on my chapstick and boy did I put it on. There were probably five even coats on my lips before I turned out the lights. I sighed a sigh of relief as I realized the torture was done. It wasn't until the next morning that I surprised even myself. After getting ready for the day, I went back to my night stand to put on my wedding ring and watch, but I stopped myself when I went to reach for my chapstick. I thought about the torture I went through the day before and wondered if it would be easier today. I let the chapstick spend the day on my nightstand. Not only that, for a full week, I have only been putting on chapstick at bedtime. It is getting easier to go without . . . sort of. It's more like I am getting used to wanting to rip my lips off each day. We'll see how long I last . . . right now I am just trying to survive until bedtime.

The Civil War Between Pam and her Legs

The day before yesterday, Troy and I went to the health club. I didn't much feel like doing cardio, and knew I was about due for a leg workout. Now, if you are me or Troy (which would be very weird if you were) and you hear the words "leg workout" you immediately start sweating. It is also very important to point out that leg workouts need to be planned because you will be out of commission for a couple of days. So, if you are planning on playing basketball or disc golf with the guys tomorrow, a leg workout today is not a good idea. You folks are lucky because I am about to share the Carlson's Leg Workout. After a few of these, you'll have stellar legs which you will not be able to use because you'll be in too much pain.

Our leg workouts have evolved a little since we have become gym rats but they all start the same, traveling lunges. I grab two fifteen pound dumbbells (Troy has more weight, but that is because he is so strong and dreamy) and find a low traffic area in the gym. Then I do ten traveling lunges (traveling lunges are when you start standing with your legs together and take a big step forward with your right leg, then you dip your body down, keeping your torso perpendicular to the floor and your right knee makes a 90 degree angle. Then you stand back up and bring your left leg forward to meet your right leg so your stance looks the same as when you started, just one step away) turn around and do ten more. That is one set. Then I do two more sets.

Next, I do squats of some kind. Lately, I like finding those resistance bands that you Velcro to your ankles and a medicine ball. With my legs together, I start by taking a sideways step with my right leg so my legs are apart. Then, holding the medicine ball, I squat down, come back up and bring my left leg together with my right leg. I do ten steps leading with the right leg and ten steps leading with the left leg. That is one set. Then I do two more sets. Now you know our leg workout secrets. It's like having a trainer in your house with you. I am imaging the trainers from Biggest Loser reading these paragraphs and beaming with pride because I am sure that they send their free time reading my blog.

By the time I am finishing up my last set of traveling squats, I am making grunting noises and honestly fearful that my squat stance combined with my fatigue and stress of the exercise is creating a perfect storm for flatulence. My only hope is that nobody walks by because it truly is out of my control at this point. When I finish, I am staggering over to my water bottle, mostly because I am tired, but also because I haven't found the strength to un-Velcro the straps from my ankles so I mimic a convict shuffling into court with his ankle restraints. When I go to sit on the floor to rest and remove the straps, I realize that my legs no longer have the strength they did when I first entered the health club. They now have the strength of Jell-o. I catch my breath and gulp down water as on-lookers judge me for sitting on my rump at the health club. These also tend to be the same people who only walk the track and missed me doing the workouts I mentioned above. At this point, I think, "eh, that's good enough" and then I finish with some light cardio.

The next morning, I wake up and get ready for the day. Everything seems fine until I sit down in the afternoon for more than thirty minutes. When I stand back up, suddenly everything is tight and uncomfortable. I know, this is only the beginning of the civil war about to be unleashed. My leg muscles have decided to revolt against me. Since I made the workout so challenging, they are retaliating by making simple things like walking, impossible. This continues for the rest of the day. At bed time, you hope relief is in sight, but more often than not the next day is more challenging than the first. Troy and I often have slow down for the other person when walking. The slower person will say something about the leg workout and the faster person nods with empathy and slows the pace.

This obviously has an effect on daily life. I have been working on a few sewing projects and started to walk (slowly) upstairs to get to work, when I realized that there was something in my purse I needed to complete a project. I literally stood on the stairs for a minute to decide if I should get it myself, ask Troy to bring it to me, or maybe just forget the sewing project all together. I ending up getting it on my own, wincing all the way down as I took each step and then wincing as I went back up the stairs.

The funny thing is, I know my legs, while incapacitated for the time being are getting stronger. The soreness almost makes me feel like my legs are ripped like the Hulk. I strut (in my mind anyway, in real life I am shuffling while making muffled grunting noises) around the house like a super model on the runway. Then when I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I am surprised that my "bulging" muscles are not quite so bulging. In fact, they look the same as they did the evening before I did my leg workout. How can this be?

Anywho, I am currently on day two of my civil war with my legs. Thankfully I already know that the north wins. Sorry legs, there will be no seceding the country of Pam Land. I win in the end.

Boo-yah.

Laura Petrie Pants

When I was in high school, my sister and I were wild. We would stay up super late, into the wee hours of the night. My parents were completely oblivious to what we were up to. While they were snug in their warm bed, Laura and I would be watching television shows that only were on after a certain hour. We were watching . . . Nick at Night. Now you know our shame. My sister and I would spend our crazy nights watching Nick at Night until we couldn't keep our eyes open anymore. That's right, we were nuts for "Bewitched", "Petticoat Junction" and "I Dream of Jeanie." One of our personal favorites was "The Dick Van Dyke Show;" probably because we loved the movie Mary Poppins so much. In case I need to make a link for you folks, Dick Van Dyke played Bert in the movie, but seeing as we were watching the Dick Van Dyke show after seeing Mary Poppins, we would just call him Bert. Referencing him also often involved a rendition of the chimney sweeper dance, obviously.

One interesting fact about "The Dick Van Dyke Show" is that Mary Tyler Moore, who played Laura Petrie, was a bit of a risque actress who wanted to wear pants (gasp!) on television during a time when married couples were shown sleeping in individual twin beds. The network respected Moore enough to allow her to wear pants for only one scene in each episode. (After I learned this, I thought it was fun to notice this with each episode.) The pants she chose were black, although the show was in black and white, so they could have been any dark color, and they were capris, or as my grandma likes to call them, petal pushers. I always thought they looked so classy.

Fast forward to a few months ago when I was shopping at my meca, The Gap. I was trying on some dress pants when I found a pair that I was sure would look heinous on me, but they were on sale so I thought I would give them a chance. I put them on, looked in the mirror and fell in love. They were Laura Petrie pants!! At long last, I had found them and let me tell you, I wore them well. Laura Petrie would be proud. These dress pants are currently hanging in my closet amongst my other dress pants which happen to be harboring unfriendly feelings toward the Laura Petrie pants because they know the Laura Petrie pants are my favorite.

The only problem I had with my Laura Petrie pants is the same problem I have with all dress pants. I don't understand why the pockets are sewn up. It is like the factories think that you are going to try on the dress pants, stuff them full of things and then put them back. I think if they are going to sew up the pockets, they should put a message inside like a fortune cookie. I would love it, if I got home with my new Laura Petrie pants, ripped open the seams and found a message in the pocket. Here are a few suggestions that would be fantastic.

"Wow, your butt looks awesome in here!"
"Wanna hold hands?"
"You are going to have a great day, so long as you strut your stuff."

Anyway, you get the idea. I just think it would be fun. I mean if they are going to sew up the pockets on my Laura Petrie pants, the least they could do is put a little surprise message that could say something like, "You call these Laura Petrie pants? Laura Petrie calls these Pam Carlson pants."

Organized Planners vs. Flexible Free Spirits

Most of the time, I feel like a fun-sucking wiener. Yeah, that's right, a fun-sucking kosher hotdog. The reason I feel this way, is because I am usually surrounded by whimsical people who think planning and organization is overrated and a waste of time. If I had a nickle for every time the phrase "Just go with the flow" was said to me, I'd be rich.

I have always been fascinated with personality tests. In college I took the Myers Briggs (I am ISFJ) and Strengths Finder test. As a young bride, I took the Love Languages test. (Click on the test names to take the tests yourselves! There is not one for Strengths Finder as you need to pay for the access code, but you could buy the book to get one.) I know that I am an organized, empathetic person who appreciates order and planning. I show I care through acts of service and truly believe that it is the thought that counts.

The problem occurs when there is a clash of personalities. Generally organized planners tend to take everyone into consideration while flexible, on-the-go folks think about the here and now and what would be fun. Flexible free spirits think that organized planners are merely workhorses who trade in fun for schedules. Organized planners think that flexible free spirits are . . . well . . . rude. However, both groups of people are important and help each other be more well rounded.

I do appreciate those free spirits friends who gently try to introduce me to their crazy, whimsical world. All while getting teased about me not having a plan. There was an episode of Friends where Phoebe is asked if she has a plan and she replies that she doesn't even have a "pl-." Sometimes it is okay to not even have a "pl-" . . . like once a year.

Haircuts

January first. It is a time for resolutions. It is a time for turning over a new leaf. Troy and I are personally attending our own Fat Camp due to all the delicious Chicago dishes we enjoyed while home during the Christmas holiday. However, I decided that I wanted to ring in the new year with a new haircut. Nothing drastic, just wanted to clean up those pesky split ends and add some swoopy bangs to change things up a bit since I am too chicken to lose any significant length to my hair.

I love getting haircuts. Love them. As I was in the stylist's chair enjoying her tame my mane, I decided that if I were a millionaire, I would get my hair done every week. At first, I was thinking I would do it everyday, but then I worried that I wouldn't appreciate it as much, so I bumped it back to every week. It was during this epiphany that I also decided there are four main parts to the haircut process that make the event fantastic all the way through.

1. The Wash. If I had to choose my most favorite part of a hair cut, it would be in the beginning when the stylist is washing my hair. You walk over to the chair and after a few minor, yet awkward adjustments, you are finally comfortably sitting in the chair with your hair cascading over the sink. She turns on the water and begins to soak your hair. "How's the temperature?" she asks. You reply it is great and hope that she won't yak your ear off so you can fully enjoy the hands of someone else doing the mundane task of washing your hair that is never as enjoyable when you do it yourself. When the water gets turned off, you heart sinks a little knowing that you'll have to wait until your split ends wreck havoc on your hair again to enjoy the next head massage.

2. The Cut. I love this part because the stylist is constantly combing your hair as she snips away. I am also slightly fascinated by the amount of hair that ends up on the floor. She will take a section of hair, comb it away from your head, inspect the ends, snip-snip-snip, and then she will shake your hair out to see how it lands. It doesn't feel as nice as the wash, but I am still a fan.

3. The Style. When all the cutting is done, out comes the hair dryer and brush. This part is great because I hate blow drying my hair. It is time consuming and I usually start sweating which makes me feel like washing my hair was a compete waste of time, so I really enjoy someone else doing this for me. When the hair is dry, the stylist will either curl or straighten my hair. This part always makes me think of when I was in the first grade and all the girls would play with each others hair during the read aloud time. Then my teacher, Miss Norris, would say, "Girls, this is not a beauty parlor." Except that now I am in a beauty parl0r, so I enjoy the stylist fixing my hair and think about how I can't get in trouble with Miss Norris now.

4. The Swagger. The stylist hands you a mirror to see the back of your hair, and after you approve the work, you collect your things and pay. Then comes the swagger. This is the part when you walk out of the salon and to your car like you are a movie star because you know your hair looks awesome. If you happen to be wearing sunglasses, you may even be wondering if onlookers are currently mistaking you for a celebrity. Probably. I mean, look at you. You're a stone, cold fox . . . and you know it.

Of course the next time you wash your hair, it never looks as good as when you left the salon, but alas, it is only 6-8 weeks (or in my case, 12-14 weeks) when you will visit the salon again and revisit the best parts about a hair cut: the wash, the cut, the style and the swagger.