A Fab New 'Do for Armageddon

Making excellent progress. Sorta. Tonight I reached chapter 19, but had to stop because I felt a little nauseous. Inversions have never been agreeable to me, and in fact are the reason that I've never stuck with yoga for very long. Hard to do a downward dog when you feel like you might upward chuck. After last week's meltdown(s), I called a few sympathetic friends, who hosed me down, slapped me around, and straightened me out. I've finally reached a place of equilibrium around my installation, and realize that the final product isn't what the piece is about. It's really about the process, bringing everything I have to it, seeing it through to its completion, and then letting it go. Beyond that, it's out of my hands. And frankly, I'm so strung out from the physical and mental exhaustion that I'm beyond caring one way or 'tother how it's received. Besides, I got bigger fish to fry--like, my new 'do.

Yup, I got my hair cut and colored last night. I don't do this often, but decided to treat myself. We martyrs don't like to appear frumpy. The hair? Why, it would look just fab, if I was a saucy septuagenarian. But I'm considerably shy of that, so instead it makes me look staunchly and scarily conservative. Matronly, even. Or so I thought, but what do I know, so I asked my hairstylist if I didn't look like a Tupperware hostess. He assured me that I was major awesomeness, but I don't know. See, the thing is, he and I used to date, but now we don't, thus I'm not so sure that his opinion can be considered 100% trustworthy, ya know? Like, if you dated your gynecologist and then split up with him, don't you think it would be in everyone's best interest to find a new doctor? Or if you date your car mechanic and he sees you out with another guy, wouldn't you be a little nervous to have him work on your brakes? Especially if the other guy was your gynecologist?

Yeah. So even though my hair guy and I are good friends, I'm not convinced that he's doing his utmost to render me irresistible. What if he's doing the polar opposite of what looks good? How would I know? I don't know from hair. I've always told him to just do what he wants and wake me up when he's finished. I suspect that he's made me look middle-aged and menopausal; a so-too-busy mom who just dropped off the kids at Saturday soccer practice, and is now on her harried way to a Tea Party luncheon.

So this weekend I have to finish chapters 19, 20, and 21. That shouldn't be a problem, as it generally takes about 5 hours to complete a chapter, if it's just straight going, with no mountains to climb or valleys to cross. Then next week I'll knock out chapter 22, and that, dear friends, will be all she wrote. The Antichrist, Armageddon, the whore of Babylon, false prophets, locusts, beasts, feasts–it'll all be behind me as I follow the yellow brick road right on out of Oz and the sun sets on me and my sporty new bouffant.

Above: There she is - Saint Madge, all done up and ready to accept her lifetime martyr award. Tell me the truth--don't you think it's just a little too poofy?