be confectionate: Macarons and self-deprecation...

I have issues. Or have had.

We know this. We all know this.

And for whatever reason I don't mind throwing myself under the bus, so that maybe you will take something from it. Maybe you will gather some sort of encouragement from my self-deprecation:

"Well, at least I am not that bad. Rachel needs to get her stuff together."

That notion is fine with me, really, because I do need to get my stuff together. I am very aware of said notion. My days are full of little triumphs and failures, and for whatever reason I have a hard time focusing on the triumphs.

-or perhaps they are not as funny-

Know that I think of things in terms of cake and hair (a frightful word-pairing), but more often hair- and this morning I got to surmising. You see, my hair is the longest it has been in some time. There were a few isolated occasions in high school when somehow it crept down my shoulders, but in 1996 I calculated an act of rebellion when I cut it off into a pixy. That act- that one insolent act- spawned a decade of hair "don'ts," and it was only exacerbated when I entered the industry.

I can forgive my first five years of coiffure snafus as I really didn't know how to be anything but self-destructive, but the next five years of being "behind the chair" harbored some my worst hair decisions ever. And why? I believe there is some sort of initiation- some branding of newness that makes you the target of everyone's experimentation when you are fresh from school. At first, you are nervous to ask the exceptionally busy stylists for hair help (busy=good), so you ask the girl who is newer and inexperienced to do your color. Of course this stylist has months and months of creative envy bottled up, and she has a new color or technique that she is just dying to try.

"Can I please, please try this on you? You have that face that can wear anything!"

From the back, "Oh-my-God, Rachel, you would look SO HOT with that color!"

"Really? Do you think I should do it?"

And before I know it, I am draped, clamped, and anxious; flinging myself on the sacrificial altar of her creativity. Four hours and 3 processes later, I am a poor reflection of the original goal, with an explanation from the stylist that sounds something like, "Well, I think if we try again in two weeks (when your hair has somewhat recovered), it will be perfect."

Right.

Two years ago in March, I had one such experience that changed my perspective forever. Very long story short, while wet I was able to mush my hair off about an inch away from my scalp in chunks. We had just completed my fourth bleaching process in a month, and my hair decided to quit on me. I became angry and tearful, and I bravely received my very last pixy that day.

Along with that pixy came an epiphany: I deserve pretty hair. My desire to express my "funkiness" through a haircut was gone. I passed the baton of experimentation to another stylist, and went away happy and fulfilled.

Now, to the original thought: I have issues that I publicly share. All of my short-comings, downfalls, bitterness, and horrifying childhood experiences- I actually choose to expose? With my honesty I make a mess of other's opinions of me? Perhaps writing this blog is akin to getting a lavender asymmetrical and disconnected bob with baby-bangs, while everyone else sits and lives vicariously through the experience. One day, I will walk away from expressing short-comings and downfalls, passing the baton of humiliation to another poor soul.

But for now, it works. Someone has to embrace honesty, and I am happy to oblige. Here are some (pictures of) cookies for your trouble.