The is an event, because it was the first time I had done so this year. Well, in this year of my life, anyway. November was a month of neglect: I've been reduced to reusing the same serrated knife (for slicing cheese and bread, but also for smearing them in mustard and margarine), plastic Taco Hell spork, and pyrex one-quart liquid measuring cup for all of my domestic needs (not to mention my designated "bathroom" cups) as I ignored the mountains (and probably-by now- unique biosphere) that filled my sink by the beginning of the month. I just didn't care. Now? I sort of care- I'm sick of my binges being limited to generic boxed stuffing, day-old baked goods & Lil' Debbie knockoffs, and gigantic bags of store-brand potato chips. But now it's grown to more of task than simply washing dishes and finding adequate space/facilities to dry them. Now I fear it would involve an obligatory relocation program for the community that have surely hosts a variety of (hopefully not sentient) life-forms.
At any rate, I started with something (minimally) less daunting: brushing my white-girl-dredlock-prone nap. My hair is getting long. It's also almost back to a natural color. And here's the clincher: while using the Jaws of Life to clean out my brush after this act of self-inflicted violence, I came across an entire hank of abnormally light hair. I couldn't tell in the darkness of my cave whether it was totally devoid of pigment, or just one of those random *really* light blond streaks that decide to grow randomly out of my head to help me retain my status of blondness as my natural hair color has metamorophosed (and nearly fallen off the Map of Blond) with age. I realized that what I was looking at could actually be grey hair, sprouting in streaks.
That's when I decided to revoke my moratorium on dying my hair unnatural colors. Sure, I may looks silly as I progress through my 30s with _Vampire Red_, _Azure_, and the inevitable _Ultraviolet_ sticking out from under my hood, but at least I won't have to subject myself to the horrors of _dying my hair its own color_ in order to remain in denial. Of course, with flourescent hair the denial may be a bit more outwardly obvious, but it's easy for me to believe I'm still punkrock.
(I was never punkrock. I was a gothic hippie.)
In other news, I believe I have officially blown my one remaining median cubital vein. This sucks, but on the other hand- it means no more trainee phlebotomists when I get bloodwork done. Ever.