Shuffle away

I have an easy way of gauging my mood – how well I’ll tolerate inconveniences or people I dislike. It involves putting my iPod on shuffle while I drive. If I find myself scowling and skipping through song after song, I’m not doing well. If I can listen to anything and everything that little Chandler decides to play, I’m feeling good. I generally, of course, tend to fall somewhere in between.

“Shuffle at will, Chandler.” I chirped as I headed toward Friend’s apartment after leaving work this afternoon. “I’m just fine.”

I guess it started last night. I was busy pouting since I wanted chocolate but did not want to go out to get any. Then I remembered I had Penzey’s cocoa – I received it as a Christmas gift – as well as leftover chocolate chips and pecans from cookie baking that didn’t happen. I found a recipe online to make brownies. My first attempt at making brownies sans box was nearly 15 years ago and they were inedible. I wasn’t overly hopeful my newest effort would fare better.

But I walked to the kitchen, recipe copied in a notebook, and made sure I had enough eggs. I saw I had real butter – unsalted even – and sniffed it, wondering how you tell if butter has gone bad. It seemed fine so I put everything together, wondering when in the world I bought actual baking powder in addition to baking soda, and saving the cocoa for last so if the batter started looking evil, I could save my precious spice (“processed to temper the natural acidity of the cocoa bean, yielding a smooth, rich and slightly less strong cocoa”).

But the mixture in my bowl looked safe so I carefully measured a bit less than the ½ cup required and gently stirred to incorporate. After adding all the chocolate chips and pecans I had, I transferred the batter to a glass baking dish and tentatively licked the spatula I used. It smelled amazing – rich and darkly chocolately – and tasted even better. So I licked again, cleaning the spatula and taking the bowl with me to the living room to savor every speck of brownie batter goodness I could find. There’s a chance I had to wash my face afterward. I may have become a bit too intent on obtaining that batter. Maybe.

The brownies were good last night when I burned my mouth to taste them. Rich, certainly, but far better than any brownie mix I’ve encountered. I had one this morning and it was perfection. The chocolate chips had hardened and I could taste the elements of the baked-from-scratch goodness. Butter, sugar, pecans. And chocolate – the bittersweet chips and my precious, lovely cocoa. So, so, so good. Completely surprising in their quality, and that very fact increased my enjoyment of the treat.

I woke with a start around 6:00 this morning. I wasn’t sure whether the dog or cat or some other noise source had disturbed the deepest sleep I’d had in several days, but I started with day with a surprised gasp. After unsuccessfully trying to sleep some more, I went to the living room to blow my nose and drink some water.

Then I looked over the outline of chapters that is slowly being colored green as more and more of them enter the “in progress” stage at one time. Copied, pasted, edited. About 75% of how I see the novel so far is based on text I’ve already written. So it gives me a starting point. But the chapters I’ve been working on – the ones that flow – are fictional. Despite being initially guarded against possible pain, I found that they’re incredibly fun to write. After spending a couple of hours typing as fast as my hands could move words from mind to screen, I took Chienne on my favorite route for our walk.

I came home, finished editing the paper I’m continuing to revise, emailed the final versions to Boss and got dressed for my 11:00 appointment. I was getting my hair cut after letting it grow far too long. And I was going somewhere new.

I decided against the garishly colored salon located the opposite direction from my commute to work. The petite southern girl who counted the gray hair for me had been scheduled to color it in October or November. I was just beginning my drive to the salon for an 8:00 appointment when the receptionist called to cancel. My stylist was sick. I rescheduled but decided to work instead of coloring my hair one Wednesday afternoon.

At some point, I decided to never return. Bad memories. The feeling of being too plain against the bright backdrop. I didn’t want to feel frumpy. So I decided to call the salon attached to my massage therapist’s office.

I met Gina today and sighed in resignation. This wasn't going to be good. She was older and decidedly southern. Her hair looked good, and I was immediately suspicious. I’ve been told by every stylist in the past 10 years that doing good hair all day leaves them too tired to do their own for work. But I shook her hand, admitted I have a cold and settled in to discuss our holidays while she shampooed my hair.

I sniffed experimentally. It was nice. Not overwhelming or nature-like. There was probably all kinds of synthetic crap in this shampoo, but I liked it. I also noticed that unlike recent salon experiences, I didn’t feel self-conscious in front of Gina. So my eyes drifted closed, my body relaxed and I let her shampoo and condition until the towel covered my head and I sat up. We moved out of the shampoo room to the styling room before I thought to take note of my surroundings.

Wide picture windows through which sunlight streamed in. Tile with various shades of brown striations. Huge mirrors – nearly floor to ceiling – on two sides of the softly cushioned chair reflected my image unimpeded by stands holding combs and products. I cocked my head at the me in the mirror and discovered with some surprise that I looked pretty. I squinted in confusion – I always wince at my reflection in salons. But the natural light or the softly colored background or my youth contrasting with my stylist’s age…something made me pretty here.

I sighed when she parted my hair in the center to begin sectioning it out to cut. It looks better if I go slightly off center. I tried to sigh but coughed instead when she began to layer. That wasn’t the way it normally went, I thought. This gradual tapering was going to make me look all fluffy. I just knew it. But everyone deserves a fair audition so I stayed quiet except to make occasional small talk when the other stylist and her client stopped gossiping. Just FYI, the woman has a disrespectful relationship with her boyfriend (he started it and she found it impossible not to respond in kind), her brother’s wife is mean (something about a church, a casserole and an angry letter. I didn’t follow and was sure protocol didn’t allow me to lean around my gigantic mirror to ask for clarification.) and Sally at Christ Church was almost certainly having an affair with one of the Lutherans.

I closed my eyes again, plotting my book and smiling over a running theme on which I’d decided and savoring the ending. It’s quite happy. It’s quite good. But it’s not quite written yet. I do think 21 chapters will do it though. But each time I start to write one, it seems to turn into four. Thoughts of the chapters on my laptop and my delusions of grandeur that allowed me to type them out distracted me from the mess that my hair was certainly becoming. It’ll grow out, I soothed. Not to worry. There are always hats.

When I blinked my eyes open, my hair was dry and Gina was reaching for her CHI straightening iron – exactly like the one I have at home. It has ceramic plates and reaches such a high temperature that the hair literally steams. But it’s shockingly effective and one swipe of the device that has never pulled my hair is all it takes for a silky smooth shininess that is certainly to be envied. I shook my head, a bit confused and glanced up at her as she stood behind my chair.

“It’s adorable!” I praised and she smiled.

“I’m glad you like it.” She drawled. “You have such pretty hair.” Fluffing it briefly, she went to work smoothing sections with the iron while I watched it fall perfectly into place.

“I love it.” I said. “It’s really just perfect.” Then, deciding I’d see her again, I debated whether to reveal my gray hair struggle.

“Not everyone has such thick, healthy hair.” She said. “You’re lucky.”

“Did you see much gray?” I asked then – I adore people who compliment me. “I had a problem for awhile, but then I stopped noticing so much."

She shook her head immediately. “I only saw one. You’re far too young to worry about that.”

Naturally, I decided I loved her. Tipped her extravagantly and still spent considerably less than I normally do. I drove to work in light traffic, speeding along while I called to check on Friend then listening to every song my iPod shuffled through. I found an excellent parking space and got to the bus stop just as the vehicle was lumbering to a stop to pick me up. I received hugs (one armed from Boss, a full embrace from Jill) when arriving in the office and shared holiday stories with other colleagues. I responded promptly to email, deciding to put one task off until tomorrow while focusing on another.

I’m at the neat part of my career here where I’ve done a lot of things before. So I was able to take a presentation I was rather dreading, copy the one I’d done before, changed text and figures around and finished it in less than 30 minutes. Pleased, I grabbed a book I needed for a meeting Monday, sent myself email with the last piece of information for my paper revisions and walked back to my car, super-pretty hair blowing in the cool breeze that contrasted exquisitely with the sunshine.

My goodness, I should sing a song! I decided after I smiled widely at the fourth person I passed. My black flats – after giving me a single blister – were shockingly comfortable. I felt like I could walk forever. But I reached my car, turned on the iPod and smiled when every light I approached turned green. I spent some time with Friend, pleased to see her writing the paper that has caused her such problems. I drove home through moderate traffic, pleased to get to the gas station in my little town before I reached the point where my car was completely empty.

Pleasantly surprised – all day I was expecting something bad or boring or otherwise unpleasant and kept being completely pleased with a given outcome – and very happy.

Perhaps after I finish my book and complete the requisite reading tour that will certainly make me rich and famous beyond my wildest dreams (also, of course, providing some wonderful man who will fall madly in love with me due to my deep intelligence, insight and ability to use words in sort of the right context most of the time.), I will learn to write music. I really should have a special happy song to sing on days like today.

I noticed when I went to paste this entry into blogger (I compose in Word) that - for the first time in weeks - I wrote an entry for my other blog this morning. Interesting, is it not, that the first day I decide to spend a few moments on spiritual reflection is a truly easy, happy and lovely one. That was really nice of God. I'm going to put Him in my happy song.