March 02, 2007 - 8:45
At the time I was sleeping on the bottom bunk with Noah, who was a fitful 2 years and slept on the wallside for safety reasons, but that changed after I launched my system. So what I'm saying is that at the risk of my baby brother's life or limb, I made a chart to hang on the wall beside the bed, for my use not his.
The chart was drawn officially with my royal purple ruler with the turquoise upraised #'s. Several squares were hewn, all containing faceless illustrations, crude but discernible to me, of nearly every conceivable hair design that was realistic to implement. Side ponytail (right or left side, high), low ponytail, mid-ponytail, low side pony-tail (right or left-side), high pony-tail, tucked in pony-tail (by means of making a low-pony and pulling hair around through an opening made at the base), a multi-banded ponytail (one at the base, one in the middle, and one at the end creating an almost braid-like effect). In the half pony-tail square, I drew two icons to represent a rubber band or barrette as my possible restraint options. There were braids: center braid, two braids looped, two braids loose, two braids gathered at ends with one rubber band, a braided bun(I never liked this style, but if it was selected, I suffered through it on principal). Two barettes, down straight with headband/ribbon, or down straight. In the case that I had slept in foam curlers, there was an illustration of an almost afrostyle high ponytail with visible scrunchie (if chosen inappropriately, this was the one case where I could select again).
In a column set apart (on the left-side and less accessible, as I knew my Mother was a busy woman), there contained a few hairstyles that required her assistance: French braid, Fishtail braid, two braids on top of my head (in those days it was hown french style to ensure security throughout my school day).
And oh yeah. This couldn't make sense without elaboration of the selection process. In my absolute first conscious moment, with eyes still closed, I'd flop my hand and feel on the wall for the right side of the sheet, then I'd land somewhere uncalculated (or try my best to, but eventually became very familiar with the chart). Where my finger landed was my hair fate, which beget my clothes fate as I had very particular ideas about what went with which. This eventually became a superstitious/potententially foreboding ritual (as most of my daily tasks still do).
And after all of that recounting of my child hairdo manias, it's not me at all who I've grown endeared to, but the graphic rememberance of the stench of tiny Noah's breath in the morning when he'd roll over to koala bear me. He refused to brush his teeth most of the time, and if you haven't experienced it, a baby unbrushed mouth is far more foul than any cigarette & coffee unbrushed adult mouth I've ever encountered. It's rancid like turned milk.
At the time I thought on the flower baby's breath literally. Without poetism, and having experienced it's supposed inspiration, I had to conclude that it was dubbed so as a joke.