FORGET ME NOT

We landed at the cottage Friday night to a couple of pleasant surprises. First one was that we weren’t carried down the hill by blackflies and mosquitos. Second was, when I opened the kitchen door, my view was filled with a wonderful sea of blue.

Not sure what type of bloom they were, I snapped a pic and reached out via social media in search of some help. The consensus came back that they were a flower called Forget Me Nots. 

Per Google, I discovered that they are a short term perennial which are a symbol of true love and respect. A wonderful cottage tribute with perfect timing as I approach the first anniversary of the death of my beloved Puddin’.

This pre-covid polaroid pic of her (taken by a friend of the kids) remains on the cottage fridge.
I will never forget her.
TAKEN: MAY 27th, 2023  

I don’t think my heart has been this hollow for the loss of a furbaby since my yellow lab Toby left us in March of 2007 at the ripe old age of fifteen. He was so special that we were over two years before we entertained another pup.

Back then, I didn’t want another yellow lab as I truly felt the space he took in my heart could never be replaced. It was only after our beagle rescue Daisy was hit by a car that we agreed it may be time for another yellow.

From the day in 2012 when she landed home, we knew that Puddin’ was special. Even as a wee bit of pup, her outgoing personality shone through from the beginning. She was forever by my side and really chill until her one true flaw kicked in. Which was when out of the blue, she would haphazardly run up the drive to confront people on our street.

She was never malicious or vicious, her outburst of random barking and jumping up and down in the same spot was just super annoying and it always ended up being a tad embarrassing having to endlessly apologize to the passerby.

I have always professed it was an ingrained effort to protect her home and her pack. My husband always chose to believe it was a simple set of loose screws!

Anyway, when we purchased Miya’s sister Katie in December, our third yellow, it was never to replace my girl.  It was a specific set of circumstances that fast tracked having another in our pack. 

As she settles into her first summer on Orillia Lake, I think the flowers Friday were just Puddin’ stopping by to say hello. Just as we bloomed with daisies the summer after Daisy's death, the yard is filled with a sea of blue for my sweet girl.

She can rest easy knowing I could never forget her, she was a very bright light in my life.

So much so, that when my time comes, both her and Toby's ashes will be buried with mine.

MY HEARTBROKEN SMILE

As life would have it, my hair began to grey prematurely in the late 1990’s. As a result, I would book an appointment and off to the popular high priced salon I’d go.

Then, when I went into business for myself in 2004, I began doing my own root touch ups to spare the expense. The trouble with that, is that for the last decade it has become an ‘every third Sunday afternoon’ ritual.

I will openly admit that during the pandemic, I came very close (multiple times) to growing the chemicals out of my hair, then would ultimately fold like a lawn chair and get the touch up brush out.

As a matter of fact, if I am being brutally honest, though my mindset for going grey was always there, it just wasn’t as strong as my inner voice of vanity and personal pride not to.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, I went to get my haircut. Granted, it had been a while, but my stylist was generally worried about the state of my already dead hair that was forever entertaining the grim reaper; so I launched the 'next steps' dialogue.

Well, at the end of my workday Friday, a two-hour ritual to begin my transition was set in motion.

This is what a heartbroken smile looks like.
Stood next to the dark wood siding to cut the glare.
(Yep, my eyes are closed.. because even I couldn't stand to look!)
TAKEN: MAY 5TH,  2023

Though I am certain I was specific that I wanted to take a year to transition, and our starting point would be a warm caramel shade, the one mixing the bleach personally decided full on blonde (with white clumps - you can see the frizz on the right) was the way to go.

Suffice it to say, when she finished, I cried. And cried. And cried. And cried. My husband, the wonderful man he is, quickly and quietly hid!

With tears streaming down my face, I went home to my personal salon, plugged in my gadgets, and took a half a can of coloured root touch up spray to the white hair that framed my face. Then, freshened up my make-up and forced myself to go outside and take the selfie I am sharing here.

As you can see, my eyes are closed. It wasn't intentional, yet I am posting it because I suspect subconsciously I couldn’t stand to look at what I had just done to my already dead mane.

Well, as I have said here before, I will say again. You can’t stop change, only manage it.

Though my stylist did offer for me to return the following day and add low lights to offset, I turned her down. Not only did I not want to incur any more expense, but I also didn’t want to add anything else to my already dead and overbleached coif.

Instead, I decided to wait until after I've returned from the Caribbean in a couple of weeks and see where the sun and salt from snorkeling have my hair colour and I landing.

BUT if last Friday night were any indication, I would say there are going a couple of bars in Jamaica that are going to meet a blonde woman crying in her glass of spirits, with a man quietly hiding under the table sipping a beer.

Then again, maybe not. It’s not like anyone knows me there. 

Because hell... When I looked at myself in the mirror again this morning, I still didn't recognize the person looking back!!

#YaGottLaughAboutIt