I just got back a couple weeks ago from a lovely week in Isla Mujeres, Mexico, celebrating my brother’s wedding. Here is the most romantic photo ever, taken by my cousin, Michele:
I also indulged a secret fantasy: Bo Derek hair. I’ve always thought how lovely it would be to sit on beach while someone braids my hair in to many teeny braids. Because I’m bad at dickering and not that brave, I didn’t go for the full head, but I did get a taste.
Now, here’s the problem. It’s a week later, and I keep brushing over the little braids. It’s cold and snowy and gray here, and it’s time to take them out.
Yesterday, I snipped the first tiny purple rubberband (which, I’m pretty sure, they used to hook my braces together in the 1980s) and attempted to undo my Mexico hair. I ended up pulling most of it out at the roots. Yee-owch! I have 3 more shaggy braidlets to go, and I don’t even begin to know how to approach this–maybe with a bottle of olive oil???
Anyway, this is how vacations often seem to go for me–delightful loops off the side of the timeline of my life, but requiring some kind of recovery process themselves. After catching up on the mountain of ignored laundry, bills, volunteer requests, et cetera, et cetera, I find I need a vacation.
I guess the ideal is to NOT “need” vacation–to always live in a state of low-level peace and bliss where we don’t feel called to run away from it all and do the crazy to our hair.
I’m still sad that I didn’t go for the full Bo-head.
I’m so damned relieved that I didn’t go for the full Bo-head.