Let me preface this: mornings are not my time to shine. Anyone who knows me knows this. Anyone who follows my Facebook status updates chronicling my semi-weekly mishaps with condiments and coffee knows this. Anybody within screaming range when I put lotion in my hair and hair product on my face knows this. Anybody who nearly gets run down as I race through the complex gates to just barely catch (or more often, miss) my morning train to work knows this. And anybody who watches the clock at my office those many days I show up juuuuuuust a tad bit late knows this.
So yeah. We’ve established that me and the mornings are not a good combination.
It’s not like I’m mentally challenged or anything. It’s not like I stay out to the wee early hours of the morning partying (anymore) and wake up sleep-deprived or hung over, wandering around cluelessly with my underwear backwards or inside-out until I’ve had my morning coffee.
On the contrary, most nights find me in bed by eight, and any given morning finds me a bustling ball of energy – bouncing out of bed at a hideously gawdawful hour, sweating profusely at the gym, racing around the apartment feeding and watering ravenous beasts, assembling and immaculately pressing the day’s wardrobe, doing and re-doing hair (and sometimes clothes), and mentally cataloguing all the things waiting for me at the office.
Throw in the random impromptu washing of dishes, cleaning of Kitten’s Litterbox of Death, chasing of Bird around the apartment or excursion onto the internet to check out the latest happenings in
porn the news, and it makes for a very busy morning.
Really, it’s no wonder I sometimes grab the pomade instead of the eye cream, the compressed air instead of the spray starch, or the blue cheese vinaigrette instead of the half-and-half.
Now, given that we’ve established that – at last count – I could account for all my chromosomes, you would think I would learn some handy time-management skills (like getting my clothes ready the night before, setting the coffee maker to autobrew, or remembering not to take the time for that extra set of arm curls at the gym), right?
And you’d think that, barring that, I’d at least recognize my inherent and constant lack of planning and chronic tardiness and at the very least not allow myself to introduce any more chaos into my morning routine, right?
Anything, like, say, an impromptu haircut, right?
Yeah. You’d think.
And you’d be wrooooooooooooong.
Because apparently, I still suffer from that common teenage delusion that not only can I do anything I put my mind to, but I’m infallible and have bulletproof hair.
I like to think it’s because I’m an unfailing optimist and an over-achiever, constantly striving to jam-pack just a little more productivity into my day.
More likely, though, it’s probably because I’m an idiot.
Which would explain why this morning I decided that if I just shaved a few minutes off my morning run, I’d totally have time to pull out the clippers and give myself a quick haircut (which, by the by, is a strict no-no around our house these days, but that’s neither here nor there) and still get to work semi-on-time.
Theoretically, this should have worked. By my reasoning, a quick trim would free up about half an hour of drying, ironing, and taming my increasingly unruly mop, or even forty minutes if I accidentally applied too much product in the taming of aforementioned mop and had to just in the shower and start from scratch again. And back in the day when I used to regularly cut my own hair, a half hour was totally enough time to do a pretty decent job.
So yeah. In theory, there was plenty of time.
And in theory, I can count.
This, folks, demonstrates just how wide a chasm can exist between theory and reality.
Because apparently, I was so impressed with all the time I was saving myself that I decided there was plenty of time to squeeze in just a few more little things.
Like those extra sets of bicep curls. And the resultant extra set of tricep presses (lest my arms get misproportioned!). And the five minutes I spent – mid-haircut – gluing hair stubbles to my chin, sideburns, and chest with hair product just to see what it would look like if I had actually been blessed with the gift of puberty. And the
two ten minutes I then spent flexing and posing my newly-stubbly chest and pumped-up arms in the mirror…possibly while listening to “I’m Too Sexy” (time spent looking up Right Said Fred on my iTunes library: 3 minutes).
So yeah…by the time I was done making the bathroom my personal catwalk, the vast majority of that time that I’d tucked away for my quick little haircut was all used up.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I was not only eeeeeextra-late to work today, but it’s also why I look like I let Britney Spears cut my hair.
It’s also why, in theory, I should probably schedule an emergency trip to Alex, my fabulously talented (and patient) hairdresser, immediately.
Anybody got a weave they can spare?