I have some grays; or alternatively: I didn't wash my hair today.

So, I’m one of those people who tend to get caught up in a cause, works on it for a while, then lets it fade. One of those things in life was dying my gray hairs. Well, obviously my whole head, but the grays were the aim. I have them randomly throughout my head, a patch steadily growing at my part in the front of my head. Dying them works for a little while, but inevitably there is always that day when Jeff goes, “Oh. oh.” Which translates to “The grays. They are back.” I have had a gray hair (or two) (or thirty) since I was in approximately the eighth grade. I remember dying my hair in high school, plucking them out every now and then, wrestling with them this past year as they stick straight up, defiant, determined.

My friend B told me to embrace them: she embraces hers, because WHAT is a girl TO DO? And she’s right. Try as I may, they come back. With a vegence. So I’m attempting to go all Stacy London, streak it out, look hot, society be damned.

They’re all coming back now, after the recent dye that left my hair an excellent shade of chocolate cherry (dark chocolate, don’t worry.) Which leads me to my next point. Hair dying, as it turns out, is bad for your hair.

Now, some of you that know me personally know I have A LOT OF HAIR HOLY CRAP. It’s everywhere (screaming infidelities) around my house. It clumps under the couch, creating what Nikki refers to as dust elephants. It’s not pretty. Jeff can’t stand it, Andrew occasionally points one out in his food during dinner (claiming, “No, it’s not Corelyn’s. It’s yours. ” But he continues to eat my cooking anyways, which is how I can tell he loves me.) It is thick, it is voluminous, and it is dark as night.

But, mostly, it’s shiny. And I’d like to keep it that way, only sometimes it doesn’t want to cooperate. Now, I had this roommate in college (SS) who had CURLY hair. It was, and continues to be, fabulous. She didn’t wash it every day because it’d get dry. I hope she doesn’t mind my sharing that to the world. But she didn’t. And I thought to myself, and yelled (along with Katie, who is on my HOLY CRAP A LOT OF hair greasy-Italian side) “I CAN’T DO THAT MY HAIR GETS TOO GREASY.” And for years, I believe I couldn’t. Have you SEEN my bangs after I slept on them? A mess. And my hair — a pile of grease. Men for miles around would be repulsed by my unwashed hair.

Then, a few months ago (or maybe now more like a year) Corelyn had an idea: washing our hair less is good for our hair. It helps in the dry climate we live in to keep our hair moisturized. We should wash it, therefore, every other day. Brillant, I thought, but it’ll never work. For one, everyone here gets sweaty because it’s ALWAYS hot. So, for a while, I was not washing my hair on weekends. Sure, if I had to go out Saturday night I’d wash it (who do you think I am? Jen-nay from Forest Gump?) but Sundays, no dice. Who washes their hair to go to the farmer’s market? Not us.

Lately, I have been trying not to wash it every weekday either, and you know what? No men were repelled (at least not because of my hair.) We’ve been working out consistently this month, so we’re obviously in need of daily showers, but I have discovered (albeit slowly) that I can not wash my hair, wet it in the shower, DRY IT, and it is OK TO LOOK AT. I don’t look like a freak. My grays simmer and almost lie flat on my head. No one points and says, “Wow, did you not shower? Because your hair…” In fact, I am sitting here, clean-showered with unwashed hair, and my coworkers are not judging me. (Or at least, I don’t think so. Liz, are you judging me?) I showered, wet my hair, dried it, and it looks ok. Good, I’d say. Great, even.

Moral of the story is this: if you don’t use product (which I don’t except on special occasions) you can not wash your hair every day. And it’ll help calm your flyaways. And your hair will be shiny. And men will like you.

What do you all do to keep your hair pretty?

Amish Friendship Bread.

I went on a cruise, and the day I got back, my friend Liz handed me this:

It was a bag of mushed brown substance. “It’s a starter for bread” she insisted. I was skeptical. A bag of mush? What a welcome home. She claimed to have gotten it from a friend, who got it from her brother, who received it from a neighbor. So, not only was it a bag of mush, it was an OLD bag of mush (as Jeff pointed out.)

So I brought it home. And stared at it a little. Jeff said, “What is THAT?” and I answered, “Starter.” And he stared back, like I had brought home an alien. Poor guy.

The weirdest part about this whole situation was that the bag came with instructions. Simple ones. That said, “Mush the bag, mush the bag.” Think I’m lying?

I am not. Mush the bag. That’s it. What kind of instructions are THAT?

So I mushed. And I added on the sixth day. And on the seventh day, there was no rest. There was more mushing. But, on the tenth day, there was fermented-smelling mush to then pour into a bowl.

So I did what it said. I added flour.

And I added sugar.

And it all began to sink.

And I got bags out, to pass the Amish Friendship Bread along to four more unsuspecting friends, who would be equally confused and slightly terrified when receiving a bag of mush. With directions.

Then I finished putting the bread together — cinnamon, mainly. And when it was done, I literally didn’t even have a chance to take  a picture before half of it was gone to Andrew and Corelyn (Andrew loves Amish Friendship bread, and had a hard time waiting the ten days.)

Mainly, I had a problem taking a picture because my kitchen looked like this:

Because being who I am, I decided that making muffins at the same time was a great idea. I am sure I have photos of the blueberry muffins somewhere, although Jeff gobbled those up pretty quickly, too, but I’ll see what I can do for you. The bread is slowly being chipped at, like good banana bread, and Corelyn and I have been saved a few breakfast disasters with it. Doesn’t taste fermented at all, but more like really good cinnamon bread. Mmm mmm just the way I like it.

Most of you know that if we lived closer, I would have given you a starter bag of Amish mush. But, since we live so far apart, I will leave you with this, so you can start your own chain.

Sunday is…

waking up before your alarm. ten minutes to nine. first stop: kitchen. waffles, with the neighbor. attempted Amish Friendship bread: failure leading to tomato, onion, cheese omelet. one failed waffle. five good ones. bacon. breakfast as a family, four become one. dishes with your boyfriend. a clean kitchen. house alone. breathe in, breathe out. smooth legs, smooth summer sun. strapping your yoga mat to your b a c k. a bike ride. yoga. s t r e t c h i n g. triangle pose. raise your hand if you’re having fun. giggles abound. Brett Dennen and Alex Murdoch. Amoeba music. Five new CDS. Matt Nathanson, times two. Joshua Radin. Carbon Leaf. Lady Antebellum. Love.  b a c k o n y o u r b i k e. home. a quiet house. Barbara Kingslover. finally finishing Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. summer sun still high. peppermint tea. sweatshirts. photos uploaded. PW Challenge ready to be tackled. three more recipes. hours with a friend who can make me giggle when giggling seems a cardinal sin.

life and love, all messy, most of the time.

Cotugno Style: Rules to Live By

Katie made some rules to live by.

Here are 10 of my own, reposted from her comments.

1. If you look at the phone, and you don’t want to answer it, don’t. Chances are if you answer it, you’ll be annoyed the rest of the day.

2. Unless it’s me. Then answer. (Because I usually have something important to tell you, about friends, family, Hanson, or a fruit/veggie I just discovered.)

3. Drink water. Often.

4. If you are in the bathroom in public, check to make sure there is toilet paper.

5. You will never read every magazine you want to cover to cover. Let it go.

6. Ditto to books.

7. If you find someone that makes a good sandwich, don’t move too far from them. That way, you always know a good sandwich is just a phone call away.

8. Ditto, to vodka sodas with lime.

9. Love your family.

10. If you get overwhelmed, write your worries down. Do it with a friend. With multi colored markers. Discuss them if need be. Rip them up. Breathe deep. Toss em.

Good morning, Tuesday. Coffee?

This morning, I got up early to help Corelyn get motivated. 6:10 rolled around, and my iPhone started playing Finlay MacDonald (imagine bagpipes at 6:11 am) and I begrudgingly got out of bed. I texted Cor, and proceeded to get the following things done:

– made coffee

-put dishes away

-cleaned the drying rack (does your drying rack ever get just gross? mine does…)

-cleaned dishes from last night’s dinner

-googled how to sanitize my sponge

-sanitized my sponge in the micro (only use of the micro I actually approve of)

-chatted with Corelyn for a few minutes about our evening plans

-wiped down the counters

-prepared/drank an Airborne

-sewed a hole in my sweater (because once I had it on I refused to take it off)

-put a run in my tights (which I then discreetly hid by rotating said run in)

-checked the weather, discovered ran is on its way

-made oatmeal

-packed breakfast/snacks/lunch

-packed gym clothes

-left 15 minutes early, arriving at work early, coffee FOR ONCE in hand.

Maybe I should get up an hour earlier EVERY day…

http://www.finlaymacdonaldband.com/the-band/