Girls Only: Product Review (October)

Welcome to the second edition of "Girls Only: Product Review!" This month I will be treating you to two reviews. You're welcome! .... Just kidding. It's only because I don't think I have enough to say about just one of these products to fill a "respectably-sized" blog post. Also unfortunate is the fact that I won't be reviewing anything I said I might review in the September edition. I promise I'll get around to it, but here is what's piqued my interest lately!

This month I bring to you one product that I have been using for over 2 years, and the other I used for about two weeks. Because I like to end on a positive note, let's begin with the short-lived product.

In September's "Girls Only," I told my audience that I would most likely be purchasing a leave-in product to help protect my hair from my damaging styling regime. Well, instead of waiting for my birthday coupon from Aveda—which didn't actually arrive, by the way!—I made an impulse purchase when the Giant and I spotted an Aveda store at a mall near my office building. I purchased brilliant's damage control leave-in spray thinking there was no way I could go wrong with an Aveda hair-care product.

Well, I was wrong. Ish.

I hope you guys realize how ridiculously picky I am when I tell you that the reason I dislike the product isn't because it doesn't do everything it advertises. I'm sure it does. As stated on the Aveda site, it is meant to protect against damage caused by combing, heat-styling and the sun. Like I said, I'm sure it does. I also have no issues with the fragrance. Like all of Aveda's other hair-care products, I think it smells fabulous.

What I didn't like was that fact that my hair felt very coarse—kind of like fine, flexible hay—the moment I put my hair under the blow dryer. The drier my hair became, the more this feeling would give way to soft-ish feeling, clean-looking hair. Apparently I need to learn to read, because when I purchased it, I made an assumption that it would not only protect my hair, but it would leave it feeling super soft. As stated, soft-ish is marginally off the mark, and while the feeling of running my brush through a stack of tangled hay eventually does diminish greatly, the product doesn't do what I expected. Therefore, I'm going to pawn it off on someone who might not be as petty as me and wants to use it anyway. Smells fines. Works great. I just want softer hair.

Now, the entire reason I made the assumption that I know what the product does without reading the handy, descriptive "these are the things I do, and nothing more" text on the back of the bottle is because I've used another leave-in product that does exactly what any hair-obsessed product reviewer wants. The creators aptly named it it's a 10 miracle leave-in product. It costs about $6 less than Aveda's product (depending on where you buy), and it is truly a miracle product. The reason they call it "it's a ten" is because it performs ten tasks, from heat protection, to enhancing shine, to seriously softening the hair follicles.

The only issue I've ever had was caused by user error. A couple of times I've sprayed once or twice too many, and it leaves my hair feeling weighted down and kind of tacky (i.e. if I tried to run my hands through it, my fingers would get caught even though my hair wasn't tangled). So just don't overdo it (you'll figure out how much is enough for your hair type through trial and error) and you can't go wrong.

Here's a funny thing. I've already written what I would consider a "respectably-sized" blog, and I've reviewed two products, but the "it's a ten" product wasn't exactly what I had in mind, even though I have been using it for 2 years.

The second product I wanted to talk about will just have to wait till next time! But I'll give you a hint: It's in the picture!

Before I go, here's a helpful tip!

If, like me, you have very oily hair, do NOT condition from root to tip. In fact, I don't even really get close to the root. I start conditioning my hair at about chin-length, and I make sure that most of the conditioner is concentrated at the tips. This makes it so I can go almost a full two days before the oil in my hair becomes noticeable—which is saying a lot.

This girl is wrong.

This girl is sort of wrong.

Why would you contort yourself like this?
Also, super wrong.

This is where the photos of wrongdoers ends, even though the options are limitless because there isn't actually a single picture on Google of a girl conditioning her hair "correctly"—I put "correctly" in quotes because I've based the use of that word off of our understanding that we're dealing with overly-oily hair.

Fortunately, I found this crazy girl with a pair of scissors that is aimed at the exact spot where I would start spreading the conditioner down through my hair.

This girl knows what she's doing. Except, maybe if she'd conditioned her hair ever, she wouldn't be aiming a crappy pair of scissors at her tangled, frizzy hair with all its split ends. Bet you didn't consider that, you neglectful, scissor-wielding nutjob.

The Giant and I Attend a Play

This entry is going to be much more like a diary than a blog. It is simply an event that I am fond of that I’d like to remember, and it has no hidden meaning or moral lessons. Just enjoy!

Last night (October 3^rd) I went to a play with my Giant, “The Madness of Edgar Allan Poe: A Love Story.” The actors were (mostly) fantastic, but the content of the play was not my cup of tea. It had parts that really annoyed me (Poe’s repetition of the word “bells” [that was said in such a Southern dialect that I couldn’t quite decipher if “bells” was actually what he was going for] at the end of each string of nonsensical thought, and his incessant attempts to rhyme almost every word in the sentence for the first 10 minutes of the opening scene), and parts that totally blew me away.

Unfortunately, I almost ruined one of those “blow me away” moments because my Giant was too busy being awkward in the front row for me to pay attention.

This was not your average play. Instead of spending our time in an auditorium watching the play on a stage, we actually followed the actors from room to room of a mansion. At the end of each scene a woman in 19^th century garb would signal for us to stand up, and then lead us to the next scene. Each scene was from a different work (The Tell-Tale Heart, The Masque of the Red Death, The Raven, Lenore, Annabel Lee, etc.), and it showed quite clearly how Poe’s love for his wife, Virginia, constantly spilled over into his work. Also, the audience was split up into two groups, so it really confused me when the two leads, Virginia and Poe, ended up in the same scene; I wondered what the hell the other half of the audience could possibly be watching without them.

I figured this out toward the end of the play. We followed a gentleman dressed up as an officer toward a small room with three rows of chairs. He told us to fill in each row to the end, so the Giant and I followed the people in front of us down the first row of chairs, and plopped down. Unfortunately, three feet in front of my Giant was the edge of a bed which left barely any room for the actors to walk by with the Giant’s knees sticking out two feet. Not only this, but at one point the actor sat down on that edge of the bed, looked straight at my Giant, got this look of deep love soaked in madness about his face, and said the most comical line in The Tell-Tale Heart: “I loved the old man.”

The Giant swears that he only smiled because I laughed, but I told him I only laughed because I saw him starting to smile. You can’t look at my Giant, all uncomfortable in the front row (not only emotionally, but physically because he was trying so hard to move his legs out of the way that I could feel them shaking), and say with a crazed look in your eye, “I loved the old man,” and not expect me to laugh. It was one short chuckle, and then I bit down on my bottom lip so hard that it was no longer tempting to laugh. I’m glad I did that, because this actor’s performance was amazing, which we both agreed upon at the end of the night when we were driving home, laughing about that moment.

I think the Giant and I will probably stick to movies in the future, where there’s no real chance for uncomfortable laughter to ruin a scene when an actor says something loopy and then holds your gaze for too long.

"Queenie"

This is a short story I wrote about two years ago, and I figured it was time that I type it up and share. I hope you enjoy it.

She wears red nail polish and always has her nose in a book. She doesn't try to remember which novels she has and hasn't read; instead she checks for red streaks where a corner of her nail dragged across the page. She turns up her nose when women replace pants with leggings. She doesn't like pizza or chocolate chip cookies, and even though she gave in to the cell phone craze, hers never rings.

"Grandma?" I ask softly.

"Mmm?" She doesn't look to me, but tilts her head up a little, eyes fluttering back and forth across the pages. I wait ten seconds to see if she'll encourage me to continue. Having already forgotten that I addressed her, she won't. I turn on my heel and walk quietly out of the room.

I never understood why grandpa married her. He talked quickly and laughed loudly. Pizza was his favorite food and if he'd had a cell phone, all of his grandchildren—biological and self-appointed—would have called constantly.

"Maybe he would have found a reason to call grandma," I muttered, and continued the thought in my head: if he hadn't spent all of his spare time following her around the house. He might have called her just to find her. He would ask everyone in the house, "Have you seen Queenie?" Mother would reply, "I didn't know it was my turn to watch her, Martin," and she would continue to prepare dinner, sparing us from grandma's cooking.

He would smile as though he'd suddenly discovered a lead, and saunter off on a fresh trail. If he ran into a granddaughter along the way, he would kneel, put her on his knee and tell her very seriously, "You're going to be a knockout someday," with a stern finger waving dangerously close to her nose. After a genuine "I love you very much" smile, he'd lift her from his knee and pat her back gently to send her on her way. He was on a mission and couldn't suffer detainment.

I used to wonder if she ever hid from him on purpose. When he found her, he'd look at her with renewed awe, as though this was the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. Every time, it was love at first sight.

Sometimes I would locate her whereabouts only moments before him, and when I'd turn to leave the room to announce my discovery, my forehead would run straight into his stomach. I'd stagger backward and proudly proclaim, "I found her, grandpa!" He'd smile and pat me on the head, at the same time unconsciously easing me aside to get to her.

"Queenie," he would breathe.

"For heaven's sake, Martin," she'd sigh, without looking up from her book. As if she didn't revel in the thought of being regarded as a queen.

Grandma was less interested in grandpa than he was in her. The most words I ever heard my grandmother say to him were, "Martin, you have dressing in the corner of your mouth."

Oddly enough, she didn't fully withdraw into that saggy red chair and the mysterious worlds of various books until after his death. She was always headed down that path, but without the soft pad of his feet trailing behind her, she seemed to need a distraction.

Deciding to try again, I poke my head around the door frame. "Grandma?" I actually have a question—I don't just mean to torment her. "Grandma?" I asked again, but this time my voice is laden with confusion. She isn't sitting in her big red chair, her back to the spotless windows that stretch from floor to ceiling.

As I approach, I expect to see a dent in it, permanently fixed to her shape. I put my hand on the plush red fabric. No indentation. I push down and it resits, springing back up against my strength.

"Too firm," I mutter.

I turn around and scoot up into the chair anyway. I sit there for a moment, swinging my legs out in front of me, finding delight in the hollow thump thump thump of my heels meeting the wooden legs.

She left her book—High Noon by Nora Roberts—and her thin silver reading glasses on the table nearest the chair. I put on the glasses and pick up the book, intending to mimic her.

Except, as I open the book, something falls out, something I would never expect to see in my grandmother's possession. She was using a laminated, wallet-sized photo of her and grandpa as a bookmark.

They look thirty years younger, thirty times happier. Well, grandma anyway. Grandpa, who was facing the camera with bright blue eyes and a smile at the ready, looked just as thrilled as he always had. Grandma looked nothing like the stern occupant of the red chair.

In the moment this picture was taken, they were dancing, their right hands suspended in the air toward the camera, his left hand resting on her waist, her arm disappearing under his and reappearing on his upper back as though she was trying to pull him closer. Her body language is putting no distance between them. She is not facing the camera, but grandpa, and she is caught in mid-laughter, an open-mouth smile. She is beautiful.

She is in love.

I become aware of a presence in the doorway. I didn't hear her breathing. Her footsteps were silent. I just know.

"I miss him," I say, as I lift my head to look at her.

She walks over to me, a sad smile on her face, and I hand her the book and photo.

"That's because he's worth missing." It's the first nice thing I've heard her say, and I believe her.

As I wander out of the room, she calls my name softly. I turn to look at her, daring to hope that she will talk to me more about grandpa, about the young woman in the photo who never would have dreamed she may one day abandon laughter for sighs, dancing for reading, intense love for cold indifference.

"May I have my bifocals, please?"