I Brushed My Hair Kind of: An Ode to Self-Care in Times of Solitude

The title really says it all.

My sister got me a quality silk pillowcase for Christmas a couple of years ago, due to my continued insistence of sleeping on my own face after the age of 40.

Said pillowcase has the cool occasional side effect of keeping my super-fine (as in fine-ass) hair from going bananas, in addition to keeping my face wrinkles from doubling over on themselves and choking me in my sleep. (Fun fact: this model of “pillow envelope” is known as the “housewife style,” which is literally the style I also am now.)

But I digress.

The point is, I woke up today at 4:00 a.m. and stayed awake for over an hour, pouting because I just wanted to be asleep again, but unwilling to get up and do things that insomnia experts claim will help you sleep. I flipped about in what was in my mind a dramatic and glamorous fashion, but in reality probably looked more like a fish trying to get back into water.

Miraculously, I did doze back off, for about 90 minutes. When I got up to dress for the day in my day robe, I noticed that my hair was barely mussed. I only had to give it a quick swipe, and it settled back into the cap that having a no-nonsense haircut every six weeks can get you.

And I felt triumphant. I could almost hear the “hashtag self care hashtag love yourself” smugness of the Instagram post that I would make on my influencer account if I were an influencer.

And, you guys, that’s where I am on Day Three.

Yesterday, my youngest sister (we’ll call her “Christian” for anonymity purposes), came to visit, bearing gifts of drive-thru queso. As we inhaled that, the news broke of Springfield’s 30-day stay-at-home orders, due to begin the following night. I hadn’t been out on the town since last Thursday, so we decided to go for an aimless and socially-distant drive while we still could. The difference in traffic quantity was immediately shocking. I was able to make a left-hand turn onto Campbell, for example, in a reasonable amount of time.

To commemorate this historic weirdness with the solemnity that it deserved, I bought 30 donuts “for my family.”

And then, the difficulties and, frankly, personal attacks began. Hurts didn’t have birthday cake donuts, because they didn’t qualify as donuts of necessity. I had to choose another kind of vanilla-frosted donut, and then the frosting was hard and flat and molded to the cake, which was also hard. It was the MRE of donuts.

We moved on, to Krispy Kreme. They had all the things, but I couldn’t go inside and stare at the case because drive-thru only. The Hot Fresh light was off, maybe forever. The pictures on the menu pacified me, but only just.

Because I’m mindful of my reduced physical movements in this time of quarantine, I only ate 3.5 donuts, then jogged in place for a couple of minutes to burn it all off.

The point is, my hair looks fine.

What are you guys doing? I’m kinda bored. Thinking of microwaving a donut for no more than 12 seconds if you want to schedule a Google Hangout and talk about why that’s the perfect amount of time for next-day donuts.


I start every day vowing to become healthier and end every day by zeroing out my fridge.
That's the kind of self-sabotage that forms the core of my being.
You know what I'm good at, though? Spinning words into a magical skein that envelopes you in success. Let's talk about that first, and if snacks end up happening, so be it.

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