On the move, move, move
Years ago, I watched in awe as other kids took their sweet time lacing up shoes, eating all the food on their plates, getting ready for bed. Those kids were frequently accused of “lollygagging around.”
Not me. Not ever.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a human ping pong ball. I do everything quickly, and I do lots of things at once. You won’t see this chick waiting in a long line, taking a swing at a golf ball or meditating. You will never see me sew, knit, paint or nap. Even if I physically sit for a bit, my mind never does.
So yeah, it’s true. I drive lots of people crazy. They would probably love to announce that I’m lollygagging around, but I’m pretty sure they also know it will never happen.
When you’re like me, you have to adjust the world as often as possible, to meet your needs. And so, that’s why I’ve got to stick with my hair stylist. Her name is Sonja and she’s my right hand woman. Sonja is the only person in the world who will actually style my hair (in fifth gear) without wanting to yank it out.
Sonja knows I’m not a sitter. Nothing personal. I just don’t sit well. I don’t like to wait. I am impatient, antsy and ready to roll. But none of my idiosyncrasies make her mad. Actually, I think she finds it entertaining. But maybe that would be different if she saw me more frequently.
When I step into her shop, Sonja knows it’s time to move, move, move. The process kinda reminds me of the pit crew flying around a race car driver. Those guys are changing tires and filling the car with gas. Sonja is covering up gray and trimming bangs.
Once we’re through the haircut crisis, I rarely stick around long enough to get my hair blown dry. I pop out of the chair, wet-headed, and off to the next whatever. And Sonja never takes it personally.
She knows I’m not a lollygagger.
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