"They tumble blindly...

...as they make thier way across the universe." Across the Universe, by the Beatles.

I woke up to the soft ring-tone I use as my alarm clock (in an effort to keep from jarring myself awake) at 6:15. I staggered out of bed and went to the sink to fumblingly brush my teeth and look at the dismal state of my hair. There was really no help for it--it had that semi-unwashed, straight but poofy look that refuses to go into so much as a ponytail. I turned and began tossing various combinations of clothing onto my bed trying to decide what to wear.

I paused, and looked longingly at my bed, and thought, "Surely I can go back to bed until a quarter-til." I didn't have to be in Town Hall till 7 for rehearsal, and 15 minute was more than enough time to throw on jeans and a sweater. I would just wear glasses today. And my hair would surely do something. It couldn't be in revolt forever. (Could it?)

I went to sleep until my less attractive snooze ring blared in my ear (making my roommate stir and murmer her disapproval of being disturbed twice in one morning) and I again staggered out of bed. I felt for a pair of jeans (without opening my eyes) and tossed down a cough drop. After donning a cami and sweater (no idea what colors I'm wearing) and liberally applying perfume so that I wouldn't at least smell like I'd just woken up, I opened my eyes just enough to see my outline in the mirror. I had vaguely tied my hair in a messy-bun-knot-thing on my head, but it was simply not vibing for me. I tied it into a tighter bun and decided that I would just live with it. Red glasses hide a multitude of sins, right? As I began to walk out the door, my roommate's alarm started to go off--but it was on vibrate, so she didn't wake up. I tossed it to her and brought her to consciousness as I ran out the door.

Rehearsal went well, and I came back to the room to add makeup to this disaster (me) before I was supposed to meet Jolly Berry for coffee. My hair was even worse than I'd rememberd, so I stuck my head under the sink faucet and shampooed it "real quick." I soon discovered this was the wrong decision, as it quickly became a coarse, irritable mass of knots. I stuck my head through the suite door to warn Jolly Berry that I'd be a minute.

"My hair is being Mr. Stupid-head today," I told her, "I'll be just another minute."

She was sitting serenly on her couch, reading her Bible and looking as composed and put-together as humanly possible at 8 am on a Tuesday.

"Alright," she said.

I went back to my room and continued the battle. After copious application of chemicals and much combing, primping, and gnashing of teeth, it resembled something of an up-twist. I sprayed a final douse of hair-spray to make sure that, now it was up, it would stay up. Hopefully forever.

We had a lovely coffee-visit, and came back forty minutes before Christian Study Group. Again, as I walked into my room, I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror.

I took down my hair one last time and began to blow-dry it. At least I could make it stick straight and NOT poofy, and then pull the top half back, right? Especially if I wore my black plaid pants and a white v-neck sweater. So I dried it, and mysteriously, my hair went wavy.

This may not seem peculiar to you, but I promise, it was a supremely unexpected development. My hair NEVER curls of its own volition, and it certainly never waves, except one little tiny flip at the bottom. I looked in distress at this living, cognizant, malicious being on my head. It was doing it on purpose, I felt sure. I added a few more chemicals and pulled out my curling iron. Once I had the curls shaped something like you would want curls to be shaped, I stuck it all up in a ponytail, and I, once more, sprayed it. It was now five-minutes till Christian Study-Group, so away I went.

We began to discuss the track record of Christian institutions and how they always seem to go left, regardless of original intent. It was a very good discussion.

And the overwhelming thought in my mind throughout this entire discussion was, "Can I possibly get away with wearing a blazer over this? I'm going to be really cold all afternoon if I can't." Unholy, I know, but true. And as I greeted various persons and freshmen on the way back to the dorm, I still had this though in the forefront of my mind.

As I finally arrived in my room and tossed my phone and keys onto my bed (and unwisely also tossed my Bible, which I have already reaped my full judgment for as all the little papers and bookmarks that were in it flew across the universe) and threw open my closet to see if, indeed, a blazer would work over this outfit.

I have two black blazers--one cropped and one that is probably a leftover from the 80's, since it has one low set button, and shoulder pads. I tried the cropped one first (hopefully) but it was odd. I tossed that onto the bed too. The second blazer hung limply on its hanger, and I dubiously pulled it out of the closet. In the dim light of my room (the shades were still shut and the lights were off) it didn't look nearly as 80's as I remembered. I slipped it on and observed.

It definitely had shoulder pads.

I turned this way and that, and tried to decide exactly how hideous this actually was. I finally decided that if I wore lipstick and kept my back straight and head tilted at a pert little angle, it would look less like a tragic mistake and more like a fashion statement.

Once this was completely settled, I was able to create some semblance of order with the clothes that were now scattered across my room from all the indecision of the morning, and I looked at the clock. 10:30 am. Perfect.

Still time to study before lunch.

Isn't life ironic?