Honey Bunches

Last night it was time to take out my braids. Here's why: little pieces of my hair had begun to sneak their way out of the braids and turn brown and orange all at the same place - the length of my actual hair, creating a gross visual cutoff. Also, I had at least a half-inch of regrowth that was messing with the pure bright pink of the kenakelon braids. On top of that, I was sick of the "braid itch" and the weight of the extra hair and the difficulty putting shirts on and the long drying time. 

So, I bore the left-handed sewing scissors I appropriated from mom's sewing desk a while ago (I am not left-handed, I just always need scissors) and happened to bring along and cut off the fake part of the braids, then unraveled the rest.

What remained was not as horribly faded as I had feared, but at the base of each braid there had formed a little "dred," if you will.  Hair products, dead skin cells, grease, and dust from the air built up in spite of my shampoos - not to mention the braids trap natural shedding of hair.

I had no choice but to savagely rip them apart into pieces that my comb could digest - and even then it lost a few teeth. The sound of the ripping was rather unappetizing but Heather and I managed to eat the pizza and two huge chocolate chip cookies we had ordered to our room.

Heather: "I had no idea Papa John's sold these [warm delicious gigantic] cookies but now that I know, they're going to be the death of me!"

The removal of tumbleweeds from my hair was painful and tedious but did not leave me bald, and I feel oh so free!

I'm on the airplane to Phoenix now, going to connect to Detroit. Heather and I went to two post offices to try and mail something back that we didn't think we could get on the airplane only to find out we were too late or too early.

We now officially detest the united states postal service. It doesn't even get its name in caps.

And what really bugs me is that both times, behind all the rows of p.o. boxes, we could hear rustling and shuffling. Someone was in there who could totally mail something for us, but the doors were closed. The second time, we got really desperate. I got semi permission from Heather and walked down the hall:

"Excuse me, my sister and I desperately need to mail something before our flight leaves, and we can't wait for the office to open, can you please help us?"

Pause.

"We know you're in there."

The shuffling stops.

A voice comes from behind the veil: "This office doesn't open till eleven, you have to go to another post office."

First of all, the sign says ten thirty. Second, ugh.  We argue a bit more and then roll our eyes and leave. We begin our second consolidation process. You should have seen the first: mail this - no it fits better that way - leave this with our host, we might still eat this, trash this, wear this, this doesn't fit - it's okay I have room if I sit on my suitcase! 

We had so much food we had neglected to eat on the road that we left a big box with our final host: a park ranger in San Francisco. He is super passionate about the part he plays in the park system and was beyond hospitable to us.

He might trash most of the food.  "I'm sorry, there's not much to eat here," he apologized upon our arrival. Well, that's not quite true. But I'll put it this way: I was in such need for sugar the night I slept all day that I raided the car for EVERYTHING we had left that tasted sweet: gross orange vitamin drink mixes, and maybe I changed my mind and like pecans, and - AHA! - there's still a nerd rope left, and I know I saw a granola bar in here somewhere, and, and, yes - hot cocoa mix.

Heaven. 

We're at the Phoenix's airport. It is like any other, except we witnessed a pilot spilling his steaming red rooibus tea (a nearby woman suggested hydrogen peroxide to get it out of his white uniform as the friendly staff took care of it. I hope it didn't ruin his day) and it has Arizonan-themed gift shops.

It is like others in one way: everyone got to the charging outlets before us and the ones that are left don't work. Heather provided an example of a similar experience when there were outlets between each seat at the terminals - and none of them worked.

But at least it looks fancy, right?

But back to our mailing problem: we had a big package to mail: a cooler full of maps and AAA books, glass bottles and even a bag of cereal we never opened. Now what?  I figured out that if I give the bag of cereal to the other people sitting in the post office parking lot, blah blah blah and the cooler magically can come on the plane with me!

The people in the car were so happy for the Homey Bunches. On their way out they wished us safe travels.