that vision thang

I should know better than to do something completely for myself on the spur of the moment, without checking with the hubby. I was out at the doctor's. I didn't have the kids. It was fairly early. I needed to buy some articles of clothing- actually really did, not just wanted to look.  Sears was across the street. Look slyly one way, then the other. Coast is clear- shoot across the street and into the lot. Amazing that I could do that across four lanes of traffic on a very busy street. That alone should have made me suspicious. More suspicious should have been the one entrance shut down by ambulances, fire engines, and cop cars next to the big "We sell fireworks" sign and obvious smell of burning. But- no smoke, and the door's still open. There's even a cripple spot (I have cripple tags- its completely legal and appropriate for me to park there, if not for me to refer to them as "cripple spots") outside the door. Decision is made. Although Sears didn't have what I needed, I heard the clearance rack calling my name.

I refuse to buy anything at full price- and most things not even at sale price. I'm thrifty (okay, cheap.) I'm also hard on clothes, and it seems a waste to me to spend much money on something I'll probably stain the first time I wear it. So I shop clearance whenever I am wherever I go, picking up things I like very cheaply (I won't pay over $10 for anything), but might not need right then.  I found these two really cool (to me) Japanese style kimono blouses for six bucks each. One was purple and brown, the colors I love to wear, the other classic black and red. No, I don't need them. I just wanted them. I teach Asian Cultures and they'll be neat to in class wear. Insert your own self-justification for completely unnecessary purchases here. So I go to pay for them.

The line is long. It's not moving. My usual reaction to long lines is kind of embarrassing; I am the annoying one who keeps asking if there's anyone else who can open up, along with the repetitive angry noises. Now that I've been medicated with mood drugs for my Fibro, I can say I am way more laid back. I just stood in line, playing with my tongue piercing (a nervous/bored habit), and caught part of the conversation behind me. A pre-teen discussing streaking her hair blue with her mother. I am assuming, since the last part of the conversation I overheard was about  bathing suits, that my hair sparked the topic. I decide to share, in  wise older adult fashion, my  latest  horrible hair experience***. Needless to say, I point out that pink might not be a great idea, that it hardly ever turns out the way you think it will from the box (point to own hair emphatically) and maybe start with something non-permanent first.

I give my whole Kool-Aid-- as-- hair--dye speech. Eyeing my hair, the mother seems interested in this cheap temporary dye. Then it's my turn in line, after the cashier has heard the entire conversation. The girl takes my shirts, and I see her name tag pouch. God forbid any kid should ever actually put their name tag where you would expect it; instead, there's a prom picture there. With a background that is very familiar. And I had a horrible moment of realization. Holy frak, that's my school's prom. This year's prom.

She's a student.

Now, I often run into students that I teach/have taught. I live in a neighborhood where many of them live; one lived two doors down from me, two more across the street. Many, many times I would see them at the local malls. The most embarrassing time was when I got my nose pierced (the first time.) While I was waiting, in walks a student from my first year that I actually talked to throughout his four years. Musical Theater boy had driven me crazy as a student, but was always very nice. (Coincidentally, my cousin had taught him in elementary school, as well.) i went to a bunch of his plays to show him my support- even after I no longer taught him. He was there to get his nipples pierced, which he proudly showed me afterward (TMI/more than I ever need to see of any student, EVER.) So there have been worse cases of seeing students out of school. But-

Crap. I have a huge ring in my nose piercing, my hair is lavender, platinum, and pink, and I've just spent five minutes flashing my new purple (to match my hair) tongue barbell to the entire store while lecturing on the qualities and uses of various unnaturally colored hair dyes. See, I am the sole senior Social Studies teacher, so unless you are in special ed or learning support, I will teach you as a senior. Since I teach HR and in two departments, any particular senior may have me up to three times a day. What are the odds she's a senior?

Of course she recognizes me from the school. The moment comes, I see it- "Do you teach at...." and I have a moment to decide- lie, or just deal with it. My usual response comes out- Yes- because it is so much easier to just tell the truth and deal with it. The usual exchange- what grade? Of course she's going to be a senior this fall. Who did you have for homeroom this year? Of course it's a class- the ONE CLASS THE WHOLE DAMN YEAR that I had to cover- I had covered. Of course, its the homeroom that will likely be mine in the fall.

A student had now seen me with purple hair all decked out in piercings and tattoos. Well, there went some credibility.

God really enjoys my life, apparently, and making it difficult.

Teachers have to maintain a certain aura in order to keep control of classrooms. You must be tough- fair- professional. Otherwise students don't see you as an authority figure and run all over you like a door mat.

 I'm fairly certain that purple hair is going to interfere with my image.


*** In an effort to tone down the fuschia and brighten the failed Kool-Aid wash, I dyed my hair again. I chose a purple that ended up more lavender; the pink is still pink, but not nearly as bright. And platinum (part of the peroxide lightening that is in the dye) is everywhere. And there are roots, because you can't put that kind of dye directly on your scalp or you'll burn it. This summer seems destined for hair disaster, and my  father hasn't even seen it yet.