Am I ready to go "Iconic"?

I wrote this note to my hairdresser over a week ago, and am still carrying it around in my bag. I am such a big chicken about getting my hair cut. When I see an actress or model with cool cropped hair, I get short hair lust, obsess about it for a few weeks, then lose my nerve and continue life with my not short and chic, not long and sexy, pseudo-frizzy, have-to-pull-into-a-ponytail-by-mid-afternoon-because-it-looks-so-crappy do. I have had it short a few times, but I don't think the cut was quite right, and I felt I looked too hard and business-womany. I wasn't projecting the casual, friendly image I was hoping for.
In yesterday's Sunday Times Magazine supplement, there was an article on short hair titled Buzz Kill. Near the end it says,
Short hair can make a woman “too noticeable,” says Garren, who made his name in the 1980’s by endlessly transforming Evangelista’s crop. “It separates her from the rest and makes her more iconic.” I'm not thrilled with the idea of becoming more noticeable - I think being a 6 foot woman is enough thank you, but hmmm, I do like the word iconic...

Oh no, not again...

IF's topic this week is Match.
The number of times that David and I meet in the hallway on our way out, only to discover we have inadvertently dressed in matching outfits is getting a little out of hand. There's no mystery here. For whatever reason, the pallette of our wardrobes are almost identical. It makes me laugh, but I still insist one of us go back upstairs and change. There was a couple we were friends with in Ottawa that would often turn up at parties in matching tops and bottoms. Well ok, maybe it only happened once, but it made enough of an impression, that when David and I notice we are in matching outfits, I say "Oh look, we're Tim and Beth". There is just something about a couple in matching outfits that seems a little creepy to me.

Dog Camp

There was a time when there always seemed to be three dogs hanging around. Flapping in and out the dog door, tripping me up as I crossed the kitchen, racing around the backyard.
Karen moved to Vancouver taking Phinney with her.
Bobby died...
Beau died...
Today I look out my window, and once again, there are three dogs racing around the backyard. Jimmy, Carol's new dog Freddie (who doesn't actually race, but is a good supervisor) and Emma, who is staying a few days while her owners go to the beach.
Just when I was getting used to the peace and quiet...

Hot outside. Hot inside.

Next Wednesday is the 4th anniversary of the yoga studio I go to. I started going a few weeks after they opened, which means ... I've been practicing yoga for nearly four years. (And who would have thought David would become such a dedicated yogi?) Had Diane not dragged me kicking and screaming to my first Bikram Yoga class in Ottawa, I would never have voluntarily gone on my own. I hate heat. Not only is this hot, it is humid. My second least favourite condition. The studio has four ceiling fans, and on heat wave days like we have had these past few weeks, getting to class early in order to secure a spot under one of these fans, becomes of the upmost importance.
(My collage was inspired by the work of Claudine Hellmuth. Check out her webite here.)