My Stoopid Hair

This is a story about my stoopid hair.

Yes, I said "stoopid." That's so you can hear me say it as "stoooop-pid."

Somedays I just can't stand it my hair.  Dark thoughts of running clippers through my hair has entered my head too many times to count.

Once upon a time I was born with NO HAIR:

I stayed bald for a very long long time.

Then I had wispy thin fine blonde hair barely past my ears for a long long time. This is me at three years old. My daughter already had hair down to her bottom with at least 4 trims since she was born. I probably had no trimmed hair for a few years:

If my mom got lucky, she squeezed in a few of those tiny plastic purple curlers. I hated them so much because I had to sleep on them at night:

Then one day my hair darkened up and got a little bit thicker. I had my first perm in the 5th grade. It got permed every single year until my senior year. The picture below is from my big hair days in the 7th grade. The curly hair is from the perm, and my bangs were super straight. I used a hot curling iron on my bangs and tons of Aqua Net to get them standing as high as I could:

Then at age 17 I decided I wanted no more bangs and no more perms. I used hot rollers on my hair nearly every day to make soft waves. If I didn't, my hair was super straight on top, and slightly wavy underneath.

This is me at 19:

I kept using hot rollers on my hair if I wanted any kind of body or waves to my hair. I had soft wavy SMOOTH shiny hair, running my fingers through it kind of hair. This is me at 20:

Then got married.

Then I had kids. Beautiful hair days are OVER.

Then I had my CRAZY MOM DAYS hair. I got sick of my long blonde hair getting covered in spit up, throw up, and all manner of nasty ups you can think of. And I had no time to make my hair beautiful. So I chopped off my hair. And my husband mourned its death for months:

Thankfully I did grow it out, much to my husband's relief.

Then after my 4th pregnancy my hair got thicker, darker, and started getting curly out of the blue. I had no idea how I was going to control my crazy hair. Most days in the early 2000 years I kept it simple with a bit of cream gel and a shorter bob:

It's now 2011. I swear someone stole my hair and I am wearing a permanent wig. I have to keep it super short.  I don't know where all this increased super duper stoopid curls are coming from. It's driving ME INSANE! Every night I wash my hair with SLS free and organic products. I needed something to control the frizz and curls: I got the frizz down for the most part.

But I have to wet down my hair by sticking it briefly in the shower EVERY.SINGLE.MORNING.

If I don't wet my hair in the morning, it stays up and high like a curly lion's mane sticking every which way. Don't even think of coming near me with a brush. No woman wants to walk around with a dark blonde afro.

Then I have to use about 2 TBS of castor oil hair cream every day to keep my curls together, relaxed somewhat to my head and defined. Or else I have crazy big hair sticking up in all directions.

So here it is, such stoopid STOOPID hair before wetting it:

So very stoopid and I hate it most days:

It's a major rat nest sometimes:

I can pull off the swanky preppy 80's male model look, but no woman wants to look like that:

Big Hair Days are SO over, it's never coming back. Except for me unfortunately:

I think I am related to Cousin It. I think he stole my soft long blonde locks and gave me his crazy curly hair:

Hair. It's like dead skin, right? I should just get rid of it.

Or get a wig.

Or steal yours.

Hmm..I should like a certain shiny redhead's hair that I see at church from time to time. I am stealing hers.

Heather: How I Learned to Read Before I Could Talk

It took me 13 years before my teeth, tongue, and throat could work together and speak in intelligent words and sentences in a consistent manner. This was especially true if any emotion was involved, and my words got mixed up in mumbled flurries of frustration. It led to constant belittling and teasing by my peers. In a world where "normal and everything in working order" is where you fit in, I often turned towards books as my friends.

The first book I learned to read was Walt Disney's Cinderella in 1978. I was four years old. I taught myself. I was barely saying a few words, and could only lipread a few words. Reading books is the only place that made sense to me. The best way I can describe how I was able to do this is that one sense was missing, so my other four senses took over and got stronger.

My favorite book to read over and over every single day was The Rand McNally Book of Favorite Animal Stories. I got it for Christmas in 1980 when I was 6 years old in 1st grade attending a deaf class in Provo. I already learned how to read before going to kindergarten, but it was mostly from the same Cinderella book as there was only a few books on the shelf at the time. Sometimes I would leaf through encyclopedias that my mom had just to look at the words.  I learned a lot about words, vocabulary, sentence formation, and how people would speak to one another through this RMB Animal Stories book. I remember that reading wasn't promoted in my deaf class, we didn't have story time, or reading time, or even reading groups. They were too busy helping us learn to talk and work in a classroom environment, and learn to follow the instructions or rather the ineffectively shouted commands from the teachers. There was no sign language available as Utah promoted "speaking and lipreading only for the deaf" kind of environment back in the 70's and 80's.

A couple years ago when I was visiting family in Utah in 2009, I was poking around my Dad's garage. There was a shelf filled with old books, Bell jars and even a briefcase I recognized from the 1970's. The more I poked around, the more I thought about the book I got in 1980 when I was 6 years old. I got excited and hoped I would be able to find that book. To my surprise, I did find it under several old books covered with dust and cobwebs:

The book was missing its red front and back cover and half the book was torn away. I lovingly went through each dog eared page and remembered all the lovely stories with the beautiful and colorful drawings. My favorite story was the Mailman From Bayberry Lane. I brought it home with me and showed it to my kids and talked about my experiences from this book.

Fast forward 2 years later and I found the original book in near mint condition at Goodwill! I was SO excited and snatched it right up. Now I was able to read all the stories about the animals that were my friends when I was so little in such a confusing world:

My children are already too old for this book. I plan to read it to my grandchildren. Every now and then I take out this book just to look at the lovely drawing of my animal friends and read a story or two. Every single story in this book had a wonderful moral and I remember as a kid trying to apply it often to my own life. In fact I can still draw life long lessons from these stories. The good news is that I can speak pretty well now and it won't be such a burden to talk aloud about these amazing animals in these wonderful stories.

Here is a 1980 Christmas picture of me with my favorite book:

Here is me at age 2 looking at the children's encyclopedias from the shelf of books at left of the picture, I would sit and read on my kitchen bumper seat all the time: 

Here is me at age 3 taking a nap with my favorite blanket after looking at the Mr Men books by Richard Hargreaves: 

What was your favorite story as a child?

Heather Says: It was an Assident.

Recently I was told by my husband that I have been pronouncing the word "accident" incorrectly.

I swear it was an assident. I mean accident. I had no idea.

All these years I have been pronouncing accident as "ass-sid-dent" instead of AK-cid-dent."

So peeps: when I mispronounce something, TELL ME SO!

Don't let me babble on like an idiot.

We all know what assume really means. Meaning you made an "idiot" out of you and me.

Don't assume that I know how to say some word if I am repeatedly saying it wrong. Don't assume that someone else will tell me and help correct me, because they most likely won't because they are afraid to assidently hurt my feelings. I mean accidently.

I may be a real good "talker" for a deaf person, but dang it, I still make assidents. I mean accidents.

The letter K in the middle of most words is usually prounced from the back of the throat with some tongue pressure. It's something I can't "see" while lip reading and definitely don't always hear. Therefore I don't get that reminder on how to really say a word.

The only exception is the silent K such as know, knew, and knee.

My hubs had to ASL sign the word "accident" out phoenetically in segments until I got it right but pronouncing it over and over. I kept assidently saying assident a few more times until my kids fell in a heap of giggles on the rug. (I mean accident)

I don't know how hubs missed this word over the years, but I can say he was too busy helping me with my other mispronounced words. There was this one word I was saying that sounded too close to the F bomb, so I think that word took priority over assident. I mean accident.

Well, that's the most swearing I have ever done in a post. I need to look for a bar of soap for my mouth, but my kid probably stuffed through the shower drain trap tonight and will tell me that it was an assident to avoid getting in trouble. I mean accident.

Hey! This could be a potty talk post! There was this one time back in high school when I used to say com-poo-ter instead of com-pute-ter....

Heather: How To Survive Baking Day

First of all: hopefully you have shopped by last night at least. If you are shopping today for Thanksgiving, I will take a moment of silence for you...

Step One: You are gonna have to borrow my book:

Thanksgiving and Pie Baking for DUMMIES!

Step Two: Put on some music:

Play Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" because many a kitchen day for Thanksgiving baking has had many women in melting puddles of tears.

We can do this! We shall survive!!

Crank up the music and sing in such a terrible voice with your wooden spoon. Light a candle to set an aromatherapy mood:

Step Three: Throw out your stuff on the counter. You WILL make a mess. And get over the fact that your bedhead curls are sticking straight up and you are still in your jammies with no bra. And yes, someone WILL come over to talk to you when you look like Godzilla with bad hair. Get over it.

Done! Not so bad. Nothing fancy. No stupid crimping and and idiot stuff like "details" or "swirls" or "sugar sprinkles":

Step Four: Only make ONE, 1, uno homemade pie. No need to make 20 different pies with 20 different fruits and creams complete with lattice strips. Make homemade banana bread instead, that's why it's called quick bread:

Keep an eye on your pie and stop stressing. Open the oven door and step into a break dance routine on your flour and cinnamon covered floor because you made homemade pie and it turned out fine:

Step Five: Make a couple of turnovers with leftover pie dough and fruit for a friend or two. Good way to sneak in a treat for the next VT visit:

Step Six: Throw away your turkey baster, Reynold plastic bag for turkeys, and your foil thingie to cook the turkey in.

Step Seven: Like I said before, hopefully you did your shopping last night. Tomorrow's Thanksgiving Menu is going to be (DRUMROLL):

A Hamburger Bar! Complete with fixings. Throw all the toppings on the counter and grill the meat and you are DONE before the "Eye of the Tiger" song is over. Throw in some tortilla chips, salsa, Oreos. Cover the couches upstairs with sheets and you will have a very happy family with food and football!

And that is how you survive Thanksgiving Baking Day!

On a side note, host a Pie Night at your house. I am anticipating at least 20 different homemade pies at my house tomorrow night and 35 people showing up. See? That's why you only need to make ONE pie!!


And now I have some time for sewing!

(music continued....)

Face to face, out in the kitchen heat 
Hangin' tough, stayin' hungry 
They stack the odds 'til we take to the kitchen 
For we bake with the skill to survive 


Risin' up, straight to the top 
Have the guts, got the glory 
Went the distance, now I'm not gonna stop 
Just a woman and her will to survive 

Well, am I?

I assure you that I in fact, am deaf.


I decided to do a little education and FYI post.


Some of you are too shy or afraid to ask me.


Some of you had no idea.


First of all: I was born deaf. At least I think I was.  I still remember being three and getting my hearing aids for the first time, and the ride home in my Dad's noisy light blue VW Bug scared the cripes out of me.


I didn't have any communication and language in place for a long time. I do remember that somehow I was able to read a persons lips when I was about 4 years old. But it wasn't perfect. It needed time. It took 13 years until I was able to read a person's lips well enough that they didn't know I was deaf. I learned to speak. That was tricky too. I spoke with an obvious deaf accent and wierd tones for years. Took me awhile to hone the speaking skills.


Lip reading is a tricky thing though. Just because I can read your lips when you are standing 12 inches or so away from you doesn't mean I can read your lips in a group full of people. Lip reading in a group of people is like paying attention to the game of hiding a penny under a cup and watching a bunch of cups swish around, then find the penny again. By then, I have completely lost track of what the conversation is all about.


Lip reading: I can't do that with everyone. If you have an accent and move your mouth different because you are from another country, forget it. Have a bushy mustache, ah man, I would hope and pray that my male teachers in school and college didn't have a mustache. If you are missing teeth, or have misshapen teeth, it gets hard too. The more I lipread a person, the easier it gets. That's why I like to keep the same people around me in my environment, such as the same VT person.


At church or some other classroom setting. You know those Charlie Brown cartoons, where the teacher is talking, and all you hear is a mwah mwah mwah? That is what it is like for me in a classoom or group setting. Unless I have an interpreter, its hard for me to follow. It's nice when someone gives me notes, but its not the same when I can't follow the feedback that others are giving around the classroom, or that I can't cry and laugh with the rest of them. I pretty much just put on a pleasant smile and wait for class to be over. I don't really get too much out of a classroom setting without an interpreter.


How much can I hear?


Well that's a long story. My mom said I seemed to hear more when I was real little. First of all, I HAVE to wear a hearing aid to hear any sounds at all. I can hear talking voices. I can hear music. I can hear the airplanes overhead. I SOMETIMES can hear the sirens, but only if I am outside the car if I am driving, or the windows are down. Now fast forward to 2007 when I got a digital hearing aid. Oh boy, that was great. I could hear my kids talking in the next room. I could hear the doorbell. I could finally hear my husbands cellphone ringtone. But it is still a matter of distance. I certainly do not hear a cellphone in the next room or a large room. BUT I do NOT get the words people were saying in the next room. I still need to lipread. Let me CLARIFY that all I am hearing are tones. My hearing aid does not make me a hearing person. You sound robot-like and tinny when I hear you talking. Hearing aids are not like glasses. I can't put them on, and be all like, ta-da, 100 percent hearing again like everyone else.


In a large hall full of talking people, I can hear all the noises at once. But I can't differentiate it. I still use my eyes to separate the noise. If you walk right up and start talking to me behind my back, you are in fact just part of one large noise to me. You still have to get my attention by tapping me on the shoulder.


Is louder noise for me better??


Hmm, that is a big fat no. This is why the COMTEK thingie I would wear on my ears, and this other thingie would hang on my neck that I would wear in the 6th grade was completely useless. It made the teacher's voice louder, but I didn't lipread or understand any better. Speaking louder in my ears: useless. Back off unless you want me to slug you. I would turn up the radio a little bit more, and the TV a little bit more, but not too much.


Why don't speech sounds I hear become intelligible?


Answer: I have nerve deafness. The sound we hear travels along our ears through cilia, tiny hairs inside our ears. Cilia is on the nerves. The nerves travel the sound to the brain, and the brain computes the sounds into speech forms that people can hear and comprehend. The sounds I hear reach my cilia in my ears, and pretty much stop there. So therefore I use my eyes to fill in the rest of the gaps, until it reaches my brain, then I comprehend. (lip reading, ASL, interpreting, subtitles, captions etc)


There are tons of different deafness types.


Every deaf person has their own unique experience on learning to survive in a hearing world. There is no one else like me. I don't belong to any "classified/labeled" group. There is an entire novel on this.


What was it like growing up deaf?


It was tough. I hated school and socializing alot. I did not like leaving my house into the real world.  I learned alot about the real and savage world at a young age. I'm not going to lie, I did suffer some pretty bad abuses in every way imaginable most days. That's all I have to say about that.


How to Get my Attention: 

1. Tap my elbow or shoulder. 
2. Slow down. Enunciate. 
3. Don't overly enunciate to me so slowly like I am some retard. 
4. Don't be nervous. It's difficult to "read nervous talk." I promise I will not bite.
5. Speak directly to me
6. It's okay to write something on a piece of paper. 
7. Text me. Even if it is right in front of me because I am not getting a word or two that is important to the whole conversation.

No-no's on talking to me:

1. Don't start talking to my husband in my behalf, especially when I am standing right there! (can you tell your wife.....)
2. Don't assume I understood the first time. It's okay to say, "you got all that?"
3. Don't assume that when I am standing in a group, talking and laughing, that I GOT everything in the conversation.

Attitude, willpower, determination and survivor.


It's everything to why I can do the things I can do:


People told me I will not read. I taught myself to read at 5.


People told me I will suffer and do poorly in school, and never graduated. Granted I DID get Cs and Ds in elementary, but then I graduated with As and Bs in high school, without the priviledge of ASL and interpreters.


People told me I would never go to college.  I went to four years at college. Two at BYU, and two at UVSC. Most of the grades were pretty good. The only bad grades were because I hated the class and skipped it, like Philosophy. I always got As in my English classes. Yep, I can read, and write, and comprehend what I am reading.


People told me I would never be married and be a mom. I've been happily married for 15 years with 4 kids.


People worried that when I had my babies, it was like "oh, those poor poor babies!" Believe me, I woke up every hour checking on my babies all the time at night because I knew I wouldn't hear them cry. I had to triple my mom dedication. I would feel their chests to make sure they were breathing. And my babies learned fast. For example, they learned to bang the crib against the wall when they were ready to get out instead of screaming their lungs out. (I can feel vibrations, and I am more sensitive to it)


People told me I would have a sad and boring life. Hmm, well. I read, paint, sew, photography, do crafts and scrapbooking, teach classes at church, have friends and a social life, and get involved in my community and church. I'm a happily busy mom, wife, friend, and sister.


You tell me I can't do something: Just wait and I will learn to do it better than most.


Not only I am Mrs. Can,  I am also Mrs. Will.


All right now. Any questions?


The only stupid question is the one you didn't ask.

P is for Pearl

Today my son found a wood lid stuck behind the dresser.

It has fancy scrolled letter P on it.

I was missing that lid for a really long time. I really wanted that lid back!

This old varnished cracked lid with a "P" on it is my jewelry box lid. I am guessing that my jewelry box is about 30 years old.

My mother gave me this wood jewelry box to me when I was 12 years old. It used to be her Aunt Pearl's. I didn't really know Aunt Pearl. She was my great Grandpa Busby's companion. I remember the cool 70's beads in their kitchen. That's all I remember about Pearl and Grandpa Busby.

But getting that jewelry box was the coolest thing ever. I used to share a small bedroom with 4 other kids. A brother in the crib. A sister in a mattress pulled out from under the crib. A sister on the bottom bunk. And me on the top bunk with my "secret stuff" stashed under the mattress. Lots and lots of "babyish" stuff and Barbies in my room, ugh!

I didn't have any the latest teen stuff at the time. Just a few Kirk Cameron posters on the wall, and my very non-babyish jewelry box with the letter P on my dresser.

Yep, I was real proud of my jewelry box with a letter P. I polished it once a month with my Mom's lemon polish.

I smacked my siblings hands if they dared touched my jewelry box.

A year later I was looking at the letter P thinking that it was too bad that it was not a letter M.

A year later I was really wishing I had a reason to have a letter P! No cool nicknames for me that started with a letter P. And "pumpkin" from my Dad as a little girl does not count.

A year after that I thought to myself, "I really really want my last name to start with a letter P."

A year after that I thought to myself, "I am pretty sure that I will have the last name with a letter P"

A year after that, I went to Lake Powell for the first time. And I LOVED it. I loved that name of the lake so much. Lake Powell sounds so cool. It IS so cool and beautiful.

Almost 3 years later I was standing by a large bonfire introducing myself in sign language as a one of the counselors at a summer camp for deaf kids. "Hello, my name H-E-A-T-H-E-R M-C-N-E-I-L"

Soon afterwards there was a hand towards my right shoulder. I could only see the hand. I thought it was a very nice looking hand. And I saw the name being spelled "R-Y-A-N P-O-W-E-L-L"

Well two weeks later, and the rest is history.

Now I have a good reason to have an old varnished cracked wood lid with a fancy scrolled letter P on it.

And I am still proud of it.

I smack my kids hands if they dare to touch it.

And to this day I still introduce myself as "My name is Heather Powell, Powell as in Lake Powell"

(otherwise they write my last name down as Powers)

PS My husband is quite possibly related to John Powell, founder of Lake Powell.

Thanks son for finding my  jewelry box lid!

And P is now for Powell. (Sorry Aunt Pearl!)