I woke up this morning, and I just knew it was going to be a bad hair day.
Call it intuition, call it instinct, call it the feeling that every single one of your hairs is sticking up on end. A quick cursory glance in the mirror confirms your initial hypothesis.
And so, there it was. The bad hair day. And thus the, phases.
Denial. Nah, it can't be a bad hair day. Splashed some water in my face. Rubbed my eyes. Looked in the mirror again. Yep, it's there, in all its voluminous glory. Not much I can deny, so I guess I have to move on...
Anger. Erghh... why is this happening to me? This is NOT fair. Of all the days of the week, Monday, to boot. I've got MEETINGS on Monday. Why did I wash my hair last night? Why did I have to deviate from the normal morning shower schedule? Blah, I hate Mondays...
Panic. Dunked my head in the sink. Slathered it with gel. Try as I might, this bad hair day wasn't going away easily. I finally settled for a "caked in gel" look, atleast I wasn't going to work looking like a certain cast member right out of a show of Disney's The Lion King.
Anxiety. So there I was, sitting on the subway, suffering in my own self-conciousness. Leaving the subway and walking the short distance through the shopping malls to work, I no longer cared. I fit in in, just another face in the working crowd, trekking my way to my cubicle. I passed a few co-workers, smiled, all was normal.
Re-denial. I don't have a bad hair day. Ahhh, I'm just worrying too much. Let's get on with work, and I'll be over before I know it.
My cubicle happens to be next to the printer, and the top chunk of each cubicle happens to be glass. One of my co-workers was on her daily printout fetch when they just so happened to glance over...
"Bad hair day?"
Acceptance. Yes. Yes indeed.