Tag Archives: beautification

hairy situations

10 Jan

For some odd reason, I’m really bad about remembering to get my hair cut.

I don’t know why. I don’t dread going to the salon, and I’m not one of those people who would cry if a hairdresser said they’d like to chop off all my hair and give me a pixie cut. I’m not saying I’d let the hairdresser do it, because I’m not one who could pull off a pixie cut, but if it were a life-or-death situation, I’d be all, whatever, it’s just hair. Truth be told, I actually really enjoy going to the salon, because having someone else wash your hair just feels so….luxurious. And then there’s the running of fingers through your hair and there’s the blowing out of the hair and it’s all soft and shiny and lovely and it won’t ever look that way again until you go BACK to the salon, because I don’t know about you but I am For Shit when it comes to doing my own hair.

So yes, I actually really like getting my hair cut.

I can just never seem to do it on a regular basis. I’m not one of those gals who schedules her next appointment before she leaves her current one (though I’ve made it a New Year’s Goal to BE just such a gal, in delusional hopes that maybe this will make my at-home hair care easier somehow? Like maybe with more visits to the salon I will be better able to pick up techniques on how to properly wield a hairdryer? I have hopes. They’re not high, but they’re hopes.). I’ve gone, LITtrally, seven or eight months between hair cuts. Like I said, it’s not that I don’t like getting my hair cut I just…forget.

So when the urge hit me a few weeks back to get my hair cut, and I realized I hadn’t had it cut in about five months, I jumped on it. I called a salon around the corner from my office and went in on my lunch hour.

It was, of course, a day brimming with Things To Do and Things That Are Due, which, I don’t know about you, but THOSE always seem to be the days when I decide that Yes! Sure! I’ll add more to my day! No problem-o!, like get my hair cut on my lunch hour. Instead of saving the haircut for the next day, when all the Things To Do and Things That Are Due would be Done. But no. Pile it on.

So to kill two birds with one stone, I headed into the salon gripping a thick pack of pages that needed to be scoured with my trained copyediting eyes, which would prove to be a genius move on my part.

Yes, I like going to the salon. Yes, I like people fiddling with my hair.

But you know what? It’s nothing personal, but I really don’t want to talk to hairdressers.

Would that I could simply answer their perfunctory questions on how I’d like my hair cut (Yes, layers around my face are good. No, giving me a buzz cut and dying it blonde are bad), and then peace out for the rest of the salon session. Would that I could tell the hairdresser, “Pretend I’m not here! Pretend I’m just a head of hair, nothing else, like those Barbie beauty salon toys I had when I was little, that was an almost life-sized Barbie head with blonde hair that ended at her shoulders, and in fact, that’s where her body ended, too!”

But hairdressers, being practiced in the art of customer service, often like to chit-chat and make small talk while they trim and layer and the like.

Actually, I should say they seem to like to chit-chat. For all I know they DON’T actually like to chit-chat, and wish they could just not talk during our appointments as well. For all I know, if I were to say to them, “Hey, let’s make like Gwen Stefani and Don’t Speak for the next hour,” they’d be thrilled to find a kindered, silent spirit.

So there I am, cape around my shoulders, hair wet and combed out, in that kind of glorious high you get from someone massaging your scalp for five minutes with lovely scented shampoos and deep conditioners. I was coming down off that high and starting to get the uncomfortable oh-dear-Christ-what-are-we-going-to-talk-about twinge in my stomach when I spotted my pack of proofreading.

I snatched it off the chair next to me and asked politely, “I’m sorry, we’ve been so busy lately I brought some of it with me. Do you mind if I do some editing while you work?”

“No, of course not!” the hairdresser replied cheerily.

“Just tell me when I need to move my head,” I said emphatically. “Tilt me wherever you need.

She nodded and got to work. I grabbed my pen and got to work as well.

I’ve tried similar techniques before, bringing a book with me, but it’s never worked as well as this. Usually with a book the hairdresser wants to know what I’m reading, and then tell me what he or she likes to read, which launches a book discussion that I don’t really want to have right then, and defeats the entire purpose of me bringing a book with me in the first place.

But this time, throughout the combing, the snipping, the brushing, the drying, she worked and I worked on our own separate projects, neither of us exchanging a single word.

It was magical.

It was the best salon experience of my life.

I could have kissed my hairdresser for being so awesome. And silent.

(But that would have been awkward.)

Before I left, I did remember to schedule my next hair appointment for three months down the road. (I can be one of those gals!)

But not before checking my deadlines, to see when my next set of copyediting was due.


the anti-tree hugger *shakes fist*

22 Jun

Remember a few months back, on my Magical Michigan Mystery Tour, when I was battling my lip gloss for the rights over the good and evil of my upper lip? And remember how I said that it was getting better, but I was bummed because I couldn’t really wear lip gloss anymore?


It didn’t really get better.

It kind of/sort of/almost got better completely, but even at its best there was still a faint redness above my upper lip. At its worst it was red and garish and unsightly, peeling and chapped-looking and simply just bothersome because I’m incredibly vain and LO! HOW I MISS LIPGLOSS, THE PERFECT PIECE DE RESISTANCE TO MY MAKEUP ROUTINE.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. This whole thing just gets me very worked up.

Over the following months after I wrote that blog post, I visited the dermatologist approximately 17.659 times to try and figure out what the shit was wrong with my upper lip. The rest of my skin? Fine. Nothing to worry about. But above my upper lip? Mayhem.

We tried multiple creams, a course of antibiotics, avoidance of all things lip-cosmetic related, save for Aquaphor, which seems to be the only thing that doesn’t make my upper lip go totally bizonkers. And while I made a fine new friend in one of the nurses through my visits to the dermatologist’s office *hi, Sue!*, the rest of the visits, creams, et al did fucking nothing.

After scratching their heads awhile, the staff in the derm’s office were all, “Ermm…maybe you should see an allergist?”

So I went to see an allergist.

And guess what?

It turns out I’m allergic to EVERYTHING!

If you’ve ever been allergy tested, then none of what I’m about to say will shock or surprise you, but rather might just make you feel a little uncomfortable at the memory. If you’ve never been allergy tested….WELL.

Hope you like being covered in magic marker.

And feeling really itchy and not be able to do anything about it.

As I sat in a very small, thinly walled exam room, I watched as very nice nurse made marks on my forearm with a purple marker. This isn’t so bad, I thought to myself, even while eyeing the cases of blue pricky-looking things sitting next to her. When she went for the blue pricky-looking things and started poking them in my arm, that wasn’t so bad either.

The bitch of it all came in a delayed response. One line of blue pricky things down the length of the arm, and as the nurse started the next row, the first row started heating up and itching like mad.

“Don’t scratch it,” the nurse warned. “Don’t touch it.”

Was that when I started whimpering like a puppy with a small bladder weighing the consequences of getting hit on the nose with a newspaper? Entirely possible. Because of course as soon as she said that I wanted nothing more than to scratch the ever-living shit out of my arm, which was getting worse by the second, now that she’d completed the eleventeen rows of pinpricks with different allergens just underneath my skin.

So not touching that for 20 minutes, and instead flailing and flopping it around in the air because for some reason that seemed to help, while I watched my arm go read and bumpy was AWESOME. Is a good party trick, I’ll have to show you sometime.

When the nurse came back and started measuring the bumps that reacted to the pinpricks, the doctor joined her. They both stared at my arm for a moment before staring at me with confused looks on their faces as if to say, “How the shit are you still standing up, and how has your head/eyes/skin not exploded because you are allergic to just about every goddamned thing we pricked you with except mold. Which is good because have you looked in the crisper drawer of your refrigerator lately? We have. Your landlord called. You’re totally going to lose your deposit if you ever move out because they need to replace the fridge, it’s growing a new breed of Lilliputians.”

And then she wrote me a prescription for Allegra.

And then the real real bitch of it all began.

Because have you ever been patch-tested? No? Oh, well let me tell you how it goes: they make up 80 patches and stick them on your back. And then they use a football field worth of medical tape to cover the patches so they don’t come off, because the patches need to stay on for 48 hours.

And you’re not allowed to get that area wet, re: no showering.

And it’s June.

Have I ever mentioned that I live in a swamp?

“And try not to sweat, either,” the kind nurse told me.

“Um, okay,” I replied. Clearly she did not understand the magnitude of her request. This is me we are talking about, people. I raise my arm to scratch my ear and I break out in a sweat.

And it’s DC. In June. It bears mentioning again.

And so began another two days, until I went back on Wednesday. At which point: Hi!-YOOOOO! Break out the purple magic markers again, everyone! As the patches came off, the nurse drew purple boxes over my pale, freckled back where they had been, complete with corresponding numbers. On Friday, after the elements that had been on the patches had had a full 96 hours to seethe and incubate and fester and possibly cause a reaction to my skin, the doctor would be able to tell me what the fuck caused all this nonsense above my upper lip in the first place.

On Friday, the day of the big reveal, having spent five days sponge-bathing and trying not to sweat my purple boxes onto any of my clothes too badly, the cause of my random reaction on my upper lip was discovered.

Balsam of Peru.


But it’s not definite.

Said the doctor.

But that’s the only patch that my skin slightly reacted with. Kind of.

Everything else was fine.



ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? is what I know you are probably thinking. I know I was. Am.

No, Interwebers, I kid you not.

So essentially, we’re back to the drawing board, though I am now back at said drawing board armed with a thick list of “safe products,” which I will be scouring on my next trip to CVS. I’M NOT GOING DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT YOU….TREE.


Meanwhile, don’t be alarmed if you see a tall, freckle-faced sweaty mess walking the streets of DC with her hand over her mouth, probably tripping over random bits of nothing because walking with her hand over her mouth tends to throw off her sense of sight, which is wonky, at best, to begin with, but whatever because oh my Christ have you seen what’s going on above my upper lip?

I don’t want to talk about it.

I’ll let you know how next month’s follow up with the allergist goes.


2 Nov

Inspired by my friend JMac’s recent cleaning and organizational frenzy, I took it upon myself to neaten up my own apartment. Cleaning products were sprayed and swiped, magazines were corralled, shelves were even dusted.

I know.

I can hardly believe it myself.

I hate dusting.

Truth be told, I only really dusted two things – one set of shelves and my wine bar. The other set of shelves still bears my full name written in curlicue script in the filmy gray layer. Because I am so fancy.

The one area I can truly be proud of, however, is underneath my bathroom sink. Have you ever taken a look under there? Yeesh. You are probably much more organized and together than I will ever hope to be, so don’t be afraid when I show you the mess that lurked beneath:


It was amazing what I found in that cabinet: pens, random plastic bags, coin purses, an inordinate amount of feminine products. For serious? I think I’m set until menopause.

Thankfully, tackling all this meant a trip to World Market.

Ew! Gross! No! Okay.

I just love that store. I could spend hours and hours there and oodles and oodles of money. And lo! They have baskets. Fun baskets, in a host of shapes and sizes and patterns and wouldn’t you know? They are perfect for corralling the clutter and feminine products that threaten to overtake my bathroom.


I love you, World Market. And I love you, too, seemingly abnormal amounts of soap. (Why do I have so much soap? I am only one person.)

lip gloss: evil beauty product or innocent bystander that got caught in the crossfire of me vs. the weather?

19 Oct

I’ve been fighting a random onset of Very Chapped Upper Lip for the past two weeks. I have no idea how this happened. I just woke up one morning and part of my upper lip was chapped. The next day the chapping spread, and the day after that and the day after that it was just chapped and cracked and unpleasant and dry and I was starting to look like I’d been snowboarding in the Antarctica for weeks on end, but trust me, I’ve never done anything as cool as that. It seemed to be aggravated by wearing lip gloss, so after Mare’s wedding a couple weeks ago, I went lip gloss-free for the rest of Baby Watch! 2009! week. Which isn’t very hard to do when your daily activities consist of going to Target, then coming home and taking a nap. Or going to get your nails done, and then coming home to take a nap. Or having lunch with your sister, then coming home and taking a nap. I’m sensing a theme here.

ANYWAY, just as my upper lip was on the brink of starting to return to normal, I went to Michigan. So what I’m about to tell you is ALL THE STATE OF MICHIGAN’S FAULT.

Actually, that’s not true. Michigan had nothing to do with this, except not really helping matters by being pretty cold, yet very lovely and bright and tempting on Saturday morning, so much so that Smell and I laced up our gym shoes and went for a run along the sparkling Bay. Coldness and chapped lips: It Ain’t So Good.

This was, of course, the Saturday morning that followed the Friday night of the rehearsal dinner where I *gasp* made the mistake of wearing lip gloss.


So when I woke up Saturday morning after my lip gloss-wearing Friday Night Frenzy, WOW. Hello. Good morning. OW. Apparently, applying the lip gloss to the upper lip really pissed off the upper lip and it was swollen and red and hurty and the horror, the horror.

As any 30-year-old woman who is sharing a hotel room with three of her college gal pals would do, I whined about my predicament to the one mom among us, mewling at her that it hurt. OW! I mean, it hurts! Mwwreehhh! Help! She simply said to put ice on it and we’d get something topical at the Walgreen’s later and I should take an ibuprofen for now and I should also seriously consider the quitting of whining because no, I was not dying, and no, I was not going to need a lipectomy, and for God’s sake, Molly, it does not look that bad. My friend Smell is in pharm school right now and while she was not the one to suggest taking an ibuprofen to relieve any pain, she was the one who doled out the ibuprofen, so I have to give her some credit for her help in this tragical situation.

Needless to say the only thing that went on my lips as we headed out the door for the wedding was a lip salve and some Benadryl topical cream (in case it wasn’t just severely chapped lips but rather some sort of allergic reaction) that burned like a motherfucker when applied.

I threw out the lip gloss. I was just so angry at it.

Now, a week-ish later, things seem to be finally getting back to normal. I did some reconnaissance on the Interwebs about chapped lips and one site suggested that if the lip was so cracked and bleeding or raw, to put Neosporin on it, and Burt’s Bees balm was also highly suggested. Thankfully, I have both, and have since engaged in controlled and systematic routine of applying one or both at various points of the day. I have high hopes that my upper lip will be completely back to normal within the next few days.

Once it’s completely healed, I might give a new lip gloss a try.


Or maybe it’s time to switch to lipstick.

may create heart palpitations; will not create heaving bosoms

22 Jul


The other day my friend JMac came over for dinner and was all, “I keep forgetting to give this to you, it’s been sitting in my apartment for weeks!” And when she handed over this bottle of lotion I fainted. And then when I came to I punched her for holding out on me.

If you’ve ever tried this lotion you would have punched her too. It’s that perfect blend of thick and creamy without being slick and greasy.  And you know how in Harlequin romance novels the heroine’s skin is always described as “soft and creamy”? Apparently all the heroines in Harlequin have been using this lotion, because that’s exactly what you get as the end result. It will not however, give you Fabio.


7 May

In February, I spent my day off to celebrate Our Nation’s Presidents by taking every item out of my closet, separating the items into piles, meticulously going through the piles, pulling out items I hadn’t worn since before I moved to Washington over three years ago, putting them in a pile to donate. I reorganized what was left, and carefully put them back in my closet, grouped together by pants, skirts, long sleeves, short sleeves, or whatever category they belonged in. The main result was a gloriously organized closet that I often stared at in wonder in my free moments.

The secondary result was an incredibly pared down wardrobe, which was just fine until I had to go to Houston, the land of Heat and Hot,  last week and realized that I now had only four tops that were appropriate to wear for work in warm weather.

Which means the tertiary result was me spending an afternoon last week wandering around the Queenstown outlets replenishing my spring/summer wardrobe.

I conveniently picked a day that promised coupons for shoppers, and was overjoyed to find out that in addition to the coupons, the stores I shopped were having enormous sales. This was exactly what outlet shopping was supposed to be. (Except for the JCrew outlet, which was incredibly overpriced, just like its regular store.)

Laden down with bags stuffed with short sleeved shirts, summer dresses, a pair of shoes, and the like, I made my way back to my car, confident in my purchases, satisfied that I would not have to go nude to work, and happy to discover that once again I was right, and the best time to go shopping is on a random Thursday afternoon because no one else is there and the stores are fully stocked in time for their weekend rush. And then I walked by a store called “Accents.”

Accents, it seems, is an all accessories, all the time, store. Bracelets, earrings, necklaces, purses, scarves, belts, everything. It’s all there. It’s all displayed on long tables covered in velvet, propped up on racks and stands, grouped by colors, from wall to wall, glittery, sparkly, matte, bold, demure, all of it.

On a good day, I can piece together an outfit that makes sense, that is coordinated and decently ironed. In my dreams I can accessorize said outfit.

I don’t know what it is about accessories, but I find them overwhelming. I very much want to understand them and use them properly, but I can’t seem to get it. After awhile, they all start to look the same to me, even though the accessories that I do own I’m told are very lovely and original looking. (Except for this one silver bracelet that I and every single one of the McIntire sisters own. When we all wear them together we look like we are starting our own new brand of superheroesses.) So I’ve got that going for me, but for the life of me, I can’t remember how I managed to pick out even those accessories.

I stood in Accents and decided I’d start with rings. I’ve been big into rings lately, and by that I mean I’ve been thinking about being into rings lately, chunky, bold rings that make a statement. Except that Accents only had a tray and a half of rings, none of which were very exciting, so I wandered around the tables, peering at the necklaces, the matching bracelets. None of it was very expensive, it was all costume-type jewelry, but even so I didn’t want to spend money on something I wasn’t sure was good or that I really liked. It was just so hard to tell.

And part of me very much wanted some Accents, to go along with all the new clothes I’d just purchased, to make them, as Stacey or Clinton would say, POP. But Christ almighty my head was spinning by this point, the saleswomen were eyeing me suspiciously as I walked around and around and around in circles reaching out a hand here or there to touch something or pick it up for inspection only to put it down quickly when a bag would slip out of my hands. I’m certain they thought I was some sort of shoplifter trying to be inconspicuous and not shifty as I dawdled about, when truthfully I just couldn’t think straight. It probably didn’t help matters when I said distractedly, out loud, to no one in particular, “I have to go. I’ll come back. It’s just…it’s just too much right now. My brain is foggy,” before wobbling out the door. Either that, or they probably thought I was drunk.

Next time, maybe I will make that the first store I stop into, rather than the last. I’m not saying that will help in my accessorizing, but at least the saleswomen will not give me the stink eye, wondering if I’m going to five-finger-discount my way to the beginnings of a chic new outfit.

Speckles of Midnight Purple

29 Apr

Maybe you’re aware, but in case you’re not, we’re having a recession. A recession! What fun! It’s a party! I’ll bring the drinks! You bring the home hair coloring kit! They’re on sale at the CVS!

No longer do I have the luxury of calling up Justine the Magician and scheduling an appointment with her, plunking down $200 for some highlights and a 3-hour trip to the salon. Honestly, I never had that luxury to begin with; a trip to see Justine was always a “save-up” event, but I’d do it because I have gray hairs (Thanks, Mom!) that seem to be multiplying and while the silver looks great on my 63-year-old mother, it does not look so great on 30-year-old Me.

But we’re in a recession, people! And I decided that 2009 is my year of personal fiscal responsibility! Pay off that credit card debt! Save more money! No more superfluous spending!

But do something about those grays!

So to the box I went.


It was early March and my friend Deb was in town for a few weeks. She was eager to get off the military base where she was staying, so I drove out to Virginia to pick her up. Before we left base, however, Deb informed we had to make two stops: Dunkin’ Donuts and the PX. Having never been on a military base before, and being fascinated by its weirdness, I simply said okay and steered the car down the road.

She bought me a hair dryer (mine had gone kaput a few weeks earlier), and a box of Natural Instincts, color: Cinnaberry. “It’s your birthday!” Deb said happily, waving my Visa card away. I rolled my eyes and protested, but it was futile. Plus, as she pointed out, no tax on base.

“Because it’s my birthday?” I asked.

“No,” Deb shrugged. “That’s just how it is on base.”

We wouldn’t open the box until later in the weekend, and as I stood in my bathroom squirting hair dye all over my head, trying not to get it on my forehead, in my ears, on my shirt, Deb sat on the toilet, directing. And while I wandered around my apartment trying not to drip deep purple dye on the hardwood floors, Deb sat on the couch knitting, keeping an eye on the time.

“The box says for stubborn grays you can leave it on a couple minutes longer,” I paced about Deb. “So I’m going to leave it on for 12 minutes instead of ten. Do you think that’s okay? 12 minutes instead of 10? Do you think that will work? Huh? Huh? Deb?”

“Yeah, Mol,” Deb replied calmly. “I’m sure that’s fine.”

“Okay.” I paced the three feet between my bathroom and living room. “And you’re watching the time, right?”

“Yup.” Knit, knit, purl, purl. “You still have seven minutes left.”


And of course it was fine. The color was….different. Not exactly what I expected, but then again, I didn’t know what to expect, because I hadn’t colored my hair since my last visit to Justine at the salon, almost six months before. There was certainly berry in the Cinnaberry. Deb proclaimed the hair coloring a success. I would agree with her two weeks later, when the color had settled in some, faded a little.

And then it came time to color again. Except that Deb is currently at another military base that is not even in this country, let alone a state away where I can go and pick her up to make sure I don’t screw up the dying of my own hair. You can do this, I told myself. There is no reason to be afraid. Women have been dying their hair on their own for years. Besides, it’s not like for the rest of your life you can go grab Deb every two months to talk you through the process and make sure you’re not missing any spots when applying the dye. So build yourself a bridge and get over it.

Which is how I found myself at 10 o’clock at night standing in my bathroom, rubber gloves snapped on, my hair in a damp, midnight purple pile on top of my head. I grabbed a hand mirror to check out the back, easing some of the thick dye into the baseline of hair, turned around and peered forward into my bathroom mirror and gingerly swiped away a purple mark at the top of my hairline.

And then I sat on the toilet for 13 minutes to let the color take. (13 minutes this time. Take that, you little gray bastards!) It was as if all the stars had aligned for this waiting period, as I’d just received the new Crate & Barrel catalogue in the mail. I sighed longingly at the lanterns and the patio furniture, thinking that while I may not have a patio on which to hang said lanterns and put said furniture, I would at least have shiny, newly-dyed hair. And that was something.

Except there’s that tricky part, and as the clock ticked toward that 13th minute, I admitted to myself that this was the part I really wished Deb was here for. Really, anyone was here for. If Jesus Christ Himself had walked in at that moment, I would not have hesitated in asking, “Um, hey, so d’you think you could help me rinse out my hair?”

For those of you who color your hair at home, this will come as no surprise: rinsing out your hair is a fucking mess. Especially if you have a showerhead that is not detachable from the wall. Your choices then become: A) Do a backbend into your tub to rinse out your hair, or 2) bend forward and flip your hair forward and rinse it out that way. Seeing as how I’m still sore from the yoga class I took two days ago, where the instructor, while instructing the rest of the class to go up into a backbend, took one look at me and said nicely, “How about we have you do something else?”, I went with the forward bend and flipping my hair in front of me. I tried to be gentle about the flip, but even so, I saw the flecks of purple flung to the far corners of the tub. I saw dots of it on my shampoo bottles.

As water flowed through my locks, the purple dye flowed with it, splashing about the white tub and swirling down the drain. (Because my tub is fex!) It was all fine and good for the first 30 seconds, until the water decided it didn’t want to flow so nicely and straight through my hair and down the drain, but rather wanted to take the scenic route down my face, across my forehead, through my eyes, into my ears, and, when it could get up enough effort, down the back of my neck. The first time I did this, I yelled, “DEBBIE!” and she handed me a towel. This second time, however, I groped blindly for anything resembling cloth and swiped at my eyes to clear them.

I needed to make sure I could see when the water ran clear, of course. How else would I know it was time to apply the deep conditioner?

It always seems to take eons for the water to run clear, but it does. Eventually. I tried to gently flip my hair back into normal position, a blob of deep conditioner in my glove-shod hands. I worked it into my hair, then sat on the edge of the tub for two minutes as directed.

There was purple dye everywhere. I have no idea how it got on the floor underneath the lip of the vanity, but it did. How it got on the outside of the bathroom door? Not a clue. But there were some dabbles of it. I took my washcloth and wiped away the purple smudges, thinking that if/when I move out of this apartment, if they even try and hoard my security deposit for any leftover purple stains, I will demand, then, that they give me back some of the rent I paid over the years, which I was able to give them because I didn’t go to the salon to get my hair done.

And then, again, it was time to rinse. Except that this time I had the brilliant idea that since this was just conditioner, and not hair dye that would splatter all over, I could do a modified backbend while sitting on the edge of my tub and rinse it out, thereby eliminating a second water-in-the-eyes adventure.

Which worked magnificently until I realized that it would have been a much better idea had I been topless.

The entire back of my Tshirt clung to my back as I muttered “fack” and tried to carefully twist my body around and flip my hair forward without shaking water everywhere like a spaniel emerging from a lake.

There are two pieces of good news to come out of this, the first of which is that my hair does look pretty good. The color is better this time, not quite as berry-y. And secondly, thanks to all the forward bending, I can now touch my toes.

But alas, I don’t think a white, pristine bathroom – like the one I saw in the Crate & Barrel catalogue – is ever going to be in my future. At all.


Nature or Nurture

24 Apr


One day I will sit on a therapist’s couch and pour out all of my problems and s/he will be amazed that they were all generated solely by me and my own odditites and I have no issues with my parents. Except for that fact that I totally blame my mother for giving me the genes that have caused not gray, but silver strands to start threading their way through my head of hair. Thanks, Mom, for giving me life! And colorless hair at a young age!