“Somethin’ ’bout platinum, irrefutably…”

Pre-holiday haircut and color: “What doesn’t kill you only makes you blonder…”  

That free wine they provide is half the reason I keep coming back to this salon. (Post-apartment move, it’s annoyingly far.)

The other half, as I texted a friend:

Me: “My hair salon is next door to that bar with the cheesy pretzels, so I think a to-go order after my appointment is a must, no?”

Friend: “Otherwise you’re just wasting your life, honestly.”

I can’t waste my life, you guys.

#DrunkyCheesyDestiny

(Upon reflection, I wish I’d asked Friend to join me at the bar. We could’ve taken my faboo hair for a test run, and she’d be a great wingman. Plus, I reiterate, cheesy pretzels.)

“Hide your crazy and start actin’ like a lady…”

I am obsessed with this song — it’s my new Sassy Strut/car singing/Pull Yourself Together song. In addition:

a) Miranda Lambert looks better unkempt than I do when I bring my capital-A game. I need more eye makeup, like, immediately.

b) I’m pretty sure I’ve HAD this conversation with my mother.

c) You can write it off because it’s country music, but it’s a bawdy, curvy, big-haired blonde sangin’ ’bout drankin’, and that there is some of my favorite comfort music. (For obvious reasons.) This song is the twangy, guitar-driven equivalent of “Conceal, don’t feel” — Miranda Lambert is basically Elsa, and you KNOW that movie would’ve been way better with whiskey and pills.

Residual effects of being raised by the Wakefield twins.

OK, look, I try my best to be all body-positive rah-rah. I’m working on it, and I do think I’m…cute. I do OK — I’m not hideous, I give enthusiastic blowjobs, and I don’t make my men watch The Notebook. So yay, me.

But sometimes… Goddammit, there’s a woman in my office I would make a weird Twilight Zoney pact to look like. She’s tall, but not TOO tall, and lithe and blonde and her hair is perfect and her nose is adorable. She’s a woman you’d watch The Notebook for, just so you can sit near her and bask in her beauty. In fact, maybe I just use that Notebook thing as a defense mechanism to compensate for my averageness. And oh, God, what if my blowjobs are enthusiastic but AWFUL?!

Ugh.

I know, I KNOW. I’ve already told myself that we’re all special lady snowflakes, blah blah blah. I understand my brain is not currently accepting logic — all those Sweet Valley books I read as a kid can still infiltrate occasionally. In the time it took me to type this, I kicked that gremlin in the face, put on some lipstick, and charged ahead like the fine-ass lady I am. Still not 100% on my blowjobs, but…men keep letting me do it, so I can’t be THAT bad at it.