I went to check in at my hair salon on Facebook, and I had not previously been aware of the nearby options, but this sounds like the itinerary for an excellent day.
(The middle one is a Mexican restaurant.)
It’s been so long since I’ve had someone’s hand graze the back of my neck that I’d almost forgotten it’s one my most sensitive erogenous zones.
So praise be to lined bras, ‘cause my haircut/color could’ve just gotten hella awkward.
“Oh, honey. We know your hair is a goddamn disaster and you’ve had a tough week. Welcome to our salon. Here are some feelings to eat. Do you want some morning wine? We also have morning wine. We got you, girl.”
First OkCupid message from a photo-less man who, based on his username, is named Bobby. (Yep, grown-ass man. 43. “Bobby.”)
“So a little about me. I had to take my pics down bc a former student (I’m a teacher) started messaging me on here and it freaked me out. I’m taller than you (6’3) in good shape (190lbs) have a shaved head and big blue eyes.”
That’s the whole message.
Um… OK… Is there something there I’m supposed to respond to? Besides your lack of face? ‘Cause you could have THREE big blue eyes. Your head could be shaved because you’re in the Klan. Maybe “good shape” means you can run a 7-minute mile but your body is covered in boils.
It’d be like if I said, “I don’t have photos, but I’m shorter than you (5 feet), about 160 lbs, with pink-streaked blonde hair and green eyes.”
See how that doesn’t paint the clearest picture? Maybe my weight is all back-fat. Maybe I have no eyebrows, and/or a big hairy mole shaped like Bosnia on my chin.
Photos, people. I showed you mine, you show me yours.
BWAH HA HA… “Don’t talk about her hair when your shit looks like an ostrich has been sucking on your head for 20 mins. SHARRAP.”
Heat and Democrats notwithstanding, today’s a pretty excellent day to #VisitPhilly.
And to get a sweet-ass haircut.
Last night’s post-therapy text with friends:
Pop quiz: I’m getting my hair cut and colored tomorrow. At what age do we think dyeing it pink looks a little midlife-crisis-y?
A. Pink?! Who are you, late-’90s Gwen Stefani? That shit is passé. (And quite possibly also bananas.)
B. Your age (41). It becomes sad at your age.
C. Wow, your mother really fucked you up about age as a limitation, didn’t she?
D. I mean…it’s your call, but good luck getting that job you applied for.
E. Age doesn’t mean anything, do whatever you want.*
*By the way, this is what I’m doing. If I wake up tomorrow and feel like my hair should be pink, then pink it shall be. I was just curious about perceptions.
Without thinking, I just said “thank you” to a coworker who’d commented: “Wow, your hair’s getting really long.”
Erm…not a compliment. She didn’t say it looked GOOD, just that there’s a lot of it. She could’ve meant, like, “Ooh, girl, you got a li’l Kitaen about you. You should tend to that shit.”
If you’ve never had a day where you look in the mirror and think, “GodDAMN, I look good,” I highly recommend it.
Spring and summer clothes and weather really are my wheelhouse. I’ll also be buying more of this new makeup (aptly made by Tarte) and thanking the gods of hair for blessing my rolled-outta-bed coif today.
Sometimes a plan just comes together, and today it did, in the form of my unplanned FINE ass.
“Give it up, boys and girls. Admit it. I look GOOD!” (Don’t judge me, Bette is my jam.)
P.S. I went to therapy tonight, and one of the first things she said to me, unprompted, was, “You look wonderful!” So there you go, y’all — my cuteness is verified by a licensed professional. (My brain went full Cady-Heron-in-the-black-dress: “I KNOW, right?!”)
P.P.S. Tonight’s agenda: Therapy, takeout food, and Scandal. So basically a therapeutic three-fer.
Smug Singleton 