Right After a Hair Appointment: I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! Why isn’t someone casting me in a shampoo commercial RIGHT THIS MINUTE? But… Maybe I should have tried something different? Nah. Stick with what works.
A Week After a Hair Appointment: Ah, OK, the layers are still settling. But it’s all going to be OK. This is why we have bobby pins, right?
Weeks Four Through Six After a Hair Appointment: Fuck this shit, man. I’m chopping it all off at the next appointment! And adding highlights! Off to Pinterest I go to find a whole new look.
The Three Days Leading Up to the Next Hair Appointment: Hot DAMN, I look positively glamorous! The curls are so soft. Why would I ever mess with this perfection? I’m just going to clean up the layers and refresh the color. Stick with what works.
My super-duper adorable bridesmaid dress arrived! Hooray! And no, I’m not being sarcastic when I rave about this dress. The bride chose a gorgeous plum color and we got to pick our own style, which pretty much means if I hate my dress, it’s my own damn fault. The shoes arrived this week, and I love them so much I’m pretty sure I’ll be wearing them to at least one of the other two weddings we have this Fall.
The dress straps are just a tiny bit too long, so I dragged my mom with me to have it taken up a little and get her opinion on having it hemmed. (A quick word about this tailor: She fucking terrifies me. I mean, she’s fine and, more importantly, does great work quickly , but she has this rather brusque manner to her and I always feel the need to tell her something idiotic like, “Whenever you feel like it!” when she asks when I need my items, and she seems even more exasperated than if I said “In the next 30 seconds” so then I throw out some random date out of sheer panic.) So I threw on my dress, new bra, and shoes and she gushed over how nice I looked and what a beautiful dress and although I was super-hot and sweaty, I felt really pretty.
“You want me put bra cups in here. To fill out Like if you wear bra.” She didn’t so much ask as tell me.
“Oh. Yeah. Well, I’m wearing a bra. Already. I just got it. This is just what I look like.”
“OK, we take in more.”
I think I have the title of my as-yet-to-be-written autobiography: This Is Just What I Look Like.
There is nothing like driving around on a sunny weekday, Asia’s “Heat of the Moment” blaring from the speakers to make you feel so alive. “Yes,” I told my 10 year-old self, “being an adult is the fucking raddest ever. You keep on wearing that headgear and stressing about getting your period or being asked to do drugs after school* because it all gets better from here.”
Of course, you will find yourself happily picking up your new bridesmaid dress on that very same day and holding back a crestfallen face when the salesgirl helpfully, cheerfully – and not unkindly – suggests a padded bra when you wear the dress on the big day.
WHICH YOU ALREADY ARE, but hey! You don’t have to borrow your dad’s credit card to do this, unlike senior year when they called him from Macy’s to authorize the purchase, so you still come out ahead, Kid.
*I blame 21 Jump Street for this particular phobia because DAMN. That show made it seem like high school was the deleted scenes from Scarface.
Last weekend my sister-in-law and I had a nice little bonding day of shopping for my father-in-law, who’s now home and recuperating from hip surgery. After running errands downtown and then hitting up Target on a Saturday afternoon we pushed on to my personal Everest: Costco.
We breezed through that joint as much as two people can on a busy Saturday and rewarded ourselves with a Pepsi (for me) and a soft-serve swirl (for her). My poor sister-in-law hurt her back/neck (seriously, what is with this family – we’re all a hot mess with broken bones, hip replacements, and fucked-up vertebrae) so I unloaded the cart while she started up the car and A/C and put my purse on my seat. Upon finishing, I reached for my Pepsi. WHICH WASN’T THERE.
“WHERE IS THE SODA?” I shouted.
“We didn’t get any. We were going to get that at Safeway.”
“NO! WHERE IS MY SODA? THE ONE I WAS DRINKING! WHO TOOK IT?” I demanded in a panicked tone normally reserved for actresses in a Lifetime movie about a missing child. Eyes wide with indignation, I swung around, looking for someone walking away with what had quickly gone from a little treat to my most prized possession. MY PRECIOUS.
“I put it in the car! It’s OK!” My sister-in-law responded, alarmed at the fact that I had almost overturned a shopping cart in a crowded parking lot. People were now looking at us.
“Oh, thanks! Heh, I thought someone took it. I’m…I’m OK now.”
I relayed this story to my mom. Her response?
“I thought you weren’t drinking soda anymore. It’s really bad for you, you know.”