Politics of Shearing: Got my hair cut this weekend. A very sudden, out-of-the-blue happening as I ended up subbing in for Husband, who after making the appointment, decided he was loving up on his samurai ponytail too much to hack it off. With no idea of what to do, other than have dead parts taken off, I put my faith & trust in our hairdresser. She’s very cool, thus very intimidating, and was rocking a gorgeous, fun, short summer do, so I now hate her. First off, I had to launch into a long winded, extensive explanation of why I hadn’t been in for so long. The main reason being, that in times of financial turmoil, I will wear a wig made out of pubic hair rather than waste money on a haircut. I will let my seventy three grey hairs wave hello and hand out business cards to strangers on the street if it means I don’t have to pay money for a dye job. I have turned into a Scrooge-like penny pincher, hording my pennies in the basement, slowly rubbing them together till the faces rub off.
This haircut was justified because it wasn’t mine; it was Nuv’s. So I sit in the chair, looking like the ugliest garbage pile found in a Chilean dump (I seriously don’t think I ever look worse than when I am in the hairstylist chair. I could go through a year of hard labor giving birth to a small elephant, and then fight a UFC dude, and I would still look better then when I’m freshly washed & ready to be snipped) Grody. 

A sprinkling of moles held together by skin: I am a vigilante Nazi about sunscreen, to the point where co-workers fear to come to work if they exhibit any sun pinkened flesh. In my humble opinion, there is NO reason why anybody should let Mr. Sun get the best of them.
And then there was Sunday.
I wore a totally deceptive shirt, that due to criss-cross back straps, left innocent triangles of my upper back flesh exposed and I totally missed those hard to reach places whilst doing my SPF 900 dousing. So a lovely stroll along the Sea Wall is now solely remembered by the not unlike a gunshot wound sensation crossed with mild electric charges all along my upper back. It aches like nothing I can describe and it’s not even that brutal. It has been a while since I last annihilated my yogurty self, but I remember how it felt, and it never felt like this.
Man, I have YET to discover a good thing about being old.

Hip-ocritical: Things that I judge others on, but do myself: Let my roots grow in so I look like Two Tone Trash. Let my nail polish chip. SO GROSS. (If I went to Church, I would pay penance for that) Eat my hands. Tailgate. Leave a tsp of milk in the carton, and put it back. Show my pale, wobbly arms off in Summer shirts outside. Answer cell phone calls when I’m with friends. Procrastinate. Loudly slurp up the last seeded remains of a strawberry julius.
I am a flawed, flawed girl.