In preparation for my trip, I just spent three hours in the beauty parlor--as we used to call them in Georgia. I wanted to have my roots touched up, but the new stylist threw in a few extras: like waxing my lip and chin and texturing the hair. By the time she had finished, I was starving and scarfed down a Bill Millers Poor Boy in about three minutes flat.
Do you ever feel suddenly aware of how much you don't know--even about yourself? I always bump up against strange questions at the beauty parlor and doctor's office and I do my best to make up something plausible.
"Have you been having any particular problems with your hair?" she asked--and I say,"Just that my bangs are in my nose all the time, affecting respiration."
"Do you have sensitive skin? Dry skin?" I don't know.
"What kinds of product do you use on a regular basis?" Shampoo and conditioner, I say.
I showed her a picture of Helen Mirren--one that Sandy suggested I copy--but I said I wanted it less blonde. I suggested that she might find another place for my bangs so that I can dispense with scrunching them into rubber bands like a two-year-old. Even Elena has found my little twiggy appendages rather ridiculous--and once removed my rubber band herself.
I look nothing like Helen Mirren, I must say--not even remotely so. But the hair is less blond and full of "product": Moisture Builder, Moisture Boost, Flow Maker, and Shape Spray, to name a few, none of which I chose to purchase for future styling adventures at home.
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