hair

i'm seated in front of the mirror in a semingly obscure salon, my hair reeking of that pagoda cold wave lotion scent that is so reminscent of my childhood (i got a perm when i was 7 or 8. my mom thought it was really cute for her angel princess of a daughter to show up at that grade school pagant sporting curls).

"ack, help, save us!" my lungs scream, but there's nothing i could do. i was at the mercy of this homesexual goddess who runs the salon, and if (s)he says i need to carry with me this smell for some four or five hours, then so be it. it was i who came to her, after all.

ahh, the price of being beautiful.

which is not to say that i am ugly, because i'm not. everyone who knows me or have seen me would attest to how good looking i am. but they would be quick to add that my hair needs a fix. so here i am, in my yellow chicken little shirt, old mossimo pants and not-as-old tribu slippers, waiting for this ordeal, er, hair treatment thingy to come to its end.