...and bought a hair dryer. I managed to get through three decades without one of my own, and my new hairstylist convinced me it was time. This came on the heels of me dying my hair red and whacking off about four inches of hair that the dude called "frazzle city." He claimed to be "heartbroken" that I do not use leave-in conditioner.
Every once in awhile I worry that someone is going to revoke my girl card. Like, they're going to discover that I never learned how to style my hair like a supermodel or accentuate my eyes with just the right shade of eyeshadow. Sometimes I wonder whether I should have spent my adolescence learning girlie things instead of playing video games and reading age-inappropriate books. Then I remember how awesome I was at Super Mario Bros., and the feeling passes.
I am slowly accepting that my hair has changed. It's darker than the almost platinum blonde I sported as a kid. It's also finer, and there are some grays that I borrowed from a friend and plan to give back as soon as that jerk comes to pick them up. Seriously, guys, these aren't mine.
The rest of this post, which I considered making a post of its own, is about how I turned my apartment into the site of a porn flick for three quarters of a second.
So I sit here with my newly phenomenal red hair, in a black micro nightie that I sometimes wear to bed, reminding myself that I need to look through the peephole before opening the door, just in case it's the Fresh Direct guy delivering my groceries and not Devon too lazy to get his keys out. Also, Fitz would do well not to dart through the door, as she discovered that being slammed between the door and the doorjamb when I suddenly fling that bitch shut is totally not cool.
We both learned a little something today.