Tagged: hair

Bangs Bangs, I Shot You Down

I generally don’t include physical descriptions of myself in blog posts.

This is because…

a) Writing should stand on its own. You can enjoy “For Whom the Bell Tolls” without knowing Hemingway had a beard, and “Mrs. Dalloway” without knowing Woolf wore her hair in a bun, and “The Great Gatsby” without knowing that Fitzgerald was a 10-foot merman with tuna breath. If that knowledge impacts your opinion the work, you’re doing something wrong. (It’s ok if it impacts your interpretation, though. I will admit that the Fitzgerald thing threw “Gatsby” into a whole new light for me.)

b) This is the internet. I can just upload a photo.

I bring it up now because before I begin, I need you to know something about me. I have bangs. These bangs:

I'm the one with bangs.

(I’m the one with bangs.)

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You’re So Vein

This morning I had a one-minute conversation with a little girl about her rain boots that ended in my face turning a bright and painful red. That’s all we talked about–how cool her rain boots were, how much I wished I had a pair of my own–but by the time she walked away, I was blushing from the roots of my hair to the neckline of my shirt for no reason at all. I was so red that a passing lobster mistook me for a long-lost friend. I was so red that Joe McCarthy came back from the dead, declared me a communist and had me blacklisted from Hollywood. I was so red that… well, you get the idea.

The boots in question.

The boots in question. (Photo credit: Conrad Laga)

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Summer Breeze Makes Me Feel Fine

I’ve noticed a certain women’s magazine believes there’s only one season.

If you flip through a Cosmo in September, it will show you how to keep your beachy waves long after the beach is closed. December’s issue provides tips on faking a fun, sexy bronze glow through winter and taking your man on fun, sexy summer-themed dates to get through the frightening dark months ahead. In February, while you wrestle the pages through your mittens, the fashion section fills with summer’s fun, sexy new looks. When June finally arrives, it’s impossible to find a coherent headline on the cover between giant yellow and orange words: FUN SEXY SUMMER! SUN AND SEX AND SEA SHELLS! MELANOMA AND ALSO SEX!

Someone should probably let them know about the existence of autumn, winter, and spring. I’d do it, but they think I died in a horrible waxing accident and I’m loathe to correct them.


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Mullet Over

New Years Resolutions:

1) Don’t die.

2) Maybe shave your legs more often.

3) Continue to avoid reptiles.

4) Never ever return to a hair salon, barber shop, or any situation where scissors will come within a foot of your head.

That’s right– I’m never cutting my hair again, and I’ll tell you why. A couple weeks ago I was briefly the owner of a mullet. And not the fish kind.

English: mullet

This is not me, but it’s close.

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Too Sexy for Milan, New York, and Japan

I want you to know that as I’m writing this post, my orange argyle sock is falling into my Converse, I have a serious case of Helena Bonham Carter hair going on, and a brief foray into the sun (I hate the sun) has left me freckled. I am not feeling too sexy for Milan, New York, Japan, or even a Walmart in Kansas.

Yep. This is happening on and around my head right now.

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