If you ever find yourself taking a shower at someone else’s house and you think it’ll be fun to use their five-year-old son’s “Bananaberri”-scented all-in-one shampoo/conditioner, don’t do it. Resist the marvelous temptation to indulge that whining inner child. In fact, drag that inner brat by its upper arm and force it to stand with its face in the corner until the urge passes. Because yesterday I learned the hard(-haired) way that sometimes rich, thick, groovy-smelling lather can yield results that only a scarecrow would be proud to display. You would think that a girl whose hair’s appearance can “make” or “break” her day really wouldn’t go about experimenting so capriciously. You’d think she would or should know better. Especially at her age.
So during my three-day jaunt to the Philadelphia suburbs (I was visiting friends — a family whose first initials are “BIS”, an unintentional, of course, homage to “BISS”), I decided that since I already washed my hair with a substance that could double as a dessert topping, and since that inner bastard took its punishment so quietly and readily, I needed to reward both by buying a Chococat shower cap. I should be ashamed of myself.
But my hair wasn’t the only one that was so lucky. No, my feet also needed a treat. So “S” and I went to a horrid little hole in the wall to get pedicures. One little tip to you, ladies: Don’t ever use a pedicurist whose toenails are longer than a coke-user’s pinky nail. She won’t understand when you tell her that the color that looked so good in the bottle looks, on your toes, “whorish”, “cheap”, “tacky”, “too shiny”, and “something you would use on a car, damn it”. In fact, she’ll insist on continuing to heavy-handedly glop the polish onto your embarrassed toes until you are finally forced to yell, “It looks like something only a fucking hooker would wear!” without the slightest bit of guilt even when you notice that her talon toes sport something similar. (In all fairness, the color — “I’m Not Really A Waitress” by OPI — would have been acceptable had it been applied by someone who knew what she was doing. Of course, that didn’t stop me from calling it “I’m Not Really A Waitress — I’m Really A Fucking Whore”.)
And lest you think the treats were limited to the two extremes of my body, let me just end the story (if you can call it that) (and no, you really can’t, because there’s no point to all of this) by telling you that all my troubles were forgotten when, yesterday evening, I threw all caution not only to the wind but the hurricane and threw down at least half a box of Reese’s® Puffs®.
Oh yeah, and I also had PopRocks this week.
Who says I don’t get out much?