My coif, I think, is a little too dark. I got tired of the faded, washed out, shanks of tarnished brass that were littering the last inch and a half of my hair, so last night I did something about it. Popped in a little chestnut Feria, and 25 minutes later... oof, cold and bitter espresso. It's not horrible... as long as I wear a little makeup, it lends a slightly fragile appeal, rather than the somewhat rigor mortis look I get with a naked face. Frightening really, when you think about the fact that I wash my face before bed and sleep on my back. Anyone coming into my room at night may be inspired to hold a mirror under my nose.
I would have gone to the salon to do it, but I've got that wedding to go to in a couple of weeks, when I'm going to have my hair 'done'. Plus, I'm going to need some kind of a trim, a little snip-snip here and there to clean it up a little, as I'm already three weeks past maintenance cut. And as much as I adore Victor and the whole Salon Soho totally cost inflated hair care experience, the thought of pouring even more money into that place bothers my slightly parsimonious soul. I don't want to have to mortgage my kidney to cover my roots.
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So, it turns out that I didn't do my sums quite correctly, thus almost cheated myself of an extra month of keeping my hopes up and then having them dashed to pieces. Remember the fortune teller? The one who said that I'd meet someone within two and a half years, and it would be conducive to marriage? Yeah, well, I went in mid-January of 2001. Which would mean that I don't actually have to throw the mad notion out until mid-July. Ha! Ha ha! See? There's still hope! I've got another month before the threat of dying alone becomes a reality! Isn't that just wonderful?
Right. I'm off, poppets. Let's hope that this Lance Romance that's just been given an extra month's window of time doesn't come a callin' only because of this new tinge of corpsedness I've got going on. Please. Like I don't have enough wrong with me without dating a necrophiliac.
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