I must have a really hot date this weekend. You remember, the kind where you have to spend the entire week obsessing about it. And, of course, getting ready for it.
Today I went to the dentist for my six-month cleaning. My teeth are like marble. Maybe tomorrow I'll whiten them so I can blind everyone within a 50 mile radius.
Tonight it's off to the waxatician. Or waxigician. That wonderful woman who removes the part of my eyebrows that are multiplying faster than the Pitt-Jolies and are so far up my forehead they're encroaching on my hairline.
Don't even get me started on the upper lip. When I can twirl my mustache, it's time for it to go.
And yet, every time I go, I wonder why I'm putting myself through it. Cause it hurts. Just like if you ripped your hair out. Which is what you're doing, with the added bonus of boiling wax poured on first.
But really, it doesn't get much better than a smooth lip and a perfectly arched brow. So to the torture chamber it is!
Thursday I have a hair appointment. I thought my hair looked okay. Possibly because it's hidden under a hat most of the time. Or up in a ponytail. But it can no longer conceal the grey pubic-like strands that are poking up their ugly little heads.
Touch-up color. Bang trim.
Thankfully, I already have my outfit picked out.
By Sunday, I'll be smiling brightly under a hairless lip, my eyebrows in perfect shape, not a strand of grey marring my hair.
Unfortunately, no hot man awaits me (unless, of course, my husband decides to show up). Just 26.2 miles of hell.
At least I'll look good for the photo-ops.
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