I've never been one for pampering myself.
You might say I'm sort of the Cinderella of the family - staying behind while my daughters indulge in pedicures, manicures, and waxings. And I do kind of like sweeping up ashes. . .
But today I had a day off.
And so I started the day with my trusty dye-in-a-box - just as I had been accustomed to doing ever since the first strands of gray started to appear uninvited a good fifteen years ago. And although this method had served me reasonably well in the past, for the last three months or so, something had been going terribly wrong. . . and my applicator and I had stood by helplessly as my hair had turned more-than-a-bit blotchy, multicolored, and uneven. (For, although I may have many other virtues and talents, I have never counted thoroughness among them.)
And today's attempt was no different.
And so - with hair up in a bun - I made a hasty appointment with my twice-a-year haircutter who took mercy on me and allowed me a last-minute audience. Do whatever you will, I quipped.
I don't know why, but with each stroke of that gloppy-filled brush, each snip of those scissors, each clump of multi-colored hair that fell to the floor, I felt a feeling of liberation rising up in me - like Cinderella rising out from the ashes. . .
And then it happened. My fairy godmother looked at me and asked, Have you ever gotten your eyebrows waxed?
And before you know it, she was waving her magic wax wand over my eyebrows and bippity-bobbity-booing those stray hairs off with a blink of an eye.
My God, did it feel good!
And my hair? Well, we're ready to dance the night away.
Only problem? I seem to be missing my other shoe . . .
