As has been previously discussed, I'll admit fully to being a blue jeans and t-shirt kind of gal. I'm much more comfortable in a pair of cowboy boots than high heels any day of the week, including Sunday. I'd rather put on a baseball cap and tennis shoes and go take in a ballgame than to dress up all prim and proper and attend a formal event.
It's not that I don't know how to do those fancy things, because I DO. Momma was very strict on matters of etiquette... at least with me... and I know which fork to use with which course. But the reality is that I dress up mostly for Sundays at church and to attend the temple and the occasional event with my hubby like this past year's Christmas party for his job. That was actually a lot of fun.
Unfortunately, those events don't happen with sufficient regularity to make me like primping up all the dang time. I'd rather slip into my Levis.
Now comes the confession... when I do take the time to dress up, I'd like to look more put together than a wanna be hayseed hick come to town in my best dressed overalls. I may not be Cosmo or Vanity Fair worthy, but I should at least look like I don't belong on the cover of Farmer's Weekly with the potato crop.
Sunday, I was pretty well comported. I had on a mostly black ensemble simply because it alleges that I am slimmer in black. Whatever. I think I look more like one of those wide stripes on the bar code that means the price is higher than you thought it was. The point being is I LIKE black on me. It makes me feel like I'm powerful and useful.
So I do the hair and makeup routine, spritz on a little bit of "I'm every woman" cologne and choose a nice pair of earrings. It's better than the "I'm going to the gym" or PJ"s look that are my alternates to the jeans. There I am, ready for church and thinking I'm doing pretty well...then, alas, I make the fateful discovery that I'm a bit more hirsute than I would like to be...
Just how in the heck do you miss seeing a hair that long and in such an odd location? Am I turning into a wolf? Is this just the tip of the hairy iceberg? Is this some sort of Darwinian throwback joke? Grrrrr!!
Snatching the tweezers, I briskly and with malice aforethought yanked out the offending hair and felt the pain explode in my brain. Holy Hannah! Pain is not my idea of a good time! Why is it that these random hairs always seem to be attached directly to the most powerful pain receptor in my entire body? My eyes are now watering like Niagara at spring thaw which means my eye makeup will have to be redone, and I am feeling faint and slightly sick at my stomach.
In the deepest nooks and crannies of my warped brain, I secretly hope that all those glammed up fashionistas have some random, rogue hair that causes them a magnificent amount of pain. I know that isn't a kind thought, but face it... they are the pre-selected icons of how we regular women should all look and are made out to be the airbrushed and Photoshopped perfection of womanhood... all in the name of being more than God gave them. So maybe they need a dose of regular ol' woman humility in the form of a whacking long hair that randomly grows in a weird location seemingly overnight.
To add to the equality, I hope the hair doesn't match the color of any hair anywhere else on their body. And no matter how violently they tug and yank and rip out the offending hair, it will always grow back more long and luxurious than ever.
Yeah, I'm mean... call it a weakness.
One day, I will either succeed in burning out the hair follicle that offends with its mutation of hair or, as my vision continues to change as I age, I will become so blind it will no longer matter where I have any hair growing. You know... out of sight, out of mind, right?
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