This morning I accomplished a childhood dream by successfully french-braiding my own hair. This opens a whole new world of “hospital-appropriate” hair styles for me. (Which was apparently an issue, if you take a look at a conversation I had a few years back with a date:)
Him: So, what are you going to do with your hair for the hospital?
Me: Well, just leave it down, of course. Why?
Him: There’s just so much of it. Maybe you could cut it?
Me: If I cut it, I look like I’m 40.
Him: Well, maybe that’s not so bad –
Me: LISTEN, BUSTER, I’LL BRUSH IT REALLY WELL.
I feel like french-braiding it is a good in-between. Score 1 for my second X chromosome.
It’s hard to believe it’s Christmas Eve. There’s been no snow, the weather’s been fairly nice, and I only really have a cat to keep me company. And the cat keeps trying to eat my hair.
Just kidding. It only sounds pathetic – the truth is, I saw my family at Thanksgiving. That was enough family time to last me several years (SO MUCH family time). After that fiasco, I’m pretty much ecstatic to be able to spend Christmas Eve watching The Wire, eating pizza, and having a nice glass of sherry.
… while a cat tries to pounce on my head.
When else can you do that?
Happy Christmas Eve / 5th night of Hannukah / Festivus-for-the-rest-of-us!