Next week, I'm going on my first business trip since having children. It's me in my own Manhattan hotel room. No kids, no snoring husband. ...Cable!
On this trip, I will finally be meeting my bosses and co-workers. Oh, and by the way, did I mention we have to be photographed (Glamourshots!) and video'd? Fucknuts. I wonder how much gauze can they wrap around the camera lens.
Yes, this is all for the top-secret job that I can't talk about yet. You know, the one where I get paid to write about beauty and style.
Why are you laughing?
It's something I love to do, really. But ohhhhhh I just can't wait until someone says, "She's writing about beauty and style? But she's old! And fat! Is she sure she's not pregnant? I mean, she looks pregnant!" (It's New York. You know someone will at least be thinking it.)
In preparation for next week's trip, I got my hair did today. If I'm writing about beauty and style I can't show up to the meetings with two-inch gray roots and crispified split-ends, right? But in typical mom style, I had two hours to squeeze in a cut 'n color before I had to be home for the babysitter (I was 15 minutes late. Hate. That.) so I left the salon with sopping wet, unstyled hair. I mean, what. is. the. point. of going to a salon if you can't get your hair blow-dried straight?
If I ever won the lottery I would get a blow-out every three days (like a New York socialite), and I would color my hair every five weeks (instead of the "when-the-gray-parts-are-longer-than-the-brown-parts" schedule that I am on now.)
To make matters worse, I couldn't get in see my beloved, blue-haired, Roller-Derbying stylist so I had to go to someone else. My stylist was at the salon today, so there I was, cheating on her right in front of her. I was the Angelina to her, uh, Jennifer. How callous of me. I went over and said "hi" and smiled at her in the mirror a lot, but it was awkward, you know?
And did I mention that my teeth are aching from the fucking White Strips?