Taking the professional stylist out of the haircut equation makes the whole ordeal at least 50% less traumatic and 100% less expensive. And seriously, if I can cut my own hair just fine, Jason really should let me trim his. It'll be very.
This morning I had two songs looping around each other in my head: "Superheroes" from Rocky Horror and, um, "SexyBack". I prefer "Superheroes", but "SexyBack" is much easier to sing so that's unfortunately what I noticed coming out of my mouth.
I take great pride in not being a weenie about spiders like Jason some other people who live here, but I didn't appreciate the skinny-legged bastard who decided to amble across my hair towel while I was getting ready to
plop (I AM A BIG BELIEVER IN PLOPPING. IT HAS BEEN LIKE OUT-OF-CONTROL TEEN BOOT CAMP FOR MY FORMERLY STUBBORN HATEFUL WAVES WHOSE POOR ATTITUDE WAS ACTUALLY JUST A SYMPTOM OF NOT BEING SHOWN ENOUGH LOVE) post-shower. When I went to shake it off/smush it, it attempted some kind of weird evasive maneuver and disappeared mysteriously, and even though I checked the towel to be sure, I am still uncomfortable about the possibility that there is a spider, either dead or alive, or spider parts wrapped up with my hair. Fuck. It's like Schrödinger's cat, only gross and with more legs.