The story in 150 words or less exercise.
It is 1979. We sit together, the two of us, back to back. The stink emitting from our torture smells stronger than a laboratory recently drenched in formaldehyde. Wrapped in plastic garbage bags, I reach behind me to ascertain if my sister is still conscious. We have been sitting here for hours. A buzzer
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Comments 7
You do know I'm getting my hair done Saturday, right? Now I'm scared.
Beautiful way of describing something as if it was something else.
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YOu're not getting a permanent wave, so don't worry. There isn't anything quite as nasty as a permanent wave in the realm of beauty treatment, outside of plastic surgery. Which brings me to the question: do you think it is necessary to say something about me getting my hair curled while my sister was getting her hair straightened? Or does that point not matter so much?
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My favorite part is the pick in the torturer's hand.
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