Cosmo Poet

Got my pajama party nightie -- washable silk! -- matching robe! Whew. I was getting worried.

I hadn't had a haircut since December, but was able to walk in and get one this afternoon. Not my usual hair stylist, but I wasn't being picky. This stylist went on a great deal about how much fun my hair was to blow dry. Seems my hair is very flirty (it likes to flip!), but not slutty. Really. So come up to the No Tell table and compliment my hairdo -- I'll give you a free postcard and piece of cinnamon hard candy. There's your ice breaker. But don't harsh my giddiness like she did by then pointing out that I'm desperately in need of color. No candy for the jackass who points that out.

She also noted that she could tell I had a small child at home by observing the ferocity I read two Cosmos while waiting my turn. Apparently I never looked up once and gave her that "Is it my turn yet?" look. I was lost in the world of the magazine.

Can you blame me? One issue had a fold-out map of all his erogenous zones. Now I'm not particularly good reading maps, on the road when Chris asks for navigation assistance I usually just stare at the map until he pulls over and snatches it back -- but this Cosmo map didn't have a bunch of lines and numbers and I'm pretty sure I read it correctly.

Washable silk. Flirty hair. How-to gleamed from a map. Watch out Austin.