Okay, so maybe it's unfair of me to tell stories on other people while keeping my own embarrassments to myself. Granted. (And thank God, Anna Margarita hasn't figured out how to leave a comment!!)
To make up for this little indiscretion, today I offer a pink-hued moment that happened to me this week.
I'm at the hair salon getting a cut and weave. My stylist stands with clippers poised.
"Would you mind if I trim your eyebrows?" she asks politely.
"Huh?"
"I notice you have some that are getting kinda bushy."
Shit. They're probably grey, too. Visions of my late-great-aunt with her rogue hairs flash before me.
I am officially old.
And decrepit.
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