Like most women, the relationship we have with our hair stylist is sacrosanct. We’d cheat on our husbands before we’d leave our stylists. This is not hyperbole. This is truth. No one, regardless of credentials and school and referrals, can do our hair like the person who does our hair. So it is written. My appointments are booked months in advance. Now that I have short hair, I had to rethink
Like most writers, I have a to-do list of goals, which waver between packing up my words and shutting down the blog, facebook, the virtual world for good, never to write again … … or, aiming high – very high – to become rich and famous, changing the world, connecting people, making them laugh and cry and think and maybe getting a beach house, yeah, a beach house. Ocean front.
I set small goals. Teeny tiny goals really, so I’m never disappointed. Or almost never. Okay, seldom. New Year’s, school year’s resolutions, autumnal equinox, Monday mornings – however and whenever you set goals, if you set the bar just yay high, you’re bound to exceed expectations. It’s how I parent, it’s how I exercise, it’s how I live. Aim low, achieve great things. But last year I did something a little different.
Once upon a time a Christmas Eve – a million years ago – the boy I lost my virginity to met the man I married, due to no fault of my own. I shared how this went down during the Three Wordsmiths at the 2016 Newtown Arts Festival, but if you missed the open mic, here’s your chance to read what it’s like to be me, published live on Good Housekeeping.com. Click here
Have you aged out of the profile picture you use to identify yourself on social media? Come on, tell the truth. Is your Facebook picture you, or a version of you? Are you older/fatter/balder/thinner, maybe browner/grayer/blonder/wrinklier than your avatar? Or do you think you look the same as you did on that vacation um, many many moons ago? This pic here is a favorite, and I use it a lot, partly because
Last Christmas, I got invited to a popular people party. Like the really popular pretty people who are über cool, not in an annoying I’m better than you snot-faced attitude, but in an I wish I were more like them-can’t we just be friends sort of way. It may have been a mistake, but I didn’t care, I rsvp’d absofuckinglutely and showed up with bells on. Maybe not bells, but spanx. I wanted to
How did it happen? Why is that what every wants to know? Easy enough, I suppose. But TMI? Iphone was in sweatshirt front pocket. I sit, pee, wipe, reach around and flush, stand, pull up pants, turn towards sink and – kerplop! Before my eyes found the bottom of the bowl, a swirl sucked up something, and that something was my cell phone. Or so I thought. I emailed the
Little known secret: I never ever cried on first days of pre-school when I had to peel my kid’s arms off my legs and leave them sobbing with tear-streaked faces, reaching for me desperately from the kind arms of their nursery school teacher. I never looked back. When the kindergarten bus arrived to scoop my kids up and take them away for a few short hours, I didn’t cry. I was thrilled for a