Last night for Young Womens we gave the girls manicures.
Correction. The wonderful and gifted Miss Melinda gave the girls manicures and I clumsily followed along. Only Suzy, our sweet down syndrome friend, was subjected to my attempts.
She's a girl after my own heart. Bright pink, sparkly nails fit her to a T.
While I have never been what you'd call "high maintenance", my grooming disability of late has reached almost epic proportions. My hair was in a pony tail for so many days straight it almost didn't need a band to keep it in place. In fact, I think it grew 3 more inches with out my noticing at all.
Something clicked last week and I asked TQ to return all my hair apparati back to my bathroom. She begrudingly brought it back- her attitude no doubt influenced by a firm belief that I would never use said hair utensils, thus hoarding the expensive flat iron she had come to call her own.
Silly girl. Doesn't she know yet that everything that's her is hers, and everything that's mine is her's too? I thought all teenagers understood that rule. It's why she can borrow any pair of shoes of article of my clothing without asking, but I cannot look cross eyed at anything belonging to her.
No comments about how I can't fit in her size 3 pants or extra small shirts are necessary, thank you very much. I choose to believe she's just selfish. It hurts less than knowing I couldn't pull her pants above my calf.
But that's okay, because my hair grows at super human speeds. I do nothing with it. It doesn't get pampered with expensive products or regular trims. And yet, it grows like it's on anabolic steroids. If Brittney Spears had my hair she wouldn't have to buy so many ugly wigs to cover the painful grow out from "The Buzz".
But then again, she's probably a size 3 and can wear my 12 year old's pants.