Why I will never go to Hair Masters again

I’m not a high-maintenance girl by most standards: I don’t get manicures or pedicures (or facials or waxing), I don’t buy expensive shoes or clothes (I actually rarely buy clothes, period) or jewelry, I don’t buy a lot of hair crap or accessories or makeup or other beauty products. The car I drive now is the car I’ve been driving for the last nine years, and I will likely continue to keep driving it until every last replaceable part can no longer be replaced. Most of the items on my credit card bills are devoted to household things and food (more grocery than dining, because I prefer to cook than to eat out).

This is less because I’m cheap and more because I’m practical. I don’t do manicures or pedicures because the way I go about my life, they would last a day, maybe two at most. I don’t care about fashion and as far as shoes are concerned, I only need five pairs: gym/running shoes, dance shoes, knee-high boots, dressy heels and flip-flops (confession: I do have a lot of dance shoes and flip-flops, but only because they’re inexpensive and this way I can keep a pair in my car, in my travel bag, etc.– just in case). I tend to lose jewelry like it’s nobody’s business so I stopped buying it, plus I rarely remember to wear the rings I do still own, the only necklace I’ll wear is the one I’ve been wearing since I was 12, and I don’t care much for bracelets. And I simply can’t bear to give up my car (okay, so this is more sentimental than practical).

That being said: since April of 2007, I’ve been dropping between $60-80 on haircuts, which I suppose isn’t entirely unreasonable (compared to, say, $200) until you consider I used to only get my hair cut twice a year for like twelve bucks. But that was when my hair was long and I only got the ends trimmed, so it was really hard for that to get screwed up but even if somehow it did, I could curl my hair or tie it back until the disaster grew itself out.

But then I cut it all off, and since I neither care to wear hats nor look particularly appealing in them, it suddenly became crucial that my hair be cut in a not-unappealing style that required little more than my wash-and-go tendencies in order to look okay. The woman who initially took my hair from shoulder-length (it was mid-back-length a week before this) to an inch-and-a-half long, Elena, did such a fantastic job that I continued to go back to her every three months for touch-ups/re-styles. And for me, the price was totally worth it. I trusted her completely– often, I’d just go to her and tell her where I wanted it taken up, and she decided everything else– and she took her time, from the time at the sink to the time at the chair (cutting, blow-drying, styling). Hair appointments with her took an hour at least, sometimes an hour-and-a-half.

The last time I had my hair cut, though, was back in September, in D.C., with a woman at Celadon. The whole affair took nearly two hours and was $90, pre-tip, but she styled it so well and was extremely pleasant and enjoyable, and over time, the price justified itself more and more (because of how she cut it, the style grew out nicely).

Cut to: recently. I’d been aching for a hair cut since late December, but I either wasn’t home or I was preoccupied with other things and never got around to scheduling an appointment with Elena. Plus, I’d received this thing in the mail from Hair Masters for $5 off any service, and having just paid for my semester tuition and books, a $10 haircut was suddenly sounding very tempting. Plus, it wasn’t like I was going to get anything fancy done; I just needed the hair in the back taken up.

So I went. I called and made an appointment for late this afternoon, and I went and the woman who was going to cut my hair was at the register taking care of her previous client customer (an, um, elderly lady) and she smiled and said she’d be just a second and told me how cute my boots are and how she’s been looking for a good pair of boots like mine. About five minutes later, she took me to her station and asked what I was looking to do.

I explained to her, I just needed the back taken up, then angled down to the front (the winged bob look, which is more or less how I’ve had it cut the last couple of times). I didn’t have a picture handy because I never take pictures to Elena and I didn’t take one to the woman in D.C., and that’s never been a problem because they usually understand where I’m trying to go with my descriptions, and if they don’t, either I end up liking what they’ve done instead so much that I don’t care, or they happily get their scisscors out again to give me the style I was originally aiming for.

But, whatever. I tell this woman what I want done, she says okay, let’s get you shampooed first. I say, actually, I just washed my hair a few hours ago, so– she says, well, I’ll at least need to spray your hair wet because there’s too much of it to cut dry. I say that’s fine (I would be skeptical if she did try to cut my hair dry, anyway).

She spritzes me like a prized plant and combs the water through, firmly arranges my head into place, then begins cutting. Snip snip here, turn my head, snip snip there, turn my head, etc. She comments, a few snips in, how she can’t stand how my hair was cut before, and at this, my heart skips a beat and I suddenly feel my hackles rising because however unintentionally, she is offending the woman in D.C., and I really liked that woman in D.C. She continues to make little comments about how pooly my hair was cut the last time, then: have you ever been here before? she asks. Oh, once, I think, maybe a few years ago[1], I respond. And five, maybe ten minutes later, she hands me the mirror. Well, that’s all fixed now. What do you think?

I look and can’t see much of a difference. It’s certainly not anything close to what I wanted. I ask, politely, could you take it up a little more in the back? and I show her with my hand about how high I want it. She replies, with entirely false cheer and forced laughter: well, I don’t want to, but I can!

She starts cutting again. I get the feeling that she’s irritated and I honestly can’t understand why. Was she offended because she felt like my post-trim request was an insult to her vision? But she’s starting to move my head into place using a little more pressure and she’s definitely not talking to me anymore, and even her snip!s sound a little angry. She pauses at one point and says, take a look at this and tell me what you think before I continue on to the other side.

I look. The side is angled right, but there’s still all this hair in the back. I explain that I want it gone. She stares at me reproachfully and snappishly informs me that what I’m describing is an entirely different style. I continue to silently and warily look at my reflection, passively resisting her. She goes on to tell me that this is an A-line something something, with layers something angled something to meet up with the sides, and so on. More passive resistance. I look at her, finally. I really don’t want that hair, I say. She huffs, says okay, and without any further words, digs through her drawer for an attachment for her electric razor, somewhat unkindly pushes my head down and begins having at the back of my neck.

And, I mean, she is *really* having at it. I suddenly envision those kids from my high school days who wore the long trenchcoats and massive army boots even when the temperatures got in the upper 90s, who shaved their heads from the neck up to the tops of their ears, but had long hair from there to the tops of their heads. I’m having heart palpitations and I’m aggressively fighting back tears because I’m so afraid that this woman is mutilating my hair, and I’m frantically making emergency mental notes to CALL ELENA as soon as I get to my car to schedule an appointment with her ASAP so she can fix me. Someone walks in– an (um) elderly guy (the other client customer in the chair next to me having her roots done is also of the elderly persuasion, so, whatever that means)– and she calls to him, I’ll be with you in just a bit, okay?, again with the false cheer, and also with a hint of exasperated apology (as though to really say: I didn’t think this chick would take so damn long). This woman, she is pissed. I watch the scene unfold in my head: she does something disastrous to me, and when I finally see it I begin weeping in horror and she spitefully sneers at me: well, that’s what you asked for. I continue to silently lose my shit as she continues to do things to my hair involving razors and scissors, and I’m afraid to look up until she is done and says: so?

I look. It’s– actually not bad. It’s actually kind of exactly what I asked her to do. I half-smile (half because I’m still unwinding from the panic attack) in approval, she cleans me off and takes me to the register, announcing to no one in particular: whew! that little girl wore me out! At the register: and that’s three haircuts for… $17. I’m still quiet, working Big Eyes and all sweet proper Asian girl politeness, and I give her the card that came in the mail, asking, do you still take this? (They do, and I know this, but I ask out of courtesy for whatever retarded reason.) More false cheer, more forced laughter: well, not for you! She takes it, applies it to the bill; I give her my card, she hands me back the card and receipt, and because I am a coward I actually apply a tip to my card charge, and then that’s that.

I leave. I check my phone. The total time I spent in her chair was under a half-hour, and it was the most stressful experience I’ve had in a hair salon in probably the last four years.

And so, I don’t care if Hair Masters offered me free haircuts for the rest of my life. I will not go back there, ever again. Even though I know that she is not the only hairstylist representing Hair Masters, that she may not be representative of overall Hair Masters customer service whatsoever. I don’t care. My hair is one of the very few things about which I am highly sensitive, and it is easily worth the $80 every three months [2] to not have to go through horrific experiences like this.

[1] Incidentally– that last time I had gone to Hair Masters some years back? I sat in the chair and (passively) argued with a woman (I don’t know if it was the same one; it very well might have been) about how the style I wanted required my hair to be parted on a different side, and according to the woman, it was not possible for me to change my part. (Fact: yes it is.)

[2] Even my mother, who is the Queen of Frugality [3], after I relayed this story to her, told me to go back to Elena and never do this again. (And fumed that the things this woman said were entirely unacceptable and she should be written up. Which I guess, in a way, she now has been.)

[3] Side note: Cheap versus frugal, written by a Stanford grad/author/really interesting guy.

Flannel ceilings

I just watched a Youtube video of some girl doing her hair and makeup in the style of Gwen Stefani. She looked 12, but according to her Myspace profile, she’s 18; either way, at the end of the video (which clocked in over nine minutes, five of which I skipped), she looked like a baby prostitute.

My point, though, is that about two minutes into the video, I had my cheek pressed against the granite countertop and I was eyeballing my laptop screen despondently. It took her almost five minutes to do the hair part, and it wasn’t even that elaborate a ‘do, and this was post-production time, meaning several segments were sped-up, meaning it was probably more like seven minutes of footage. Seven minutes! Seven minutes of brushing and teasing and pinning and glossing and smoothing and straightening and spraying and securing! For a Youtube video! I feel excessive if I spend seven minutes a week bothering with my hair.

[side note: I have been asked out on exactly three dates my whole life.]

I spent the bulk of today being an Asian Supernerd, though, wielding an engineering pad and a graphing calculator and– assisted by the POWERS OF MATH!– taking on the World of Homework Problems one trigonometric function at a time. The hamsters were logging some serious miles in their little spinny wheels today, so, I don’t know, maybe ending with something as banal as a powder-room video was a good distraction from all those damn vector equations.

Speaking of distractions, though: The Wife wheedled me into doing 11 miles of errands à vélo with her, and we finished up at Target, where I stumbled upon shocking evidence of just how far we women still have to go before society will deem us equal to our male counterparts. Inequalities are still in effect, and it boggles my mind.

MEN’S PAJAMA PANTS HAVE POCKETS.

This is entirely unacceptable and I am understandably outraged.

And I don’t need anyone to cut my meat for me

I’m not tiny. You wouldn’t look at me, from any distance, and think, "Man, she’s *tiny*!" Short, yes. Small, maybe. But not "tiny."

That being said, you have no freaking idea how fabulous it is to have found thermals that fit in the girls section of the clothing department. Especially when the last four women’s departments visited were entirely sold out of sizes smaller than L.

Especially especially when girls’ thermals are half the price of adults’ (but with twice the cuteness!).

Or not? They’ve always seemed kinda small– to *me,* anyway.

1. Empire waists are lovely things. Belts can be pretty kicky accessories. That being said, it is neither kicky nor lovely to use a belt, particularly a wide, flashy belt, to create an empire waist. NO.

2. Aren’t cotton dress-style hoodies supposed to be worn over something? Like pants? Especially in still-feels-like-winter-to-me weather? Oh, wait, I guess the hooker heels and the leg warmers turn it into a cotton hoodie-style DRESS. That barely covers the ass. In 40-degree temperatures. My mistake.

3. And I used to have a pretty decently stacked balcony upstairs, but I’m starting to wonder if somewhere along the way, I didn’t lose some circumference? It’s perplexing. The stupidest part about it is, it’s what I’ve passionately wished for for *years,* and now that it’s (I think) happened, I’m distraught. Come back!

Baby, it’s cold outside

It may be nearly March, but it is flipping freezing outside still and I hear tell that Japan is going to be just as cold, if not colder, when we get there. Being as I have two kinds of "outerwear"– thin cotton Danskin jackets and floor-length 15-lb. evening coats, I decided it was high time I found a practical, through-the-years wool coat.

And of course no one has any. Even the goddamn COAT STORE, which specializes in COATS, doesn’t have any. Because it’s nearly March. Pfft.

Though Windsor had a bunch of cute fashionable jackets on-sale-on-clearance, and it’s kind of hard to say no to something that’s actually in my size and has been reduced to $15. Not what I had intended on getting, but hey. Blocks the wind AND looks nice? Sold!

Victoria’s Secret always has cute coats, but as to date, nothing left in both my size and preferred color. And even the department stores have done away with coats, though, much to my frustration and chagrin– the MEN’S departments have a plethora of gorgeous black wool coats all over the damn place.

BOO.

If you’re thinking you should maybe stage an intervention to get me away from all this sugar, you’d probably be right but you’d better hurry because I have $28 worth of Starbursts and Skittles in my kitchen, courtesy of Costco

It’s been a while since I had a good ol’ post for the Fasion category.

(For you newcomers, that’s not a typo. Fuck the "h.")

Anyway. I noticed I’d been getting some traffic from Yoga Coffee Outlook and I couldn’t figure out why. Usually when I get noticeable traffic from one particular blog, it’s because that blogger magnanimously offers his or her readers that list of "Recently Updated Blogs" and there were a lot of people reading that blog right after I’d posted something. I used to get my hopes up and think that someone out there was actually reading MY blog and decided to link to it, and that’s why I was getting the traffic, but no. I never get "Trackback" notifications. Whatever.

I, for what it’s worth, don’t offer that "Recently Updated Blogs" list because I am a selfish whore who doesn’t like to share her readers (all four of you, you are MINE, you got that?). Which isn’t completely true because I do have a sort of blogroll and I do tend to pimp other people’s blogs from time to time, so I guess I’m just a control-freak whore. Either way, I’m a whore, but let’s face it, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

But back to my point, and I swear I actually have one. So I moseyed on over to Yoga Coffee Outlook (which sounds like the name of a Ben & Jerry’s flavor, yum), only to discover, lo! and behold, my blog is a motherloving permanent link in the sidebar.

::commence ego-swelling joy::

Actually, I was more baffled than anything at the discovery, and then, for a while, a little peeved. Blogger etiquette requests that you engage in some sort of contact with another blogger if 1) you permanently link to them and 2) you don’t actually know them in real life, the exception to this being 1) they are an A-list blogger to whom everyone and their mom and their dog and their dog’s mom and their mom’s dog link.

Now, despite that random spike in traffic over that sadly-not-very-funny-to-me-anymore post (which I’m not going to link to because I’m just that disenchanted with it these days, but a Google search on "del.icio.us pants" will take you there), I’m pretty damn far from A-list status. I’m pretty sure I’m not even in the single-letter alphabet, period. Run a few laps around it and maybe that’s where you’ll find me, somewhere in the middle of the HHH-list. (If only I’d taken the hint from my traffic results last year and had written more about dog porn. Fuck.)

So I was mildly offended. This blogger, this woman, this seemingly important person– important enough to have paid! ads! on her blog!– couldn’t even let me know that she was a reader? What the hell?

And then I went to her "About" page and followed the link (I grumbled about that, too. I’m all for the optimizing efficiency bit but when ALL YOU HAVE on your "About" page is a link? That’s toeing the line of ass-smacking lazy). And thought, why does the name "Hibelu" sound so damn familiar?

Because! That is her Typekey name! And she left a comment once upon a time! I remember this because I wrote back to her after I visited hibelu.com and told her I thought the shirts on her site were gorgeous but, frankly, way out of my price range. I have a high disregard for clothes and just sort of throw ’em around like a woman who needs to be put in her place. I didn’t start sorting my laundry until freshman year of college, and only then because my boyfriend kept having seizures when he saw me blindly dumping things into the machine.

Even now, I get lazy about it sometimes and rationalize, "Hey, beige is close enough to purple, fuck it, it’s getting washed." Why spend $70 on a shirt when, under my ownership, it will meet an untimely demise at the hands of spaghetti sauce or barbed-wire fences? I could buy a shirt for $10 that would serve roughly the same purpose (read: prevent me from getting ticketed in public for indecent exposure, though then again, I have seen shirts that my bras can beat in skin coverage) and use the leftover cash to buy more banana popsicles. Do you have ANY IDEA how many boxes of banana popsicles I could buy with $60? A LOT, THAT’S HOW MANY.

I digress. To the point where I’m no longer sure where I was trying to head.

Uh. Oh, right. So, her site, Hibelu, it’s got these really pretty shirts and so for those of you who actually are into looking fashionable (you’re probably one of those weird fancy-schmancy kinds who actually wears makeup, too, aren’t you?), you should totally go over there and give her more business. Or at least go read her blog, and hopefully you won’t be overwhelmed by all the ads (one of which speaks and totally freaked me out because I had the volume way up at the time) like I was, and if you look in the sidebar for my blog and can’t find it, well, I wouldn’t blame her for taking me down after reading this post and thinking I am an ungrateful bitch. Which I’m *not,* but I think I am probably coming across as one right now what with the snarky comments about the "About" page and the ads.

In truth, I am merely in awe. Pretty people who have paid ads on their site will do that to me. (Put me in awe, that is, not make me make snarky comments. The latter, I do naturally, and usually for free.)

Also, I don’t know why I’m in the "Girl Blogs" list. I mean, obviously, YES, I’m a girl (though I have been pointing out to the Internet these days that I VERY WELL COULD BE a 60-something-year-old gross and ugly pervert of a dude) and I really should just be heart-stoppingly floored with delight to be in the same list as Gingerbread Latte and Antonella Pavese, but my greedy, shameless heart yearns to be in the BIG list and then I can write to Mrs. Kennedy and tell her that we are blogroll buddies! And then maybe she will write back and invite me to come visit her and I will fly up the I-5 and scream when I see her and burst into tears (because shit, she is one of the handful of women bloggers who have gotten me through some ugly times with their writing), but then I will get my act together and we will go to Stampa Barbara (does that store even exist anymore?) and I will have to keep refraining from running up to strangers to ask them excitedly, "Do you know whom I’m here with? Do you KNOW who that woman is?? I KNOW, I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M HERE WITH HER, TOO!"

And finally, if you feel utterly compelled to sway me into the world of fashion and think I can totally become a responsible caretaker of silk and taffeta and [insert material that isn’t cotton, here], I wouldn’t say no to this shirt. Medium. (I’d *like* to think I’m a Small, but who am I kidding? A rack like mine necessitates an "M.")

So typical

Being a girl, I’ve always delighted in borrowing a guy’s sweater or jacket, even when said guy is not my boyfriend– even when said guy is, in fact, rather a stranger to me. When I was dating the Pablo Honey, I was forever bundled in his high school water polo team sweatshirt, even though it was hooded and I typically detest hooded sweatshirts. When I was dating The Guy? It was a maroon sweatshirt with horizontal stripes across the chest. During the second Bay area trip, I borrowed a zippered sweater from Sidney (if I remember properly, it was a Club Monaco sweater) and absolutely fell in love with it; ditto for a much-loved (read: worn) zip-up hoodie this guy lent me at the Super Bowl party I attended. And most recently, I borrowed a hooded pullover from someone at work because the office was freezing that day.

I have plenty of long-sleeved shirts, plenty of jackets and coats and sweatshirts and sweaters of my own. But there’s just something about drowning in a guy’s size-too-large-for-me item of outerwear that makes me unspeakably happy. To the point sometimes where I start wondering if it can be bought off them.

In the case of boyfriends, however, I usually make off with a shirt. Correction: they usually end up gifting ("surrendering") one of the more frequently-borrowed articles to me. I still have a white short-sleeved button-up from my first relationship and a long-sleeved button-up from this last one, and I’ve luckily been able to separate the shirts from the relationships and thereby continue to enjoy them.

Something there is that can’t help but love raiding a guy’s wardrobe.

My workman’s comp, it begins with an “F”

I had originally thought to replace the Chanel 5101 sunglasses with either Marc Jacobs’ "Daisy" or "Venetia I," both styles in the brown frame. But then I found out that our Marc Jacobs boutique [1[2]] doesn’t have the entire Spring 2006 line of accessories in yet, and nobody knew when those two sunglass designs were going to be in stock.

On my way back to the parking garage, I noticed a specialty boutique for sunglasses. As it had been in one of these types of stores that I’d first seen the "Daisy" in San Jose, I thought lightning just might strike twice.

It struck, like, four times.

One of the reasons I’d had such a darn hankering for the "Daisy" glasses was not only the unique design for the sides (the arms? I’m fairly uneducated on the proper terminology for sunglass anatomy), something like half an upside-down trapezoid with the center cut out, but only in the front part over the temples, with– you know what? It’d be easier to just show a picture:

Untitled2

Anyway. I’d really wanted to see these glasses again because the side design was cute, yes, but *also* because I remembered the, um, "arms" (we’re just going to do with arms, here) were made of this really weird-but-cool textured material and it was so different from the typical smooth plastic that most sunglass frames are made of. [Ed: "weird-but-cool textured material"– just shows how utterly clueless I am about fasion. It’s leather.]

So this store, this specialty boutique, I think it’s called Davante (I say "think" because I’m too lazy to go find the bag), this store carried Marc Jacobs sunglasses and lo and behold! They had "Daisy." In brown. The very awesome-like-a-hot-dog sales man (eventually learned he’s the store manager) opened the case for me, and as he was finagling them off the display stand, I noticed wedged into the opposite corner: the "Venetia I"! Also in brown! So he took those out for me, too.

Unfortunately, "Venetia I" is practically identical to Chanel 6014 (the ones I had to exchange [3] the 5101s for and ultimately returned), meaning the lenses are too rectangular for my liking.

Untitled3

Chanel6014

On to the "Daisy." They were just as cute as I remembered them, but alas, the entire frame was made of plastic! I racked my brain, trying to remember what other sunglasses I might have tried on that day. While I was contemplating, the manager had gone and rounded up other pairs he thought I might have liked and he returned with several. The first pair he handed to me? A pair that had arms covered in hard, textured leather– *the* pair, in fact, I had been thinking of all along– Fendi FS 368L.

Fendifs368l

To wrap this up, I left with the last pair in the burgundy color, choosing them over the Marc Jacobs partly because I couldn’t get over the leather arms, but ultimately because on the "Daisy" frame, the bottom outer corners for the lenses aren’t flush with the arms, and you’d think it’s such a small trivial detail that who the hell would notice?– but from the front, it just looks really odd.

And my sister is probably reading this thinking, why the hell is she buying expensive sunglasses in the first place? To which I respond, this is my self-reward for submitting myself to wearing white go-go boots for three 10-hour-long days of CES. I didn’t *ask* that the only cute oversized square sunglasses with leather arms be made by Fendi– kind like how she didn’t *ask* that the only hybrid SUV on the market right now that doesn’t look like a behemoth less-trendy version of the Hummer, be a Lexus [4].

But the funnest part? The funnest part about these glasses may be the fact that I can now see the world, quite literally, through rose-colored glasses. Fasmastasmic!

Oh, and these are the Chanel 5101 glasses. If you think they’re ugly, they’re cuter than you think. And if you think they’re cute– they’re not as cute in real life.

Chanel5101

[1] I have to admit, it does rock, just a little, maybe a lot, to live at the doorstep of a major high-end retail portal. Between the Forum Shops, the Canal Shops, the Fashion Show Mall, the Wynn and the Aladdin and the Bellagio, I think Vegas has a boutique for every haute couture designer, putting us up in the ranks of L.A. and New York.

[2] Not sure how I feel about this footnote style, but numbers are easier to follow than multiple asteriks.

[3] Chanel has a 14-day return policy (unless the item has been worn/used, in which case they have a 0-day return policy). I, half-unintentionally, got around this by exchanging the 5101s (18 days after the initial purchase) for the 6014s, which I then returned two days later for a full refund. That’s almost good enough to submit to Tricks of the Trade, hey?

[4] What about the hyrbrid Ford Escape? My sister’s response: "Yeah right, like I could really call up Daddy and tell him, hey, I just bought a Ford! He’d have a heart attack. Or write me out of his will." This is true.

More bangs, less bucks

As January came to a close and February prepared to take center stage, I officially obtained [1], without a trace of doubt and sans moment of hesitation [2], a full and complete set of Molly-cow bangs. My forehead is none too pleased with suddenly having to accomodate this thick fringe, but unlike my feet which could kick off the socks they claimed were suffocating them from the mass quantities of fresh air they had formerly been able to enjoy 24/7, my forehead can’t do anything about removing the bangs. Suck it up, forehead. You’re building character!

Image014

See the whole ding-dong bing-bang lineup, here.

[1] The name of the very awesome man who takes such wonderful care of my hair when I see him is Larry and he works over at the Body Perfect Salon on Sunset and Pecos from Tuesday to Saturday. His shampoo technique is heavenly and he takes no less than 20 minutes at the end, just blow-drying your hair seemingly strand by strand. While this may seem like a nuisance, spending so much time drying hair, the end result is Hair To Die For. You’ll be fondling your own head for the rest of the day (well, okay, *I* did, at least). I absolutely adore him and would recommend him to anyone.

[2] This was an impulsive decision, natch. I called the salon as soon as they opened and asked when Larry would be free, then a half-hour later sat down in his chair and he got to work. C’est simple comme tout.

Yum yummy shopping yum

I generally hate shopping as much as I hate packing, which is to say, I hate it an awful lot. Or used to. I really ought to file this under "Milestones" because seriously? This is turning over new leaves for me.

The only place I’ve ever been able to buy jeans that ultimately looked decent on me, has always been A&F. Given that the store and the company as a whole make me want to gouge out my eyes with a dull knife, jean shopping has thereby never been exactly a "pleasant" experience. Still, a girl’s gotta have good jeans.

But I recently bought a new pair of jeans from A&F (though half-off, the price was still ridiculous), and a week later, they don’t fit anymore. This pisses me off to no end because now I’m stuck with expensive jeans that I can’t wear without looking rather stupid. So I did what I never thought I would do: I walked into Charlotte Russe. And bought two pairs of jeans (and one pair of black pants).

Here’s the thing: I’ve never looked nice in anything from that store. And suddenly I do. And, honestly, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to quit if it weren’t for pleasant results like this. You know? I know. But mostly I’m just excited that I no longer have any incentive to go near A&F, ANYMORE. Mmm, the sweet taste of freedom!

Also: I finally opened a VS account. They had Chantal Thomass balconet bras for half-off! You can’t pass shit like that down. Yay lace and pink check and more lace and black check!