Yes. I dyed my hair. And then I dyed it again. And then one more time. Three dye jobs in three days, black and then red and the black again. But I think I’m done now, and not because I finally hit upon the “just right”, goldilocks solution. What I have now is more of a goth-black/mousy-brown/redlocks solution, where the red is that particular shade you see on the freckled heads of larvally pale and bloated people. But I’m afraid that if I keep trying to fix it, all my hair’s going to fall out. Again. So here’s where we are now:
The “albino wino” look is done and gone …
… and in its place, we have the all-new, “hey old lady, what are you thinking?” look.
In other news, I spent $62 on a new bra. $62! But it’s a lot cheaper than plastic surgery. And that’s what this new bra gives me: a completely refurbished rack. In fact, that’s what they should call it, “The Boob Job”. I don’t know, though, I got the bra at Neiman Marcus, and they might be too classy for that kind of thing.
If you’re one of those people who never has to go bra shopping — people with penises, or small breasts, or both — you’re really lucky because it isn’t exactly the uplifting experience you might imagine. It’s actually incredibly tedious and demoralizing. Not only do you get to stare at your rolls and ripples in the high relief of the corpse-hued overhead lighting, but you get to do it for hours. Hours and hours and hours.
The sizing isn’t regulated at all, so a 34D in one brand is a 36C in another. You may find a blue bra that fits just right, but the red version of the exact same bra is all wrong. And each bra does something completely different. One makes you pointy, one makes you walleyed, one cuts you in half and gives you that “four-breast sampler” look. So you have to try them all on and look at them from every angle. And then you have to put a tee-shirt on because sometimes a bra that’s fine on its own looks terrible under certain clothing — it bunches or it’s too nippletastic or the lace makes you look like you’re having some kind of insane allergic reaction. Then you have to jump up and down to see if the bra holds. And lean over and shake your shoulders like you’re sexy dancing at someone lying on the floor to make sure you don’t pop out the top. With each and every bra.
The last time I went bra shopping, not even one bra made the grade. And by the time I finally gave up, I was sweaty and faint and a little bit weepy — not only had I failed, but I was starving because of course I had underestimated how long it would take to not find a bra, so I missed dinner.
But then I went to my friend Erika’s slumber party a few weeks ago and she told us all about this great bra-buying experience she had at Neiman’s. She said she went in told the bra ladies exactly what she wanted, that she didn’t want to spend more than $60, and they steered her right toward the perfect fit.
Sixty dollars sounded like a crazy amount of money to me because I usually spend more like twenty. But when I realized I was willing to pay a hundred dollars not to have to go through the fruitless calisthenics again, it sounded like a bargain.
So I picked out a particularly bra-defying tee-shirt and rolled over to the Neiman Marcus bra department and told the bra fairies what I was looking for. “I want a bra that isn’t going to make me look frumpy,” I said. “Oh and I don’t want to spend more than $60.”
“Yes,” the bra aficionado said, “you need the support, I can tell.”
I don’t know if she was talking about my tits or my mental health, and I didn’t care because she was already running around, picking out all these bras that I would have never even considered. Then she came into the dressing room with me and made me try the first one on in front of her. I was a little distracted by how quickly this date was going, so I didn’t even make the obligatory, “Not unless you buy me dinner first!” comment that I’m sure she gets seventy-two times a day. Not even a weak, “quirky” varietal like, “Not unless you bake me a peach cobbler first!” or “Haven’t you heard of foreplay?” (When I worked at the movie theater, the big favorite was, “Hold the WD40!” which we got whenever we asked if the customer wanted butter flavoring. How did that become something that everyone said? Maybe there really is a collective brain … and it’s got an extra mediocre sense of humor.)
The first bra fit perfectly. It was like, I don’t know, somehow my breasts made sense for the first time in my life. And the second one fit even better than the first! They were all really, really supportive, but I decided to pick just one and see how it held up under the pressure of life with Evany before I spent all my money. And let me tell you, this bra is a real trooper. I am truly buttressed.
This could be it.