I would like to walk out the door with wet hair and be beautiful.
Using night cream is part of my reality that I didn’t think would ever happen.
If I’m so vain, why do I bite my fingernails down to bleeding stubs?
Wouldn’t it be great if men aged faster than women?
I spend too much money on exfoliating products. I love everything about exfoliation. The feeling, the process, the result, the word itself.
I still have visible scars all over my boobs from my surgery two years ago and while this is very noticeable, for some stupid reason, I am fixated on the backs of my thighs and whether they are smooth. I find smoothness a very desirable quality in my own self, though I like the texture of Adrian’s skin, actually.
I don’t think Adrian notices any of this shit.
Adrian’s always fond of discussing what he’d do with his lottery winnings. I’d fly to Los Angeles and have a million laser hair removal treatments on my armpits and legs and eyebrows. If I never shave or tweeze again it will be too soon.
I am very fond of those twin little divots people have on their lower backs.
There is so much wiry grey hair working its insidious way out of my scalp and my hair in general is in that puffy stage where Matilda calls me Sponge Mom Square Hair. And my lovely hair stylist has been out of work due to a terrible injury to her facebones. I mean, her face bones and her eye sockets! Terrible, huh? For both of us (but more for her, because, OUCH.) Meanwhile my hair looks like I should be stirring a cauldron and offering up cryptic prophesies to unsuspecting young heroes…