Ok, the long and the short of it: my hair is darker than it was 5 days ago. It's telling of my natural color, now that the summer bleach has been attended to. A few people who are used to seeing me out and about have commented on my eyes. Not the hair, but the eyes. Weirdos. I didn't pay for the eyes, I paid for the hair. NOTICE THE HAIR IF YOU'RE GOING TO NOTICE.

Let's see...there's the lady at the coffeeshop, the man at the coffeeshop, the other man at the coffeeshop, and my friend who works at the gym. (Oooh! A   twofer! You get an anecdote and a glimpse into my social agenda BOTH!) It was with the last of these that I managed to shove my foot into my mouth and hold it there for a good 10 seconds complete. I replied to her comment, "Darker hair accentuates my coloring differently. Funny how a person's natural hair color compliments their face." I was going for "wry", you see...

But in arduous effort to be humorously self-derisive, I forgot my audience...I tucked tail and blushed. I couldn't make eye contact with my magenta-headed friend until she admitted, "Yes, I agree. That's totally why I stopped dyeing mine."

Friend-who-wishes-to-remain-anonymous: "So she's single once more..."

Me: "Mmmhmmm..."

Friend-who-wishes-to-remain-anonymous: "I sincerely hope you're taking advantage of it."

Me: "Oh yes, definitely."

Friend-who-wishes-to-remain-anonymous: "Oh, really?" She chuckled and communicated her disbelief. "And how are you living it up?"

Me: "Eating a lot of onions, mainly."

We were walking toward the church Saturday evening. Brenda attends church just once a year, on Christmas Eve. Needless to say, she was slightly apprehensive, second-guessing herself, and wanting so very much to fit in. She turned to me on the slippery pavement and huffed antiseptically laced spearmint breath all over me. I managed not to cough as my eyes teared at the sting, and replied, "That's nice."

This pleased her greatly, and her eyes lit in satisfaction. "Good! I know you're not fond of beer, so that means the breath freshener worked!"

Debbie had an appointment with her dentist this morning. He happened to notice that her lip sported quite the sore, and my aunt was forced to say, "To make a long story short, I dropped a TV on it."

We were in the SUV together, my aunts, my mother, and myself. At this point in the retelling, Brenda piped in, "And did you tell them, 'The shaming part was when my 90-pound niece hoisted it single-handedly off of my face?'" Everybody laughed...everybody aside from yours truly. I was too busy letting my head expand.

"Ninety pounds! You think I weigh NINETY POUNDS!?" I exclaimed in wonder. Then, catching myself quickly, I added, "...good guess," and cleared my throat anxiously. Merry Christmas to me...woohoo!

I feel like I'm on the verge of major breakout. Not cool. I whined about it good and plenty this morning as I readied for church. I stomped up and down the stairs countless times—which was quite the attention-getter in my knee-high, high heeled boots—utilizing my skin care products both in my bedroom and in the bathroom. Eventually, I huffed, "I guess if God cares that my forehead is about to be acne ridden, that's just tough!" Wryly, I poured myself a hasty cup of coffee. I stared into the void space and wrinkled my nose.

"I'm supposed to meet with someone tomorrow," I finally expounded to Brenda, who understands such blemish woes. But then, realizing my admittance and feeling the guilt coursing through me, I finished hastily, defensively, and properly shamed, "That's right, God has nothing to do with it."