the trick is to keep breathing

1) I have found the grey corduroys I've been missing for about six months now. They'd gotten mixed in with my jeans. Which is a shame, because I love these pants. I am a big fan of corduroys for some lame reason; I don't know, but I love them. On guys, on girls, on me.

2) I really want to chop off my hair. But I'm torn because it's so long and I don't know if I'll ever have the patience to grow it this long again. But it doesn't look great long unless I put *work* into it; short hair might be easier. (Or uglier! I DON'T KNOW.)

3) I feel an almost undeniable urge to go out and buy boots.

I'm never sure whether to be pleased or not when actual professional hairdressers have trouble doing my hair. On one hand, it gives me a sense of smug (if bleak) satisfaction to have my place on the Top Ten List of Most Unmanageable Hair Of All Time re-confirmed, since my personal excuse for being such a fug hobo all the time is that my hair's ridiculously naturally ugly and I am too lazy and not vain enough to put in the time required to make it look decently averagely respectable to the American public. (Mary Sue, I am not.) Having a professional hair person confirm that my hair is made of fail makes me feel better, like it's not all my fault that I'm such a hag.

Then again, if they can't even make my hair look nice, what hope do I have? What chance in hell do I have of ever looking pretty? What am I paying them for??

Ha ha, why do I care.