Saturday morning, exhausted from another night of tossing and turning, I rolled out of bed and pulled on my weekend/after-school uniform (sweatpants and sweatshirt.) Feeling a little frustrated with the weight I’ve gained again, temporary relief surged through me as I remembered that I was heading to my favorite “therapy couch” today; I had an appointment set for my friend E’s salon chair. At least my hair would look nice today.
While E worked her hair magic, I rambled on about home. My voice may have “carried” a little bit too much over the noise from the hairdryers, but stares don’t phase me as much as they used to. In fact, it’s kind of liberating to be a bit transparent. And if I’m not mistaken, a few ladies nearby wanted to join the conversation. (Or perhaps, the looks meant something else…but it doesn’t matter.)
E finished drying my fresh hairstyle while I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked tired, my cheeks seemed puffy, and my sweatshirt was tight…but my hair looked good.
I paid my friend, E, and sat back in a chair to read. For only a second my mind wondered if people noticed that I didn’t go home.
Finishing the mindless, celebrity gossip magazine, I headed back to my messy minivan. And for some reason, my darn van drove me right to another salon – a manicure might help. (It’s been about five to six years since my last one.) Perhaps if my hair and my nails look nice, I’ll start taking care of myself again.
As I walked out of the second salon of the day, I glanced down at my perfect, little nails. Catching the time on my watch, I realized that my morning of indulgence had lasted four hours … and it was time to go home.