After work on Friday, I got my hair did. Well, cut. Now it's shoulder length, if any of you are keeping track. As I think I've mentioned, my hairdresser is a longtime family friend and every time I see her, she repeatedly asks me to a) get it cut more often, which I really should, b) blow it dry adequately every time, which I really should, and c) use products. I don't really use any products; my hair is Totally Straight and Boring (see right) and I'm inexplicably a wash-and-go girl in this one area of my life. My hairdresser can't get over the fact that I love every other kind of product and yet I'm not at all enticed by shine spray or texturing paste or whatever the hell she puts on me. It always goes like this:
Me: I never blow it dry for this long.
Her: I know.
Me: Or this thoroughly.
Her: I know. But you should.
Me: I'm filled with regret.
Her: Oh, enough out of you.
Me: You don't have to use any product.
Her: I know, but this will just make it shiny/silky/supple/sublime.
Me: No, that's okay.
Her: I'm just using a TINY bit.
Clearly, I'm good at drawing boundaries when it matters.
With hair like a golden, dewy meadow, the only time in the foreseeable future that it won't be damp and/or in a ponytail, I went to meet Mardi and Doug at the Marriott bar/restaurant, where there appeared to be a Santa convention going on. Those sorts of things are funnier to observe when you're drinking vodka cranberries. Then we went to (where else?!) the Cherry Tree, where our favorite barfly has, sadly, left for brighter pastures, which means that we now have to pay for our own pitchers. Miller Lite is back to tasting like hooker bile now that it costs money again. At one point all the Santas that we saw at the hotel came raging into the Tree singing Christmas carols; apparently they were bar hopping to spread the holiday cheer and raise money for underprivileged kids. Mardi lured one of the well-intentioned Santas into drinking cheap beer with us for awhile, and Doug looked up at one of the other ones and asked, "Are there really needy kids in [Affluent City We Were In]?"
On Saturday I went to my godmother's Christmas party. She hasn't had a party in about fifteen years so I got to hear plenty of "Oh, my goodness, look at how big you've gotten!" which really isn't a compliment when you're 29. I flitted around like the social freakin' butterfly that I am and provided answers to questions like "So what are you doing for work these days?" (I'm a neurologist who practices law on the weekends and also writes children's books), "So where are you living these days?" (I split my time between my country home, my city home, and the island of Hawaii, which I recently purchased), and "So have you met anyone special?" (Nah, still screening Leonardo's calls; he can be so needy, you know?)
I got home around 1, and Mardi and Sarah were still out but the bars were closing (welcome to Boston, we're lame!) so they came over to my place, because it's the happening afterhours (read: in lieu of a full bar and live band, it features a laundry basket full of towels and a fridge with nothing but wine and ketchup). Mardi brought a boy, in keeping with the tradition of my friends using my home as their motel, and Sarah and I went upstairs to sleep but she kept me awake and giggling. In the morning I drove the lovebirds home and then Mardi and I shopped for accessories for my New Year's Eve naughty-or-nice extravaganza. One of the stops was a party store where I was able to use my teacher discount. Nothing like exploiting the kids to save a few bucks on handcuffs, extra large blow pops and candy necklaces; I'm sure I can incorporate them into a lesson plan somehow.
(P.S. Thanks Zorak! See how I turned my gratitude into a shameless plug? Takes skill.)