Tomorrow is the first day on the new job, or, as I like to call it, The Inevitable March Toward My Unveiling As A Complete Fraud.
I don’t know about all of you, but I feel like every job I’ve ever accepted was something I talked people into during the interview. Because let’s be honest – I can talk a good game. But when push comes to shove, I’m not always certain I have the follow-through. These people really think I can do what I say I can do. When my new boss sent me a congratulatory email, I responded by saying “I hope to live up to my self-promotion.” At least I’m not without honor.
One thing that’s weighing on my for tomorrow is my hair. I’m pretty low-maintenance looks-wise, and my role in this world is to set the bar low for myself so that others may feel more stylish and put together. YOU’RE WELCOME, WORLD. But it was with joy that I pulled up to the salon on Friday evening to get my grays covered. The night before, I was talking at dinner about how excited I was to get my hairs did, and The Son chimed in with “Yeah, Mom, I hate to say it, but I was walking behind you the other day and man, you really have a lot of gray hair.”
Current Husband looked at him and said, “Son, I need to teach you how to talk to women. And that is not it.”
But alas, he’s right. So I walked into the hair place and said, “I’m here to see Jaimie!” and the receptionist looked at me blank-faced and said, “Um, she’s in her last appointment for the night.” Oh no she’s not! She has to make my hair First Day Ready! And then she dropped the bomb. “Your appointment was last night. We tried to call you and nothing picked up.”
DAMN. IT. ALL. TO. HELL.
I put it in my calendar wrong. (Not so detail-oriented, new boss! Please make a note of it!) And now I have Neapolitan hair with a nice watermark running through it. UGH.
Color grow-out mark indicated by red lines, patches of renegade gray hairs in the blue circles.
It’s everywhere, people.
What this hair says to people is: “I’m too cheap to schedule my color every six weeks, and instead push it to 10-12 weeks, thus growing out my color to a Madonna-like level.” I am wearing my badge of highlighting shame.
Also? My daughters each told me tonight that my breath smells bad. Youngest Daughter said she couldn’t decide if it was my sweater or my breath that reeked during Mass, but then I started singing and apparently the breath won. Freaking kids.
I also ate my way through the weekend, so when I take my new security badge photo tomorrow, which will be with me for THE DURATION OF MY CAREER WITH THIS COMPANY, it will be with me busting out of my pants and Patch Adams grown-out highlights Badge of Shame hair. I can only hope it’s from a such as distance you can’t see my hair, because the photographer will be avoiding my Roadkill Breath.
Little blessings, People. Little blessings.
Hope you have an awesome week, Wifers.