At Least I’m Not Paying For It

So the other day, I’m hanging out in front of St. Patrick’s, and not just because H&M is across the street and I see this:

These are NYPD. New York's finest. On horseback. Just so you know.

And first I think, aww! blondes have the same amount of fun as brunettes! And then I look closer and I’m all like, “who does that bitch’s color because I can tell you this much, she ain’t no Bergdorf Blonde.”  Because that’s how I talk to myself when standing in front of St. Patrick’s. And contemplating a ho-over shopping spree at H&M.  And then, because it always takes two sentences max for me to refocus on myself, I get depressed about my hair.  Because my dye jobs haven’t been fantastic lately. And if you pay fantastic, you want fantastic.    So I have to break up with my gay.  Which is hard, because, no  joke, I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Husbandrinka.  Unless I’ve known Husbandrinka longer. But I don’t want to look like that horse on the right. (Although to be fair, I also don’t want to look like the horse on the left, who seems to have some sort of running injury).

So this is what I’m doing. I signed up to be a hair model for a super-prominent salon.  You sign up on line, give them all your information, upload a photo, and viola! They call you with an appointment and some students practice on you. (Unless what they do is kidnap you and sell your organs, in which case this blog may be on hiatus. And stay away from any black market livers you may find on line).   This way, even though I’m cheating on my colorist, at least I’m not paying for it.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.  Prepare yourselves for a cautionary tale.  I may be on duty in front of St. Patrick’s, if I’m lucky.

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One year ago ...

• Betting Woman - 2013