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pinkdip2

For my upcoming birthday, some colleagues gave me a gift certificate for Claudio Tollardo’s renown En Vogue Salon. With branches in Moscow and Dubai as well as Zurich, it’s the reputed home to some of the most gifted hair stylists on this side of the Atlantic. Their way with hair, it is said, rivals Vladimir Nabokov’s way with words.

So when a totally unexpected, finishing flourish to my Balayage Ombre was suggested, what could I say but “Why not?” The tempting fact that I’d never before had a Pink Dip made it irresistible….

Like some socially forbidden, especially risque sexual act…. Yes, why not!

It’s fun. It makes me smile. And so I’m sharing — to validate my feeling, to have others tell me, yes, I’m fun.

But the fact is that lately — I always get this way around my birthday — I’ve been feeling decidedly unfun. When feeling unfun, I find myself pondering questions like:

Why am I expected to smile all the time? Look pretty? Take sexy selfies? Constantly tweet re-tweetable witticisms?

But those are the expectations not just for me but for every other girl I know. If not perpetually performing — constantly “on!” — we cease to exist. At least, that’s what it feels like.

The standard joke about bloggers is that we get to sit around all day lounging about in yoga pants and ratty sports bra, never leaving the house, in a constant state of bed head and mascara-free eyes, afraid to look in the mirror, disinclined to even “like” ourselves.

For me, it’s just the opposite.  Words are like hair and makeup and the most fashionable clothes.  When feeling unfun, I seldom write.  And if I don’t write, I’m forgotten.  The “comments” and “views” and “reads” dwindle to nothing.

So quickly forgotten, did I ever exist?

But to imagine that, when I do write, my words will somehow become timeless, immortal even, is the equivalent of believing that skinny jeans will never go out of fashion (if they haven’t already).

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