I have seen two movies on the big screen in five years, and the newest song on my iPod might be something by Steely Dan. I really, honestly don’t watch TV. (The occasional 10 year-old episode of America’s Funniest Videos is my no-longer-secret indulgence.) I have never seen Dancing with the Stars or Lost. And yet I know all about Lindsay Lohan’s same-sex alleged fiancee (!), Heather Locklear’s latest breakdown and the fact that seemingly-nice Izzy may indeed get McMurdered off of her hit show for selfishly withdrawing her name from the illustrious Emmy pool.
God I love my hair salon.
They’ve got stacks upon towering stacks of Us, People, Star and more. And I’ve got untold hours to see the buff and the beautiful in all of their screwed-up glory. (My last hair salon only carried Yoga Journal and Vegetarian Times. The hair cuts I got there were fabulous, the space serene and they had the best cup of coffee this side of Seattle. But come on.) Shirtless studs, relentless panty-flashers, celebrity cellulite–magnified a hundred and sixty fantastical times!–there’s just no telling what delight lurks behind the next page. Then there’s always that touching “human interest” story, and by “human interest” I mean a piece about someone who brutally murdered one or more of their loved ones, shocking every last member of their “quiet, old-fashioned” community. Sure, there’s the occasional hard-hitting political expose, such as the fascinating interview I read with Michelle Obama about… her campaign wardrobe. Or the John McCain Q&A in which he reveals he is… best-buds with George Clooney. (He’s definitely getting my vote now!)
My husband thinks I’m insane for getting my hair done every two weeks. But honestly, a girl’s gotta keep up.