My Friday morning? Less than stellar. I blame it on The Linda. That sassy broad had my head spinning.
Got your notepad ready? Here's some important math... Hydration plus ibuprofen does not equal recuperation. But vanity got the best of me, and I mustered enough giddy-up to make my noon hair appointment. Like a champ. (A spectacularly hungover champ).
Four hours later, I left without five inches of hair. And a questionable color job. ("Brighten it up for summer" didn't translate from photo to follicle like I'd hoped). But it's hair. Hair. I fired off a few precautionary "I might look like a Swedish hooker" texts and decided to shrug it off and embrace the towheaded mane a la Kate B. (Can we all just agree that Blue Crush is still her best work?)
Then, trekked down Mopac during rush hour to meet one of my favorite friends at Abel's.
"I'm not drinking at all though," I said.
"Hair of the dog," she said.
Turns out I didn't have to choose. Battling lake-goers and driving in circles in search of parking drained me of happy hour joy.
"Excuse me, ma'am..."
What is this joker doing, waving his hands at me? Pointing out a spot?
"Ma'am, you can't park here. Reserved for vehicles with boat trailers only. Unless you want a ticket."
"NO I DO NOT WANT A TICKET," I yelled, window still rolled down. "I GIVE UP."
I peeled out of the gravelly lot (theatrics) and settled for a quiet night on the couch. I'm talking Crest White Strips and New York Times' Modern Love. (They're so good. The stories, not the Strips). Making the rest of my Friday as salacious as, well, a saltine cracker.