Why my hair is pink

Subtitle: An unapologetically self-centered review of myself

Growing up I was often called “bossy.”  Frequently I was charged with “impatient” or “know it all.”  During the middle years, my friends would tell me how “nice and sweet” my mother was; I would get “smart” [ass], and if I was really lucky, “funny.”  I tried, for awhile, to match my mom’s niceness and see if even one person might describe me as “sweet.”  No dice.

I did, however, on one very special night at a Spaghetti Warehouse get called “classy.(!)”  I’ll remember that night until the day I die – I bet I’ll even hang on to it through my inevitable dementia.  Can you imagine?  Classy!

Then again, I was in a Spaghetti Warehouse, a veritable Carnival Of Food for kids and their more sophisticated toddler friends.  What is the massive appeal to these small people?  Do they think the warehouse building is actually MADE of spaghetti (i.e. “Spaghetti Warehouse”)?

Anyway – that’s why my hair is pink now.  No more working through “bossy and impatient.”  No more hoping for “smart and funny.”  No more fantastical dreaming of “classy.”  Now I’m, “that woman with the pink hair.”

How nice it is just to be judged on my appearance!