In a recent informal social inquiry I ranked Pride as one of my top 3 deadly sins. Hubby was quick to call me out on that. With the prevalence of photographs and video on the go, I have started wearing makeup more often. But…well, I haven’t had a haircut since December; and my fine angel hair is ratty, ragged and in general disarray. Anyone who puts pride before greed, wrath or sloth would be getting their hair cut more regularly. I mean really!?! So, I bit the bullet, called the salon and slipped into a last min cancellation.
While dipped over a lacquered black basin, my cares were washed down the drain. My scalp massaged and my ego boosted. We hadn’t even started yet. As my talented and trustworthy stylist twirled me around trimming off excess inches and snarled messes, I could feel my pride on the rise. Not that icky Se7en type pride, but a healthy happy well cared for pride. I might even say, confidence. With each snip of the scissors, I felt better. And that felt good. I needed it.
After being blown into style I was promptly deflated but unbeaten by the damp warm blanket of the city after a storm. Everything soggy and smothering. My rain coat weighing me down. So I slid into a sleeve dress and marched through the mud. I danced for the puppet master, before turing into Stacey London for a friend who looks great in everything. All the while starring through freshly cut bangs. I was woman, roaring. I was wearing a pink dress and doing it all. With a great new haircut. So, I might not say Pride is #1, but I definitely like it better when I look good.
P.S. A kindly Gentleman bought me a cookie and I took it. It was delicious. Thank you Kind Sir!