Good morning, world. It’s too early for me to be out of bed, but here we are. The sun is rising and shit looks promising outside. I’m fighting Chaucer to maintain solitary control of my lap. I’m winning, but he’s stubbornly standing on my hip.
Shawshank and I had a good day off together. The vacuum came out and did its thing. I ironed all the finished pants on the freshly cleaned floor. I trimmed a lot of threads as I found them, but stopped short of a full final inspection until I do the elastic.
We put off the plan to visit Shady Acres, as Shawshank‘s mom needed to sleep. We went out to the thrift store anyway, and I picked up some fabric scraps. I also found a very y2k-era celestial print shower curtain. It would have perfectly matched those navy towels with the gold stars we all had. Shawshank found an honest to god 3-wolf moon shirt, which I grabbed. My first plan was to turn it into a crop top, but Shawshank suggested fringe or shredding it. It got the fringe treatment.
I got a load of hair in the mail, which absolutely fascinated Pippin. I’m sure this means wearing locs is going to transform me into an enormous cat toy to her.
That’s going to be a whole-ass day of fucking with my hair. It’s due for a wash anyway, so I’ll wash it today. Shawshank asked if he was going to come home this afternoon and find me in the middle of everything. I told him I need to figure out which colors I’m going to use first. His suggestion was exactly what I expected.
Use all of them.
I won’t install them today; I know I’ll condition my hair, and it’ll be too slippery to braid well as a result. Instead, I’ll stare longingly at the lump under an afghan- hidden from the cats, the only evidence in the house of the hair’s existence right now.
