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So my best friend Lesley has written in her blog about the size—or rather, the shape of—her ass. According to her, it’s flat. Not that I spend a lot of time checking out her ass, but it’s a perfectly nice one. But we always want what we don’t have.

For instance, boobs. Just walk a block around L.A. (or anywhere really) and you’ll see just how many women tried to correct what Mother Nature didn’t give them. Now, I have checked out Lesley’s boobs—not like that—but in a “I wish my boobs looked like that” kind of way. Mine don’t. Instead, I have to wear a padded bra that’s designed to add, well, boobs (thank you Victoria for sharing your Secret).

Hair is another thing I covet. More so than boobs. I don’t know if this is subconscious thing or not, but my best friends have always had the best hair. I seem to have surrounded myself with women who have perfect locks. You know the kind I’m taking about—long, healthy, shiny hair that seems to looks sexy and effortless at the same time. It’s beautiful down and looks just as good shoved under a ball cap. My hair? Not so much.

When I was a kid I’d walk around the house with my nightgown wrapped over my head, draped down my back, pretending I had long hair. When I was about 9, my grandmother decided that I should get a perm. According to her, my lovely blonde hair was stringy and fine and needed some “body.” And this began the battle with my hair. Every few months I’d hang out in the kitchen with my mom, while she wrapped those horrible pink curlers with the little foam sheets (meant to prevent damage to the hair. As if.) astightlyasshecould all up and down my scalp, and then squeezed that nasty perm solution all over my head. Much crying was involved.

When I got old enough to take charge of my hair, I still got perms, but by then I was I blow-drying my hair straight and feathered the sides. Farrah Fawcett had nothin’ on me, man. My feathers went so far around the back of my head they almost met.

In high school, I discovered the bob. I still got perms with my cute little bob, but it was ALL about the bangs. At the time, it was the style to tease the bangs up with a little swoop near the scalp. I rocked that look hard.

Through all of this, I can only remember two times in my life that my hair was actually long—once in college and once around the time I got married. When I was in college, my boyfriend’s brother did me the biggest favor. He pulled me aside and said, “Honey. You have GOT to do something about that hair.” So he dragged me to a beauty supply store, bought some straightening solution, took me home and got rid of that perm. When the whole mess was straightened, it was down to the middle of my back. And it looked like the stringy mess I started with when I was 9. It was a hot tranny mess.

Over the years I’ve cut my hair short and I’ve let it grow. I’ve dyed it various shades of blonde and even brown and red. Once in while when I was still coloring it myself it ended up green (okay, this may have happened more than once) and pink (I left the pink. It was very punk rock).

After all of that I never did achieve that effortless, sexy look. At some point a couple of years ago I gave up on the notion of having luxurious locks and embraced what I have. I decided that if I can’t have long, sexy hair I’m going to rock shorter, edgier cuts.

Now what to do about the boobs?


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