So I'm at my public's house RIGHT NOW because my parents invited us to dinner (salmon that my Uncle Bob caught in April. Mmm!) and then I was all like, how about you dye my hair? and Mom was all like, ha ha, sure! and then I went and got my bag o' crappy clothes and bottles of dye (yes, bottles, because my hair is thick, yo) and Mom was all, oh, I thought you were joking.
The point I'm trying to make is that my hair is now dripping with dye and I'm on my parents' crappy Dell and I'm going to update to thank my mother for dying my hair. She just likes words, I guess.
(You know, Mom, you really need to up your standards. Seriously. A few incoherent words should NOT be enough.)
Anyway, while Mom was dying my hair, she was all, you know what I hate? My mustache, and I was all like, word up! I hate mine too! And then we talked about my sweet little grandma considering bleaching options at 89 and how it sucks to find some long hair on your neck and then wonder how long you've been walking around like that and how many people noticed. (Probably none, though. It's my ugly shirt theory: Everyone is so worried about their own ugly shirt that they don't even see yours. You know I'm right.) Oh, and how Mom sort of misses my big puffy dumb hair sometimes, now that I'm straightening it.
So it's been awesome, is what I'm saying. Anyway, I have like three minutes to go before I have to rinse my hair out, so this will have to do.
Oops, one minute. Bye.