Just a quick note here:
I was talking to my sister yesterday about where I should go to get my haircolor done.
[Tangent: Oh yes, I am a total Haircolor Whore. And I guess part of the reason I write so much about money on this blog, besides just being honest and talking about the things we're all probably thinking about but somehow not allowed to talk about, is because there are things that a girl requires. And she needs a little change to get her Tonics and Perfumes and Hair Dressings; her Gloves and her Fans and her Reticules; her Ribbons and her Crinolines and her Historically Accurate Sewing Patterns for Edwardian Under-Things. I am not even kidding.]
So my sister was recommending this salon in Milwaukee, and she said, "Okay, here's the number, so you can just call up and ask for Jackie."
And here's me:
"JACKIE?!?!?!?!"
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One SuperHero's Narrative of Desire, Sex, and Crime-Fighting.
3 comments:
As in, "I'm not having my hair colored by someone named JACKIE!"?
Dude, as in all these random chumps keep calling me up and demanding, "WHERE'S JACKIE?!?!?!?!" [See post "The Art of the Telephone".] I knew I should have been more rhetorically clever, but sometimes the clever doesn't come--especially when I may have just discovered the secret hiding place of the mysterious JACKIE[?!?!?!?!].
Whatcha think she's doing up in M'waukee, anyway? How many people has she left hanging there? I have to wonder...
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