Frightfully low. Bare bottom. The piggy bank has no rattle. No tinkling of coins. Dare I freak? No. I suck it up. Carry on.
Take that job as a Walmart greeter. No not that one, but I know it'll be another one as insipid. And embarrassing. Honorable employment, AARP friendly and with a double deep discount would make the items I purchase virtually free. But somehow I do not believe it would be good for my morale. My sense of self. My confidence. But never say never. That is my motto.
Funny how life comes at you. Multilayered. Bittersweet. Awfully good. Brilliantly dull. Completely unfinished. Dangerously safe. Icy hot. Good grief. Oxymoronic.
So with shrinking coffers and a glum outlook this afternoon, I did what any stylish woman with aplomb and time on her hands would do ... drove straight to my village coiffeur. Just like the ladies who lunch. Midday frivolity. Straight to Salon 96, in the nearby neighborhood shopping center around the corner from the (sadly) soon-to-be closing Garden Street Market next door to Bailey's favorite food store, It's Reigning Cats and Dogs, to pay darling Cheryl with au courant hair that only a twenty-something can pull off -- layered blond on top and black underneath -- a visit.
A subtle change. Nothing dramatic. Add vibrancy and shape into my tresses and my amorphous life. Snip out the weight. A bit of pizzazz to add sparkle to this rain dreary day ... and my ennui.
So tonight I sit at home resplendent with slightly updated, lightly layered locks. Part Jennifer Aniston, part an age-appropriate Sally Fields. Read: a more tousled, casual look. My thick chestnut hair more delicately gracing the top of my shoulder framing my face in a come hither look. Which makes Bailey more attentive. But, hey, she wouldn't care if I was sporting a burka so long as I come bearing treats.
Cheers to peeling the layers one sliver at a time. I am just getting started. Who knows what is next!