7

. . . and 33 to go.

This morning, in an effort to look more pulled together than I really am, I fashioned my hair into a French Twist. As I own no styling products (I never figured out how to use them to any good effect), I secured my up-do with a million bobby pins. As well as a professional look, it provides the unexpected illusion that I've had a face lift and now I worry that I've wound my hair a little too tightly.

Sometimes these things work out as planned and sometimes they don't. From behind, my hair looks less like the rich swirl of a croissant and more like a plate of spaghetti. Without time to muck around with it, I adopted a "close enough" attitude.

It wasn't until I was ready to leave the house that I put on my glasses and saw the results of my efforts. My hair looked more like a furry hat than smooth sophistication. I made a mental note to invest in some hair spray.

By the time I got to work my hair was already falling in limp tendrils and by noon I expect the whole thing will be undone. My tresses will be kinked with more randomness than can be plausibly explained by, "I slept with it wet."

And even though this exercise was designed to streamline the process of getting ready for work, it still me took thirty minutes to figure out which shoes to wear.

Onward.