The Bitch is Back

Miz Shoes has had quite enough of being quiet, thank you. I've gotten over the shock of the Thing That Cannot Be Named. Back to the blog.

So, when I left the world of corporate America, I let my freak flag fly: I dyed my hair magenta and purple and turquoise and all sorts of happy colors. It made most people shy away from me, just a little, here in my little home town. And that was good. In the last three years, though, there has been some sort of seismic shift in little old ladies. They ALL have fucking purple and turquoise and fairy hair and if you doubt me, go to Disney World and observe the grannies from the flyover states rocking the pink.

One night, the unthinkable happened. I was at a meeting (admittedly, of artists) and some random woman with purple hair got right up in my personal space and did something with her face that was meant to be an ingratiating smile. Then she pointed at my hair and hers and made noise to the effect that we must be soul sisters or something. I was filled with horror. My hair color was meant to be a warning, people, not an invitation. I raced back to my seat and called my hairdresser. Two days later, I had no color and very, very short hair.

This is why we can't have nice things.