I love going to the salon. Possibly even more than I love grocery shopping. I get to park my ass and have people bring me coffee and rub my head and massage my hands and slather me in amazing-smelling goos and gossip and flip through trashy magazines and end up looking totally hawt. All for the low, low price of… oh hell, who’re we kidding? It’s stupid what I spend there. And I don’t care. Only cause for fear is when Cristina (the first and only stylist I have ever loved) gets that gleam in her eye and decides I need my makeup touched up, and I end up looking like Alexis Carrington. Ahh well, least it’s good for entertainment…

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