Shemp Howard is My Stylist

After running for the bus with the back of my skirt tucked up into my pantyhose for the third time in as many months, I've come to the realization that maybe a little more care in preparing for the day should be in order. No one would ever accuse me of being a girly-girl, but I do try to make an effort to look presentable. It's just that lately things seemed to have gone slightly askew.

I am grateful that I do not have a job that depends on my stunning good looks and sense of style. I've been a "woman of a certain age" for a few years now, the pressure is off. Except for about a week in sixth grade, boys have always looked me in the eyes. And yet, last week, my blouse exploded. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, June busted out all over. I didn't realize the buttons fell off until after the meeting with the client's boss. The problem with cloth-covered buttons is they don't make that bullets-ricocheting-off-something sound that would have at least alerted me to there being something awry. One would think the breeze would have been a hint, but one would be wrong. The air-conditioning in our office is controlled by Yetis. It's always breezy.

Today, three people complimented me on how I "fixed" my hair. Here's the complicated method I used. I forgot a rubber band to pull it back in a ponytail and had to wear it loose. That's it, that's all. I fussed, well for me anyway. I don't think I even combed it. Tomorrow, I fully intend not to part it. I bet I'll be beating admirers off with a stick.