wtf, Seasonal Edition
*yes, I do go get my brows done even when I am filled with
the fear of death and aging. It’s
not going to do itself, is it?
Late November in New England is a really good time to contemplate your own mortality and the futility of ego. I carried a good heap of this back over the border of New York yesterday and was continuing to have a stream of dark, repetitive, brooding and highly unromantic thoughts when they were rudely interrupted by the following scene:
An absolutely beautiful little girl who couldn’t have been more than six or seven, with long, shiny brown hair held back by a single braid and a silk flower, sitting oh so carefully in her Christmas dress, little black boots, and adorable faux fur coat, next to her equally dressed-up mother, WAITING TO HAVE HER SEVEN-YEAR-OLD BROWS DONE AT MY BROW PLACE.
Wtf doesn’t quite cover it.
So my Ibsenian, seasonal funk has to get in line behind my normal outrage at the state of mankind. It’s a Christmas miracle.
Hey people, do you think this season maybe can we stop killing each other at shopping malls, waiting in line two hours for pastries when people are starving elsewhere, and forcing painful and subjective ideals of beauty on little kids?