Last weekend The Mister and I embarked on our annual pilgrimage to the Smoky Mountains. We holed up with about a dozen other degenerates and spent our time discussing how we could still totally throw down on some MadDog 20/20 and Boone's Farm like we did 10 years ago, and if you didn't believe us just wait until we finished our bottled water and then we'd show you how badass we still are.
At one point during the weekend I was the designated driver, so I had the unique privilege of driving a bunch of drunk assholes around who decided to discuss why their 80's high school hairstyles were superior to others. "You can call a mullet whatever you want. You can say it's lame or stupid or tacky. But I will forever call it this: Fucking AWESOME!"
I listened to these drunken testaments to feathered bangs and home perms and chuckled, secure in the knowledge that I had masterfully navigated the minefield of 80's hairstyles. Oh sure, I had some fluffy bangs and all, and I had been known to employ a can of Super Ultra Hold AquaNet from time to time, but that was a requirement of the time. If your hair didn't crackle when touched then you didn't mean business. Those bitches who just used the Super Hold AquaNet were pikers. Regular Super Hold. Ha! Losers.
This morning I received an email from an old boyfriend. He's been scanning old photos and sent me one that he took of me sometime in 1989. I almost choked on my breakfast (peanut M&M, because I'm all about the health, people!) when I saw it. Apparently my hair acumen wasn't what I thought it was. I give you Exhibit A:
Oh, the humanity! First of all, why in the hell does my nose look so big? Sweet Christ, it looks like a flesh-colored banana but it is actually stupidly small. But back to the point, it looks like I have a cinnamon breakfast pastry glued to my head. Those bangs wouldn't budge in a tornado. That's some serious AquaNet there, people. And somewhere in the atmosphere there is a hole in the ozone with my goddamn name all over it.
Sorry, people of Earth.
At one point during the weekend I was the designated driver, so I had the unique privilege of driving a bunch of drunk assholes around who decided to discuss why their 80's high school hairstyles were superior to others. "You can call a mullet whatever you want. You can say it's lame or stupid or tacky. But I will forever call it this: Fucking AWESOME!"
I listened to these drunken testaments to feathered bangs and home perms and chuckled, secure in the knowledge that I had masterfully navigated the minefield of 80's hairstyles. Oh sure, I had some fluffy bangs and all, and I had been known to employ a can of Super Ultra Hold AquaNet from time to time, but that was a requirement of the time. If your hair didn't crackle when touched then you didn't mean business. Those bitches who just used the Super Hold AquaNet were pikers. Regular Super Hold. Ha! Losers.
This morning I received an email from an old boyfriend. He's been scanning old photos and sent me one that he took of me sometime in 1989. I almost choked on my breakfast (peanut M&M, because I'm all about the health, people!) when I saw it. Apparently my hair acumen wasn't what I thought it was. I give you Exhibit A:
Oh, the humanity! First of all, why in the hell does my nose look so big? Sweet Christ, it looks like a flesh-colored banana but it is actually stupidly small. But back to the point, it looks like I have a cinnamon breakfast pastry glued to my head. Those bangs wouldn't budge in a tornado. That's some serious AquaNet there, people. And somewhere in the atmosphere there is a hole in the ozone with my goddamn name all over it.
Sorry, people of Earth.
3 Comments:
You look like Rachel (Jennifer Anniston) during her high school flashbacks. Lucky!
In all fairness, old boyfriend's hair was just as ridiculous back in the day.
You look like Rachel (Jennifer Anniston) during her high school flashbacks.
Those were the "pre-nose job years," right? Sigh.
In all fairness, old boyfriend's hair was just as ridiculous back in the day.
That decade was a cruel hairdo mistress indeed.
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