Truth or Dare or Dare or Dare

Ice cube down the pants. Hickey on the hinder. Strip tease to I'm Finding It Harder to Be a Gentleman. Simulations. Revelations. Kiss teaching. Only a miniature hangover this morning. A glance in the mirror says I look not so bad in this bra. As the fog burns off, I suppose it's necessary to ask whether I'm a little too grown-up for these shenanigans. But what, I ask you, are shenanigans for, if not to remind us that we are too grown-up for them?

The stage was fairly good to me last night. I liked much of what happened on it. A woman with red hair told me, somewhat on the hush as she was leaving, that I was the brains of the operation. I don't know what led her there, but I didn't fight it. And I ran into a handful of people, both at the theater and then later at the Alibi, who inquired or made comment about my absence from my former band. Supportive things were said. I was comforted. And I also noticed that these demons have long since fallen away. I haven't been mad in a while.

Today, as has been the plan for a few days, I'm visiting the salon with the intention of coming away looking different. I think I'm done with my concerns over the backlash that cutting my hair will cause. I'm not shaving it all off. And as far as I can tell, it will grow back, no matter what happens. I mean, I won't let them cauterize my follicles or anything. So there's no need for tears, you who would weep. And it would do the opposite of wonders for my self-esteem if I see you about town and you tell me what a shame it is. Dare me to cut my hair. I'm game.

But I've got to get going, haven't I?

Keeping young and beautiful,
Mary