The Bra-Bind

So I went bra-shopping the other day and it was, as usual, a nightmare.  I hate to bra-shop.  Let me reiterate: I REALLY, REALLY hate to bra shop.  If you're, ahem, kind of on the well-endowed side this particular chore can really put a damper on your mood.  I've been putting it off but when the wire on my last good bra decided that it just couldn't do it anymore and snapped in the middle of grocery shopping, I knew I had to bite the bullet.  That and the fact that said wire continued to jab into my right boob until I got home propelled me into the store for new bras.

I know what you're thinking.  What's so hard about buying a couple of bras?  A lot.  The way I see it bra manufacturers give a gal two choices: 1.  Buy a padded bra (which, if you're on the well-endowed side is a bit redundant, no?) and 2. Look like your grandmother.  Since neither option appeals to me, I find myself in a bra-bind.

Since I obviously do not need to be "padded" I attempt to look for something that will do the job without making me look like a 1950's housewife or Madonna.  So I start checking out the wares.  About an hour later I'm so disgusted I could scream.  In fact I do scream.  Well, not scream exactly, more like speak sharply to the poor employee who drew the short straw and ended up working in the lingerie section. 

"Why don't you carry any bras that a regular woman can wear?" I say, wiping the sweat from my brow.

"Ma'am", she says (and thanks for that btw) "If you're having trouble with fit we are having a professional fitter in the store on Saturday." 

"A what?"

"A professional fitter.  She'll take your measurements so you can  be guaranteed a perfect fit," she says brightly.

Really, I wanted to smack the spritely out of her.

"And how do they do that?"

"Well, you have to disrobe and then they measure you in the three keys areas to gauge your size and then you try on bras that you like in that size and you will be amazed at the difference and never have difficulty buying bras again!" she finished with a big smile.

I just stared.

And stared.

Stared until the grin faded and she started looking for another customer to save her.

"So let me get this straight.  I am to disrobe in front of a total stranger, have her "measure" me in "three key places" and get a perfect size and I'll never have bra trouble again?  Even when I'm really old and the girls are down to my knees?"

"Uh...yes that's the idea," she said as she began straightening panties and no doubt plotting the untimely demise of the manager that scheduled her in lingerie.

"As interesting a concept as it sounds, I don't think I'm ready to have some stranger touching the girls, know what I mean?" I say, flicking through another rack.

"Fine," she says, "It just an...(looking me up and down) option."  Then she walked away.

I grabbed a couple of bras that I thought might work, brought them to another section of the store and checked out. 

Turns out?  I couldn't wait to get home today and take off one of my new bras because the straps were so friggin' tight I was worried the circulation to my shoulders was being cut off.  The rest of it was ok but what's with those straps?  One of the other bras straps were just right but the cups were just slightly too small, giving me a kind of uni-boob.  Staring at the bras I wondered if maybe I should go see this "professional bra fitter."  Was I desperate enough? 

Um...no I'm not that desperate. 

Yet.

Orange Hair Is Not A Good Look On Anyone...

unless you're a scary-ass clown hired to entertain (scare the crap out of) a bunch of six year olds.  I, however, am not such a clown.  Although I was looking like one about an hour ago, and, no, I did not sleep at a Holiday Inn Express last night.  In the interest of time (I have none) I decided to highlight my hair.  Y'know, to blend in those grays because I'm getting tired of coloring all the freakin' time!  So I carefully read the directions, do everything the helpful instruction sheet tells me, wait the requisite amount of time, wash and dry.  Imagine my surprise (horror) when I looked in the mirror and Bozo is staring back at me.  Hmm.  Maybe it's not so bad, I think to myself.  I turn this way.  I turn that way.  The dog wanders in the bathroom to see what I'm doing, looks up at me, yelps and backpeddles out of the room so fast he took the rug with him.

That is not a good sign.  Fighting down panic, I raced downstairs to my cabinet of hair stuff (I'll explain later) and grab a tube of color.  I mix, apply and am waiting on the results as I write.  Whatever it turns out to be, it's got to be better than Bozo-Orange. 

Now my explanation.  This is slightly embarrassing so bear with me.  I was a hairdresser for 17 years.  Yup.  Licensed and everything.  Still am licensed.  And you know what?  I know better.  I really, really do.  But because of the time situation (have none) I attempted to do what I KNOW shouldn't be done.  However, in my defense, I also know how to fix it.  Unfortunately, I have now spent double the amount of time it would have taken if I'd just gone to the salon.  When that little voice crops up again in 3 weeks and says, "The skunk stripe is back,"  I will calmly put down whatever I'm doing and call the salon.  I swear.