A Feast for the Eyes

I'm a wreck.

Hair's on end, clothes on backwards, holes in pants (not the cool kind)….that's when I'm going out.

I don't know what's happened to me. Old age? Bad hips? Don't give a shit? All of the above?

Back in the day, you'd never catch me out unless I was fully loaded. Hair done, face on, heels. A trip to the grocery store presented a fashion opportunity, not a dreaded chore. Okay, I didn't always look great at the grocery store. 

Or, maybe I did...

Often, I put on a baseball cap and flats for a quick skip to Ralph's or Whole Foods. Of course, my hair was freshly washed, but maybe not blown out. My face wasn't photo ready, but still. A dab of concealer, a hint of blush, a berry lip stain. My baseball cap was cool, maybe something pricey, hard to find, from the early 20th Century, African American Baseball League perhaps - just cause I'm a white girl didn't mean I couldn't get all hip-hop on your ass. And, my flats came from Kate Spade or Tory Burch.

Oh, those were giddy days.

Last week, I made a mad dash to the grocery store. I'd been cooking for days, getting ready for surgery, putting stuff in the freezer for hubby. I waited till the last possible minute to go. I needed the ingredients in, like, three seconds. So, I grabbed my army green drab jacket (Hubby calls me Castro when I wear it) tennis shoes with no laces, and took off.

I didn't look in a mirror before I left. Let's face it. Who cares?

I remembered I needed to pick up a prescription. So, I stood in the pharmacy line, waiting. My head itched. I scratched the top. Ack. When did I last wash it? I groped further back. The hair there felt flattened and matted. 

Bed hair. 

From which night? I looked around, kinda embarrassed. I noted the quarter-ton woman in animal print leggings, tank top, her braless boobs doing a gelatinous dance around her waistband, and shrugged. 

Feeling a little better, I patted my hair into place, a reflex I suppose. During the pat down, I hit something crusty. 

I froze. 

Crusty?  Ewwww. 

The hair over my ear stuck stiff to my skin. Without calling attention to myself (I kept the gagging sounds pretty well under wraps) I did some more exploration. Whatever crusted to my hair, clung to my ear. I scraped at it and held my finger out.

Red. 

WAS I BLEEDING? Did I have blood RUNNING down my head? OMG. I looked around again, thinking I'd see horrified faces, pointing, or someone motioning the paramedics in my direction. 

Nope. Just Tina the Tiger in her leggings and long, swaying, boobs, picking the three teeth she still had in the front with a 50% off coupon, not glancing at me at all.

Then I did what primates have been doing since we've evolved from the dirt. 

I smelled it. Hmmmm….it didn't smell like blood. Upon closer inspection it looked a little too orange too. I had no choice. I had to taste it. 

Marinara sauce... from the pizza I ate at lunch. Huh.

I finished my finger snack, got my prescription, and went on with my shopping.

In for a pound...

If you're ever in the congo and you need the lice picked out of your hair…I'm your girl. 

"Can you believe it?" I told my daughter on the phone when I got home. She laughed, loud, for like, five minutes. "I'm a hot mess," I said.

"No, you're not, Mom," she said. "You're savory….a feast for the eyes."