I …exited the subway station … walking the way that Chicago raised me to. Eyes forward: cold, glassy, seeing everything and noticing no one. No smile, no teeth.
Serial cheating on most of my husbands? A handful of suicide attempts? Shopping at Walmart? Check, check and check. But there is one…guilty pleasure I’ve guarded with my life.
After spending almost half of my Saturday bringing its color back to life, I was not looking forward to the extra hour that would be needed to trim the abundant mass of hair on my head.
I like to pretend this isn’t me on the other side of the mirror, listening to my neighbor unclasping the lid from a jar of face cream. After all, isn’t this a pastime reserved for serial killers, serial creeps?