April is the cruelest month, and I am sick. Cough, sneeze, sniffle, croak.
Owls McGee and I are well on our way to becoming part of the style elite. Last week it was our big photo shoot, which played out like a daydream. You see, we were at the Clinic show, and we were looking like our normal cute selves. Owlie was wearing a little dress that combined her love of pale yellow and spring green. I wore a black a-line skirt and a very 1967 polyester shirt with tan, pink, and black swirls. Then, a woman our age came up to us and asked if we'd pose for UR Chicago magazine. Well, shit. You don't need to ask twice. Steal our souls, o photographer! Look for our modeling debut this month.
This week, Owlie and I answered an advertisement in the Reader. It had been placed by a stylist (that is what they are called) at my haircuttery (that is not what they are called, but 'salon' brings to mind the dyspeptic pinks and mauves of childhood visits to the JC Penney Hair Salon). He is offering $15 haircolor treatments, which means that by the end of the month, we will have inexpensive but lovely hairstyles. Bulldogs and police officers will sing, "Who's that lady? Who's that laydeee?" just like in the commercials.
Conversely, the pictures published in UR Chicago will make us look like Bea Arthur and Melissa Rivers. And our haircolor treatments will leave us looking like the Before pictures in infomercials.
Not that we think dichotomously about frivolous things or anything. Or that we hang out at Sears on a Tuesday night obsessing over the precise yellow-orange for the kitchen. Nope, not us. Never.
Owls McGee and I are well on our way to becoming part of the style elite. Last week it was our big photo shoot, which played out like a daydream. You see, we were at the Clinic show, and we were looking like our normal cute selves. Owlie was wearing a little dress that combined her love of pale yellow and spring green. I wore a black a-line skirt and a very 1967 polyester shirt with tan, pink, and black swirls. Then, a woman our age came up to us and asked if we'd pose for UR Chicago magazine. Well, shit. You don't need to ask twice. Steal our souls, o photographer! Look for our modeling debut this month.
This week, Owlie and I answered an advertisement in the Reader. It had been placed by a stylist (that is what they are called) at my haircuttery (that is not what they are called, but 'salon' brings to mind the dyspeptic pinks and mauves of childhood visits to the JC Penney Hair Salon). He is offering $15 haircolor treatments, which means that by the end of the month, we will have inexpensive but lovely hairstyles. Bulldogs and police officers will sing, "Who's that lady? Who's that laydeee?" just like in the commercials.
Conversely, the pictures published in UR Chicago will make us look like Bea Arthur and Melissa Rivers. And our haircolor treatments will leave us looking like the Before pictures in infomercials.
Not that we think dichotomously about frivolous things or anything. Or that we hang out at Sears on a Tuesday night obsessing over the precise yellow-orange for the kitchen. Nope, not us. Never.
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