Make-up and subways do not mix. This is a little disclaimer(slash)warning to the people of New York: I do not wear make up in 110 degree heat. It is physically impossible to accomplish the make-up-putting-on-at-home without arriving at work resembling some sort of Creature from the Blue Lagoon, only oilier (because oily definitely needs comparative form status here). Plus, I love love extra G-Love and Special Sauce, the feeling of a fresh-washed face. Yummy. It's like I'm saying 'Screw off dirt and grime! I don't need your lazy ass hanging around here anymore.' Then I kick out the dirt and grime's clothes and furniture so he has to move in with his new girlfriend who bleaches her hair every day and watches Judge Judy, for educational purposes.
I also do not blow-dry or fashion my hair in any way, shape, or form in the summertime. It only amounts to fruitless attempts at convincing the raging, out of control, animal living on top of my head to conform to mediocrity. And let me tell you, my hair is no mediocre. It is manic, in a whole new genre of insanity thanks to the heat and moisture. But I'm proud of her for standing up for what she believes in, and I won't stifle her creativity with hairdryers and straightening irons, oh no! Every morning I wake up, take a look in the mirror at the Cirque du Soleil going on upstairs and say, 'You go on with your bad-self, Hair. It's all you.'
So here I am mid-July, no makeup, no hair-do. It's like my image went on Summer Break, and I was glad to see it go. Now I understand my elementary school teachers so much better.