I do not reblog often, so you know this is something special.
I couldn’t have loved this post more. I suspect Becky and I are very similar. While it’s true that I’m a glad hand with a makeup brush and my hair goes all mermaidy on its own just to be agreeable, I am also a tragic klutz and in denial about the last 100 pounds I acquired (in weight, not wealth). I, too, fall, blunder, break, spill, and set afire. It’s just when I do those things, I leave a pretty smear of makeup behind like a calling card. I’m like fat Barbie after an hour of spinning around in the back yard.
Anyway, enjoy the perfectly funny and self deprecating Becky who, it turns out, says things.
Firstly, I’m going to neatly gloss over the fact I haven’t blogged in nearly two months by using Stickman’s yoga skills as a distraction.
Thanks, Sticky. You’re a pal.
Sublime listeners, I am rubbish at being a woman. There are so many things that society expects of women that are simply beyond my capabilities as a human being with boobs.
I cannot style my hair. I think I have the wrong type of hair. I think my hair is broken. I am forever gazing enviously at women with whimsical corkscrew curls, with sleek businesslike ‘up-dos’, with fringes that sit happily at their allocated angle, with pins and clips and grips that create veritable fountains of coiffured abandon – whilst I sit under the humdrum melancholy of a frizzy ponytail.
I have tried, Listener. I have followed YouTube videos to the letter, I have bought contraptions and equipment more reminiscent of open heart surgery…
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