I’m not the girl who’ll get a manicure every week. Or month.
That goes for my hair too. It’ll be
free like my thighs on a sunny sunny day next to my friend’s pool, talking about
pubic hair and thick tan masking tape (which I assume is what waxing feels like?)
I don’t really do manicures.
And when I do, I don’t take them off (the nail polish remover I had the one time probably expired if it could or, hopped off my dresser (ha!) to find someone more deserving).
Everything, does, right? Eventually? It’ll grow out.
Not because I don’t have the time or take some sort of high pedestal pride in bragging about being ‘low-maintenance, unlike those other girls, oh my god a weave is how much?’, but because –
we come in all forms and shapes and sizes and feelings, colours and textures, wrinkles and smoothenings, brows and booties, bodies and fountains of youth.
Someone’s gotta be me.
It’s gonna be me!