I need your thoughts here.
This is completely trivial, and has no bearing whatsoever on my life, but still. I MUST KNOW.
I was at a new salon a few days ago, and as I waited there for my appointment, a young girl that I assumed was about 14 or 15 walked in. She sat down and, essentially proving my point, pulled out a geometry textbook. (Well, I think it was a geometry textbook. I’m not what you'd call "a math person." Triangles and cylinders were involved.) Anyway, I assumed she was there to get her eyebrows shaped, until the receptionist asked her what she wanted done.
Now, I must take a Zack Morris time-out for a second here:
I fear specifying precisely what salon service she was there for, as the Google searches that are coming here lately are mind-bogglingly dirty beyond all human comprehension. Trust me. And so, rather than explicitly stating what it was, I’ll speak in oblique euphemisms, as is my habit. She was there for a…bajillion tankini fax. “Bajillion” in honor of its cost, as well as the level of pain, on a scale of 1-10, that it tends to generate.
I know of which I speak. Or so I’ve heard. “Tankini fax” because…well, it (sort of) rhymes.
Sorry to beat around the bush. (Hee! I HAD TO.)
Back to the story:
“[Bajillion tankini fax]!” the young girl said brightly to the receptionist.
The receptionist nodded.
The girl went back to her textbook.
I attempted to maintain an aura of casual indifference.
But inwardly, I felt like this:
My mind raced to find something, anything, to explain why a 14/15-year old was there getting a bajillion.
She could’ve just been a young-looking and dimwitted 20-year old, doing 9th grade math, right?
Or a tutor, maybe? Going over her pupil's assignment? Right? Right?!
Perhaps she was a
But I didn’t think any of these possibilities were actually true, of course.
And that really freaked me out.
I wasn’t her age all that long ago, and as I reflect upon those times, I distinctly recall not one of them involving a bajillion tankini fax. If only there was some way to confirm that, though…
Ooh! Look who’s here! My eighth-grade diary! What’s that, eighth-grade diary? An excerpt, you say? Well, okay!
[Boy] and I are really good friends. He is my best friend who is a boy. [Friend] thinks he likes me likes me. Whatever. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Maybe I will invite him to my Gymnastics Jamboree. [2007 Me: Um…Oh, my God?] Oh I love this song! It’s
I know people say this all the time, but these kids? They’re growing up too fast. What happened to the old days, where young girls talked of crushes and terrible, terrible music with nary a thought of a bajillion fax? And what of the Gymnastics Jamboree?! WHAT OF IT, I SAY? Those were simpler times; better times.
In any case, I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this; I need to know if I'm warranted in finding this a bit crazy, or if I'm totally off-base and behind the times, and in fact, am actually turning into this lady (only with much better lip gloss):