El tatuaje. The tattoo.

225

It's red. I like red. I fell in love with the word in the context it was in, when I was nineteen.
Two days ago when inquiring about someone else's tattoo (whilst stealing a car battery), he said our people don't get inked in color. It should always be black, he stressed. Then she explained the psychology behind the red, she said it's red because it's so she wouldn't see it. That it wasn't a noticeable color. But yet she doesn't like the red lipstick because I look like like the Putas in her pueblo. Yet, I must make a point, a materialistic point. I own seven red cardigans, twenty-two red lipsticks (not two reds are the same), four pair of assorted red shoes, three red tote bags (two I made myself) and lastly my favorite ear-plugs are red. Yet they claim it's red because, I am whitewashed and so my mother wouldn't see it. Just not because I like it.

Cousin It is human again.

Tired of the 'let me throw my hair in a bun' routine I went today to the salon to have a nice young lady make me look human again. Though i technically didn't go to an actual salon, but rather a beauty school, where students work to accumulate enough work hours to graduate. This really nice girl named Clara took me into her chair and somewhat worked a minor miracle to shape my hair into what can only be described as the Mexican Zooey look. Although thats not the look we were going for, I no longer look like a middle aged mother of four, or homeless Janis.

This is what I look like now:

 

Very bad webcam photo but Ive had worse.

P.S. I made sure I tipped my dear Clara well because she sang along to Savage Garden -Truly Madly Deeply when it came on the radio.

:)