Quest for Self-Prettification

After a typical hump day at work which was neither here nor there, I scurried off - yes, scurried - to Nila's house. Nila is this absolutely dear woman that I met through my equally absolutely-dear mother-in-law that cuts hair in a very cute faux-salon set up in her house's Florida room.

She's cut my hair a few times, and I daresay she shall continue to do so, because she's the closest thing I'll ever have to a fairy godmother.

No, that's not a ghost you're seeing. It's just a trim. Reh heh heh. No really; I'm pale. Sorry.

As is painfully evident by my cadaverous pallor as evidenced above (that, and an unusually harsh "flash" on my MacBook's PhotoBooth), I could also stand to get a tan. Well, I listen to my readers, so hey, guess what? I got a membership at a tanning salon. All right, it was a little more premeditated than that. 

Gross factoid alert: I've had eczema since I was a wee jaundice-ridden baby. It kind of comes and goes, and it will magically decide to migrate to different areas of my skin every year. Last year, I did a little research about using tanning beds (specifically, the UVA/UVB rays therein) to treat eczema, and I ended up with a pretty successful few sessions at a tanning salon back in Virginia Beach. Seeing as how it went so well then, I figured I'd give it a go again in an effort to battle the crippling skin conditions that resurface during winter's dry, scratchy months.

So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.