Flesh Wound

I am offended.


No one will admit I look bad.


After shivering and shaking through the night, feeling achy and just a teensy bit sorry for myself, I staggered out of bed this morning and into the shower. When I got out of the shower I reeled a little - okay, a lot - at the splotchy, pale haggard face staring back at me from the mirror. Bathroom lighting can be so unforgiving. In an attempt to make myself feel a little sprightlier for the working day ahead I paid careful attention to the way I was drying my hair, instead of just blowing it all up into a bird's nest, and I even applied a small amount of foundation to the epidermis just to smooth out the rough edges.


And that was my mistake. Because now as I've spent the day whinging about how bad I feel and how sick I am, what I get back is, "Really? Are you sure? Because you look great!"


This all coincides with me being in the sixth week of my haircut cycle. At the end of the sixth week, I get my hair chopped. But in the week beforehand my hair achieves a state of critical mess, causing people to say, "Have you done something with your hair? You look different." Then a few short days later when it all gets hacked off and a bunch of chemicals get dumped into it, no one says a word.


So today was the perfect combo. I tried to tell someone how cripplingly ill I am and all they could say was, "But you look so well. Must be that haircut you've just had."