Trumped

I will spare you the picture, but I got bored and decided to try and do a demi-permanent dark blonde/light brown over my bleached hair and not even with the optimal shades, just some old Redken that I had in my closest and haven't used for at least two years. Maybe it was a subconscious cool to warm move from winter to spring even though it's supposed to snow this evening (I was also midly traumatized by the Prairie Home Companion tailgating segment on Portlandia). It'll fade out, I hope, because warmer (though more neutral than truly warm) tones over the bluish gray blend into this odd Donald Trump shade. Or maybe a touch Gloria Steinhem in this video still. She's great and all, but you know, also nearly twice my age.

Though I've only seen the first two episodes, I'm digging Dolly & Em, if only because off the top of the my head it's the only show with two female leads who are my age. It's Dolly Wells that I'm focused on because she has that British face that I like that's sort of plain and gawky (Sally Hawkins has a plainer, gawkier, toothier version) yet somehow pretty. One of those faces that would lend itself to a makeover scene because it can transform tenfold with glamorous hair and makeup. I guess that's tomboyish, right? Of course these faces work because they're always attached to a very thin body.  The kind of thin that de-sexualizes everything so you can wear short or tight things and look confident and charming instead of trying too hard. Like you could wear underwear as a bathing suit and it would be fine.

Actually, I did wear underwear as a bathing suit in Dubai (which seems like an unsafe place to do so) because I forgot to bring the bottoms to my suit, which is not a bikini but just two pieces. The underwear is black, thick and fully covering, a borderline support garment, so barely different from the sturdy black bottoms I didn't realize I'd left in the plastic tub under my bed because I only swim maybe once every few years. I only wore them for an hour and a half and luckily there was only one other person, an indifferent 30something dude (I was about to take a photo of a funny sign that I no longer remember when an Arabic man with his young son started coming up the stairs so I scurried back to my lounger) on the other side of the small rooftop pool with views of nothing except construction cranes, half-finshed buildings and Sheikh Zayed Road, the city's main thoroughfare. This was not a luxury hotel, no poolboys, no cocktails (it was also a dry hotel). I may or may have not drank some of my gifted Filipino brandy first. I definitely toted up my iPad stupidly, forgetting I need a wifi signal to use it. Frankly, it was more boring than relaxing and I didn't even get a tan, which was my half-assed goal to prove that I go outdoors.