...She comes in colors ev'rywhere/ She combs her hair....
"You're wearing black underwear, aren't you?"
"You're wearing black underwear, right?"
Apparantly, this yob, whom I've known for approximately fourty minutes, has mistaken 'Excuse me?' for 'I didn't hear you' when in reality it means 'how dare you such impertinence, you unmitigated ass?'.
For those of you who heretofore had not realized there's a difference, I suggest learning. Immediately.
"Yeah, because I can tell, because your black clothes are stretched over your body, and where your underwear is, it's blacker."
This by way of explaining that while I often wear beige, tan, buff or 'flesh' coloured underthings ('flesh'? Whose? not Iman's, or Cher's or Zhang Ziyi's), I mostly find not-white shades from ivory to taupe somewhat uninspiring.
Ask me about lavender lace, hot pink satin, red velvet or black pointe d'esprit, and I'll wax rhapsodic. Recent purchase: yellow mesh boy-cut knickers. But sometimes, hot just doesn't work, and the only thing for it is something vaguely camel-coloured.
Including (nude) underthings but excluding shoes, today's raiment fits nicely into the palm of one hand.
Between my palms, creamy spurts erupt. I smile, inhaling heady fragrance.
Loyalty is overrated. The winter has been wasted. I could have saved money and not purchased the fancy-schmancy products. But never again, oh, no.
Well, why should I, when there is much more satisfying lather from the cheap shampoos?
Because Naked Season has at last arrived, today I stood on the porch, combing my hair in the sun. Brushing while seated is no longer an option. I thought about downsizing my hairdo, donating, or perhaps auctioning it, but now that it's no longer a liability [washed hair minus blowdrier plus cold outside equals ear infections] I suppose I'll keep it, at least until the weather turns evil again.
(She's A Rainbow; The Rolling Stones)