Oy, beauty.

The other day, my friend and I were complaining to each other about our hair. We're both desperate to have professional help, but both unwilling to risk it. We're trying to sell ourselves on the idea of a big glamorous makeover at the end of ~this~ and emerging from Covid Boticelli-in-a-clam-style, but not convinced. We realize it's beyond trivial, but can't stop dwelling on it.

Why does it matter! We're not seeing anybody! We're saving money! Who cares what your stupid hair looks like when the entire planet is on fire! It's h.A.i.R.—so stupid, Jesus Christ!

This is so dumb, and it really doesn't matter. But because everything is such a nightmare right now, sometimes I feel like the universe owes us, at the very least, a good hair day, nice skin, and one single minute to stop feeling weird about our bodies. Does it make sense? No. Am I feeling it? Yes. Am I an entitled Millennial? Yes. When I'm in a funk and I can't pinpoint exactly why, sometimes I try and assign my feelings a rea…