So I’ve been jetting up to Boston a lot lately, trying to get accepted to my school of choice for that elusive graduate degree. (This effort would be greatly assisted if those who have been asked for recommendations would send them in. Just sayin’.)
Most recently, I was back in the Back Bay for my admission interview, which was really low-key and more about me asking them questions than anything else. Since I have, of course, already researched the hell out of the school, the program, and all of the faculty, I didn’t really have any questions to ask.
(Honestly, wouldn’t you be embarrassed to go into an interview and ask a question, the answer to which could be found just by reading the damn website? I know I would. So of course I committed their website to memory months ago. It’s a sickness.)
So, lacking any truly cogent questions (I opted out of asking the silly ones, i.e., What’s your favorite color? Thai or Chinese? Brontë or Austen?), I just told funny stories and made my interviewer wipe the tears from her eyes at least five times. Which I think is a record for me in an interview.
I interview well.
But before any of this happened, I had to wait in the charming foyer of the renovated brownstone that houses the admissions office of the School of Management (wood paneling, chandeliers, recessed statuary alcoves, sweeping curved stairway with stunning wrought-iron railing, etc. etc.), idly checking my email and thinking I could so totally get used to this when it occurred to me that I could probably stand a little freshening up after the arduous drive up from the Cape of Cod to the urbane streets of Boston.
So I flounced over to the ladies’ room (also charming, in a little nook under the dramatic staircase,with adorable little ivory pull-knobs on everything, which made me mutter can I live here?) and splashed my face with water, scrubbed behind my ears a bit, and did all those little tweaks and prods that we don’t even know we do when we’re in the bathroom.
Whenever I wash my hands I always want to immediately put moisturizer on them. So I looked around the bathroom for the cabinet or hideyhole that women always find to stash such things in.
I knew I would find something, because
- This is a women’s college, so if there’s one thing I know it’s that you will always be able to find little stashes of moisturizer, tampons, and advil if you are willing to look hard enough; and
- This building houses several faculty offices; I have seen these women, and they look good. No way is there not random toiletries around here someplace.
So I found a teeny tiny cabinet, opened the door and found:
- Moisturizer (my favorite brand, no less); and
- Some rather expensive hair spray.
I don’t usually use hairspray, but I figure these ladies clearly know more about looking good than I do, so I spray myself but good with the pricey aerosol, fluff myself up a few times, apply more moisturizer, and head back on out to the foyer.
Shortly thereafter, I was called in for my interview. Which went well (c.f. above discussion re: wiped eyes).
All told, I was only there for about an hour. Then it was time to drive way too fast listening to music way too loud and on towards home.
When I got home, I realized that I had been molesting my hair the whole ride home, because it felt all silky and awesome. I went into the bathroom to check myself out, and Lo! I looked GOOD!
This is totally bizarre because I am in the process of growing my hair out, and so it is all in-betweeny and weird-looking these days. BUT with the help of the hair-styling savvy of the Management faculty at 409 Commonwealth Avenue, I was able to achieve temporary hair awesomeness.
This morning, the magic was gone.
This afternoon, I went to the store and spent way too much money on a bottle of the very same brand of hairspray. Not sure it’ll work without the little ivory pull-knobs, though.