Georgia and my bangs on my mind.

My baby bangs were much work, so much that that tiny section of my hair needed it’s own wee flattening iron, and an arsenal of product to keep them neat, but not like I spent too much time.  For those of you  not in the know, looking like you didn’t spend any time on something takes far more effort.  Effortlessness is a giant headache.

I was somehow able to beat them into submission in Albany, but in the sweltering,  peaches and mint julep land that is where I now live, I have surrendered.  My trusty sidekick in this has been a handful of bobby pins, with which I skillfully pin back the bangs (that will one day be a side sweep) from my glowing (sweaty) forehead.

How is it, that a woman who like, MAN SWEATS, land up first in Mumbai (god I miss Mumbai)  and now in (this is the farthest I’ve lived from the coast) Georgia, at the foot hills of the Appalachians, this end of that famous trail.  I suppose it’s fitting since I worked for the NY State Park commission one summer to repair the fire ravaged area at Bear Mountain park, ok, I guess not fitting really but kind of sort of not very interesting to anyone but me.  The weather here careens between white hot sunshine and downpours.

I have it on good authority that sudden, intense and ephemeral tornadoes are old hat here.

Now if that’s not poetry I don’t know what is.

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Sheetal

Relentlessly punctual, hedonist denim-head. Inked, vain, lover of shoes, clothes, and handbags, but mostly lost causes.

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