Incompatible with Life

My name is Laura and I watch the Real Housewives more regularly than I'd like to admit. I’m a vicarious visitor to Orange County and New York, used to spend a lot of time in New Jersey, and occasionally duck into Atlanta and Beverly Hills, just to see what’s going on. It is a bit of an addiction, the Housewives series. I was a latecomer to its explosively entertaining parties. I’d never been big on binge watching television and, honestly, it wasn’t until I began treatment for a breast cancer recurrence that I had the capacity and desire to collapse onto the couch and seek mindless diversion. It didn’t take me long to find the Bravo network, and it was almost impossible not to develop an affinity for their alternate version of female reality. Perpetual reruns of previous episodes got me quickly up to speed on the characters and their almost comically surreal and wacky hi-jinks. I also didn’t have the energy to find the remote and change the channel. For those who aren...

I never appreciated my hair. Dirt brown in color, it was thick, but fine—straight, but it frizzed in humidity.  I spent most of my adolescence trying to beat it into submission through overly regular home perms and the occasional shearing to remove the resulting damage. Added to my misery was the fact that I was woefully inept at styling. Curling irons, flat irons, hot rollers—none of them worked in my hands. Insertion of a ponytail holder was really the only option I’d mastered. I wavered between short and shoulder length for much of my early adulthood, growing it out only to cut it all off again. I was a regular in the hair coloring aisle and—for a brief period of poor investments just prior to marriage—in the chair of a high-end salon to maintain the burnt sienna shade I’d come to favor. I decided in my thirties that highlights and layers would be the best way to add movement and interest to my limp locks. This bold move resulted ever-lightening brassy streaks that ...