I was in need of a change. Still am.

Instead of having my platinum locks touched up last week, I went brunette. Now I feel like the shade of shit brown my hair is.

I’ve got no spunk. No pizazz. All my super powers were in my hair.

I’m convinced there’s some other blond somewhere having all my fun and I don’t like it one bit.

Different day. Different dog. Different hair color.

Horrified doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about this.

I’ve been getting my eyebrows waxed since I was 15-years-old. Highlights since 16. Manicures and pedicures since 17. I am no stranger to the inside of a salon. But waxing, microdermabrasian, Brazilians for tweens goes way past proper hygiene and skin care.

Where’s the Noxzema? The Sea Breeze? The Daisy Razors?

From MSNBC:

One New York City salon, Wanda’s European Skin Care Center, boasts on its Web site that children 8 years and older can get discounted waxing for “virgin” hair. “Virgin hair can be waxed so successfully that growth can be permanently stopped in just 2 to 6 sessions. Save your child a lifetime of waxing … and put the money in the bank for her college education instead!” the salon proclaims.

People aren’t comfortable taking their teenage daughters to the gynecologist but there’s a market for Brazilians for 8-year-olds?! I’m 30-years-old and have trepidations about getting a bikini wax. I can’t imagine how humiliating the experience has the potential to be for a child.

More:

• Bikini Waxing for Tweens! Have Spas Gone Too Far?
• This Exists: Tween Bikini Waxing Is On The Rise
• Trend: Pretty Babies

These articles have my head spinning, but I wanted to start the discussion. What are your thoughts? What do you think are the ramifications of offering these services to children? What do you think of the parents that are allowing their daughters to participate?

Despite their names, the two do not mix. Let me explain…

Last week, I heard about Tweet for Blood in Austin. I decided it would be the perfect opportunity to cross a goal off of my 40×40 list, so I marked my calendar and made my very first blood donation on Friday.

While donating blood wasn’t my idea of a good time, it went well enough until I had to go and get all Diaphoretic – which I learned is just a fancy medical term for sweating like a whore in church. After a refreshing fruit punch Gatorade complete with bendy straw (Phlebotomists are so thoughtful), I was as good as new and on my merry way – feeling quite smug about having just saved two lives.

A few hours later, I had plans to meet a Twitter friend in person for the very first time at a local hangout on the lake. She and her friend turned out to be just lovely and there was a beautiful view, good conversation, and a Bloody Mary to lighten the mood.

As the sun started to set, I began to feel light-headed. I moved inside to the air conditioning, which didn’t help a damn bit. I knew I was doomed when I could barely keep the conversation going without thinking I’m going to puke in front of my new friends and the restaurant is going to have to compensate all these people for their dinners and I’m never going to be able to show my face on the east side of the city again because I will be the Diaphoretic barf women in the dining room and OH NO I have new jeans on please don’t let it splatter.

I must have looked green, because I asked no one in particular where the bathroom was and a drill sergeant of a woman boomed THIS WAY and whisked me off to a dark corner of the restaurant.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful to see a public toilet in my entire life.

I should mention (or maybe I shouldn’t?) that in addition to the fruit punch Gatorade and Bloody Mary, I had also enjoyed a red velvet cupcake and chips and salsa that afternoon. Notice a theme?

What goes up, must come down (or maybe what goes in, must come out?)…

I was mortified. I apologized to no less than 25 people, including those in the bathroom, the restaurant manager, and my new friends who – bless their hearts – waited in the lobby and even hugged me goodbye knowing full well what had just transpired.

For the record, I’m not a puker. The last time I puked was 2003 when someone had the bright idea to teach me how to play chess using a bottle of Malibu. Yes – an entire bottle.

I haven’t played chess or had a rum and coke since. I will donate blood again. I just won’t chase it with a Bloody Mary.

Lesson learned.

I have a new buzzword.

Internalize.

When you’re feeling stressed out and unload your woes on the first person that will listen, chances are that person is stressed out, too.

They don’t need to add your stress to their stress.

Spare them.

Spare yourself. Being bitter is exhausting.

Instead. Internalize.

Just like keeping your feelings in causes turmoil, spewing your negativity forth at every opportunity causes other people turmoil.

Instead. Internalize.

When someone asks “How are you today?” they don’t want to hear you gripe and complain.

It’s a pleasantry.

Be pleasant.

Instead. Internalize. Say “I’m fine, how about you?”

Not everything is meant to be shared.

Focus on something pretty.

Go to your happy place.

Be positive.

Act as if.

I have eight years of marketing experience. I have my MBA from a Big Ten University. I’m friendly and outgoing and have a strong work ethic.

My self-esteem isn’t hurting, either.

Finding a job shouldn’t be hard. But it is. I’ve had one interview in the past month (well – three with one company). And I never heard back from them.

So, what’s the problem?

I’m sure they Googled me. Everybody Googles everybody. I’ve probably Googled you.

So, is my blog the problem?

I wouldn’t hesitate to talk about anything I’ve ever blogged about.  I’ve made lots of friends and traveled all over the country because of my blog. My mom reads my bog and doesn’t seem too offended – except when I say balls. She doesn’t like when I say balls. And I don’t blog about anything particularly controversial – except maybe that one post about the Duggars. People really got whipped up over that one.

The biggest blogging compliment I ever received was that I act and talk exactly like I blog. If you don’t like my blog, you probably won’t like me.

So, why is this eating at me?

Oh, that’s right – because I need a paycheck.

Potential employers – please see my Linkedin profile.

And take the vibrator posts with a grain of salt.