Curling your hair in the bathroom of the Seattle-Tacoma international airport is some next-level commitment to your hair game.
I'm just saying, sis.
I just witnessed a woman performing this particular ablution with no evident shame, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand next to a public bathroom sink, plug in a curling iron, and start methodically putting some soft waves into your porn-star-bottle-blonde locks. I mean, maybe I'm the crazy one and this is normal?
I try to spend as little time as humanly possible in public restrooms. If it were up to me, I would insert a catheter into my bladder every time I traveled just to avoid having to pee in airports and on planes. So you can imagine that reenacting a Pantene commercial in the women's room in the N-Gates of SEA-TAC falls somewhere on the personal hygiene scale between "fuck that shit" and "nope" on my list of priorities.
Then again, I'm primed for style resentment when I travel, mostly because of the fragrances.
The fucking fragrances.
Who in 2016 doesn't know that perfume, cologne, and fragranced skin care products are an aerosolized ticket to a malignant tumor in a major organ? (Personally, I'm staking my life on makeup and shampoo instead). Regardless, the little particulates of everyone's carcinogenic fake rose petals and sandalwood get up into my nostrils and eyeballs, and make my whole face explode. I can feel them staring at me, like I'm the guilty party here. I want to scream, "I don't have Ebola, assholes! It's your wild orchid body butter that's making every orifice in my face leak snot and tears!
For whatever reason, airports and airplanes are like a fucking fire sale at a Bath n' Body Works. It's a bit ironic too, since my fellow travelers seem to have no problem strafing an entire 747 with fart Napalm, yet they'll spray warm vanilla ginger cookies on top of the Agent Orange they're dropping from their asses?
GAH! Until the next rant, my boos ...