non-amusement

As difficult as it may be to admit, perhaps it was time for my semi-annual pruning, given that bits of leaves, dead fish, and peanut hulls began collecting along my undercarriage. My much-deserved pride can allow for the possibility that perhaps -- just maybe! -- a fresh look was in order, particularly as it held the promise of changing my harmonious perfume of dirt-et-rot. Too, I yearned for a more jaunty, jejune type of look, reminiscent of the Audrey Hepburn "Roman Holiday" era of gamine bounce. However. I did not anticipate having to patronize a downscale salon named Shampooch, and more wrenchingly, I was subjected to being put in a box with some type of screen on the outside, as if I was a gerbil or a terrorist. But worst of all, and I shake as I write this, it was so painful -- the bandana. The tie-dyed, hastily-fashioned bandana thrown around my neck as if I were a child at Valleyfair opting for one of those excruciatingly pedestrian airbrushed t-shirts. I am not Hannah Montana, Shampooch. Shudder.