Baboon meeting

Sweet Jesus on a lighthouse. I just got out of the most boring meeting where, to keep myself from falling asleep, I looked around the conference room table and idly counted how many women obviously color their hair. 13 out of 16, and the other three probably should.

The meeting dragged on, and I seriously could not stop myself from thinking mean snarky thoughts the more I looked around the room. Why doesn't that woman stop getting her hair poodle-permed? Has the woman with the inch-long gray roots not been close to a mirror lately, or at least looked into a stagnant pond to check her reflection? And dear Buddha, there was a woman who at first glance I thought had been using newsprint as a napkin but was actually suffering from so much facial hair that it looked like a goatee. Was there no one around who would wrestle her to the ground and wax it off? Or am I just a screaming bitch about grooming, brainwashed by the photoshopped ads in Sephora?

I mean, even monkeys groom themselves. Even baboons sit and comb through their hair for ticks, and I haven't noticed them politely asking each other, either -- they just wander over to their baboon girlfriend and grab a wad of hair. Or maybe one female baboon goes up to another female baboon and says "Girl, get over here and let me do somethin' about that nasty chin hair you been gettin' all over your breadfruit. I mean come on, you can't be gettin' down with Mr. Alpha baboon with that scaly shit all over your rump -- get OVER here before I beat you with this rotten jawbone!"

Wow, I wanted to sweetly and gently take the bearded lady to a nice salon where she could relax and have a facial, while secretly the prison matrons get ready to hold her down and wax her face.

Damn, I hate meetings.