I see a blonde, bra-ed, Britney leaving a hair salon* in Beverly Hills sans boyfriend/former-employee Jason Trawick. And you know what? Though she’s smiling, and looking so much better than she did, say, two years ago (or even a year ago, when she was menstruating all over designer dresses), she doesn’t look well. I mean, check out the weave for one (and didn’t her hair grow back yet? For crying out loud). It’s totally disheveled and almost kinda matted on the one side. Matted! How horrible for her!
You know, there was this girl that used to live in an alleyway near my house when I was a kid, and there was something wrong with her. I’m not saying that to dig on this girl, I’m saying something was “wrong” because there was and no one knew what it was, so no one was able to identify it when she’d come up in conversation. Everyone just said, “something wrong.” She didn’t go to school. Like, at all. Not home school, not private school, not public school. And she didn’t talk, either. (At least to anyone within anyone’s earshot when they saw her in public with what most assumed to be her aunt or mom or something, who was equally as … uh, different.) She kind of grunted, really. And she didn’t look all that good, either, just on a health side of the house. She was my age, but looked as if she’d never seen the light of day — her face was so pale and bloodless, it was almost translucent. Really. If she didn’t look so ring-eyed sickly, God love her, her complexion would have been almost breathtakingly gorgeous. She had the brightest blue eyes (quite beautiful, actually) you’d ever see and a thick head of tangled, matted blonde hair. And I mean matted. Like, “hasn’t taken a brush or a comb or even fingers to the hair in twelve years” kind of matted. I know it was mean, but I didn’t know her name; she never spoke to me, or anyone else, but I’d call her “Mat-head” when referring to her. (You know, kind of like, “Hey, Mom, I saw Mat-head at the store today. She still didn’t get a haircut.” … and really, give me a break; I was literally, like, seven or eight years old.)
Anyway, when I saw these photos of Brit today, another ghost of my past ran barefoot through my head again. Where are you, Mat-head? Whatever happened to you?
*Uh, yes, you read that right. A hair salon.