a diversion.

I'm going to be honest here. I was so depressed last night and this morning that I almost called off from work. I literally had to drag myself out of bed, to the shower, to the fridge, and to my car. I'm going to call one of the therapists at the university where I work because I just don't know how much longer I can keep feeling this way. I'm gettin' a little help from some meds, but I think I need to talk, too. Hence, the therapist. I'm feeling incredibly lonely, incredibly empty, and incredibly sad. Not a good combo.

But on Saturday, I had a little bit of a diversion from all that gunk. And so, I share that diversion with you now.

Many of you know that I model. I sometimes like it, especially runway. {But sometimes I don't like modeling. Here's one reason why.} Anyway, I got to do some runway on Saturday for a benefit for Gwen's Girls, a local Pittsburgh organization that helps at-risk girls and teens. It's awesome. You should check it out. The event was held at the Frick Art and Historical Society {hello, GORGEOUS}. The name of the fashion show was Violet Couture. All the models wore one dress from a local Pittsburgh designer, and then the dresses were auctioned off after the runway show. Unfortunately, I didn't get a good photo of me in my dress, but I'll show it to you anyway. In a minute.

My hair was CRAZY AWESOME. {see photo at beginning of post} Lots of fake hair piled on and bobby-pinned into my short little 'do, thus making me look all 18th-Century Harlot. {Not a look my mother would approve of, but, well, you know...} I even had stuff put IN my hair--like butterflies and feathers. Like I said, CRAZY AWESOME.

ARE YOU SEEING THE BUTTERFLIES? THEY ARE SO CRAZY AWESOME, THE BUTTERFLIES.

And my make-up? Oh, man. Katherine Reel knows how to make me feel like the Most Stunning Woman. Love her. Girl does the best brows in the business.

I'm putting this picture in here again, because LOOK AT MY MAKE-UP. THE STUNNING, RIGHT? OH YES. THE STUNNING MAKE-UP, I HAZ IT.

Okay, okay. HERE'S THE DRESS. {The designer is the AMAZING Stephanie Keremes of Thomasina in Mount Lebanon. She now lives in London. LOVE HER.}

Good photo {from a previous event that it was worn at}:

Maneuvering in this thing WAS A NIGHTMARE. My heels were caught in the crinoline underneath, the zipper broke in the back two minutes before I went on, and my boobs are so tiny that I had to inhale to bring my chest up in order to keep the dress from falling down and giving the audience Quite The Show.

And then ME in the dress {with my friend and former agent Tom Watson, who happened to blink when the photo was taken}:

Um, like I said. Not a good photo. Sorry. I WAS VERY BUSY.

So, the runway show was fun, the music was great, the audience loved the dresses, and all-around it was a good time.

Except when I got home.

DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GET 18th-CENTURY HARLOT HAIR OFF OF 21st-CENTURY NON-HARLOT HAIR?

OMG, people. Oh. Em. Gee.

I've decided to provide you with a photo story of my hair-removal experience. I call it, Nightmare In Laura's Bathroom.

Let's begin.

So, I get home, and I'm tired, but I feel a little less depressed than usual, and I've had a gorgeous dress on and beautiful make-up. But I know that I can't very well go to bed with this crap on my head, so I have to take it off.

Somehow.

First, my arrival into my bathroom:

A slightly-tired, but content Laura showing you the front of said hair-do.

A lovely side view.

And then I start de-bobby-pinning myself. First of all, THE HAIRSPRAY. I could have burned down my house if I'd lit a cigarette within twenty feet of myself. OH, THE HAIRSPRAY. But alas, I work through it, carefully removing bobby pins, moving from right to left.

Okay. The bobby pins on the right have been removed. I only cried once from the pain. And it amazes me how BLACK my brown hair looks in contrast to the fake stuff still attached to the rest of my head. Crazy.

Next, I continue working through the mound of hair, the millions of bobby pins, and the OH MY GOODNESS THE HAIRSPRAY.

I'm getting there. But I'm getting even more tired than I was when I started. IT'S A LOT OF WORK TO REMOVE 18th-CENTURY HARLOT HAIR.

After several more minutes and fourteen billion more bobby pins, I get to the other side of my head and am just about finished.

This is TOTALLY gonna get me a boyfriend. Or someone from Animal Control.

A few more tugs and pulls and pinches and tears, I am free. I AM FREE.

That. Was. So. Much. Work. Also, ARE YOU SEEING HOW HOT I AM? I AM SO HOT. LOOK AT MY HAIR. IT MAKES ME LOOK SO HOT.

But the pain isn't over yet. Now I have to comb out my real hair. You know, the hair that has OH MY GOODNESS THE HAIRSPRAY. Because hair stylists use hairspray on your REAL hair, and tease the crap out of it, so that it will be "ready" for the fake hair to attach to it. 

TORTURE.

I will spare you the details. Let's just say that I'm glad nobody else was in that bathroom with me. After THE TORTURE, I finally returned to myself. Smooth hair, from the 21st Century, of course.

Ahhhh...much better.

And then I got a shower and went to bed, knowing that I'd had a diversion from my depression from one night. And made some money doin' it.