If you can't be rich, be beautiful instead. It's a twisted motto that helps me feel good about myself. Beauty is more precious to me, a sort of consolation that allows a feeling of superiority to the unattractive girls with Vuitton bags. And this is applied not just with myself but with my daughter as well.
But the yaya is a different story.
J is actually not a nanny, since Sandra's a bit too old for one. She's more of a house-sitter, occasional companion to Sandra, cooks a bit, cleans a bit... more like an all-around housekeeper. She's a dark, big-boned character, with facial craters from acne and with mannerisms that match a cro-magnon (she replies with a grunt 95% of the time).
Yesterday, she went a notch further by getting a really awful haircut. A spiky mullet! Que Horror! I would have paid ten times more (in my poverty-stricken state, I still would!) just so that she'd get a better one.
I woke up this morning and the first thing I saw was that haircut. Yikes. I almost threw up the coffee.
Today is a moment of weakness.
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