I have this alarming habit of slicing myself open in the kitchen. Alarming, that is, to everyone but me. I'll be happily mincing garlic or butterflying chicken, and then I look down at my hands . . . Oh bother. Blood.
I usually don't notice the cut until I see it. It rarely hurts (due probably to the extensive scarring, burning, and lemon-juicing to which I've subjected my hands over the past six or seven years, a paring knife could do some pretty serious damage and I wouldn't feel a thing). So there I am in the middle of dinner prep with the snow peas wilting and the pasta boiling madly, and I need to run around to find a Band-aid or, at the very least, a paper towel to wrap around the offending finger.
It happens at least once a week. My poor family and boyfriend are horrified every time I make a mis-slice. But really, it's not a bit deal: no infections, no pain, and I've never gotten blood on the food. Promise.
Epic fail at "lily-white hands," though.
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Also in the chopping arena, I (the hairdresser actually) snipped off at least two inches yesterday to give me a thoroughly-modern-Millie bob, or something close to it. I like it. My hair hasn't been this short since freshman year of college, when I whacked my former ballerina's mane. In any case, it will be awfully convenient for the beach next week (off to the Outer Banks from October 4-10).
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