Girly Girls

It's probably no surprise that I was a pretty extreme tomboy when I was a kid. We lived a few miles out of town and roamed the countryside every free minute, climbing trees, swimming and fishing in creeks, swinging from vines, crawling through caves.

I pretty much grew out of that stage, but I was never real concerned with appearances. I still prefer jeans to dresses, boots to heels, no pantyhose to any pantyhose, and I'm still not much on shopping except when it comes to Bobbi Brown.

It's all Leah's fault. One day we were running around town after having lunch with one set of friends and waiting to meet another set for dinner, and Leah said, "Let's go to Bobbi Brown and get a makeover."

Once we got there, I found out what she meant was, "Let's get YOU a makeover." And we did. And it was fun. So much fun that when I walked out an hour later looking like . . . well, a girly girl, I had $500 worth of Bobbi cosmetics in my bags. Since then . . . let me put it this way: I used to share my income equally with the IRS and my agent; now Bobbi's getting her cut, too.

What brings all this to mind now is that I'm meeting Leah for lunch tomorrow . . . but first we have an appointment at Bobbi for a makeover to try the newest products. I can see another bagful of cosmetics in my very near future!

Being able to beat up all the boys who lived within two miles was a lot of fun -- but, I've discovered, so is being a girly girl. And I'll smack anyone who says otherwise.

(Okay, you know there's a big grin here!) Rachel9:30 AM