The other day, my cousin Emma and I felt this overwhelming urge to henna tattoo our bodies. We searched all over her suburban town for a store that would sell henna, stopping at CVS, Newbury Comics, and the local party store. At the latter location, it was if we had entered a bizarre indie film where too-young-to-be-working teenage girls sat idly on the counters of a deserted party goods shop. Although they didn't sell what we were seeking, one of them knew exactly where we could find it. Our final destination was an art store in the next town over. Score.
Sometimes, when I pluralize things, I like to add a letter A on the end, sort of like the way millenium plural is millennia. So since henna already ends in an A, there's only one way to denote lots of it: all the hens.
[Photo by me.]
All of the designs were created and brought to fruition by either me or Emma.
That is, in fact, my pajama t-shirt, featuring a badass cheetah.
It lasts about a week. Om.
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