Erin Adams

Most women I know pledge allegiance to a certain brand of makeup. There’s the brand-happy Clinique types, the crunchy Origins women and the suburban Mary Kay ladies. Then there’s me, the one who buys what’s on sale or even (gasp!) goes without makeup whenever possible.
    It’s incredible that I missed the boat on makeup loyalty, considering my roots in beautification run deeper than mascara down cheeks during a viewing of The Notebook.

It’s a weeknight at around 11 p.m., and I’m huddled under my bed sheets nearly at the gates of Dreamland when a sound comes from the adjoining bathroom. Jolted from a semi-conscious state, my ears hone in on the creature’s wild ramblings. First a growl, then a couple of sniffs, a stomp or two. Lastly, an overly dramatic sigh followed by these bellowing words: “Erin! Can you PLEASE get all of your hairs out of the sink? They’re so gross!”