Fifty Shades of Thrifty (a Parody) Read Online Free PDF Page A

everyday conversations. (I've picked up a little myself, as
I think said style of speaking sounds cool.) But despite the fact she uses her
wardrobe as a weapon during trials, she's an excellent lawyer and could easily
win her cases dressed in burlap.
    Roxanne is my
gum-snapping Sicilian friend from Brooklyn who's a hairstylist, or, as she
calls it, "hairdressuh." But she's not just any salon gal; she's
sought far and wide by celebrities and the wealthy who no doubt endure her
wicked accent because she's a miracle worker with scissors and a comb. She's
blessed with natural wavy hair, big light green eyes and an a great rack.
Beneath the Brooklyn stereotype lies a girl with an IQ of about 160 who
actually has a degree from Wharton but ditched the whole corporate thing for a
career with a styling brush. She makes more money with her salon than she ever
could in a boardroom.
    She's about
five-three, making her the shortest of our group, but the one you'd want in a
foxhole because Roxanne doesn't take shit from anybody. She's a tight package:
tight jeans, tight skirts, tight tops, tight walk with no wasted motion. You
know the type. Also has the quickest wit, and can cut a man down to size with a
comment sharp enough to slice a stale bagel.
    Anyway, these
three made me get up on my kitchen step stool like it's some pedestal. They
walked around me looking at the total package.
    "Let's start
at the top. The hair's comin' down," said Roxanne, who reached up on her
tiptoes to unleash the bun.
    I leaned away.
"I like my hair up."
    "Men like it
down," she said, grabbing my bun and struggling to pull the hairpin out of
the Gordian knot. "Geez, you could bounce quarters off this thing."
My strawberry locks dropped, hitting my shoulders. Roxanne ran her fingers
through it. "Gawd, it's like straw. But I can work with this. Women would
kill for this color, you know."
    "They can
get it out of a bottle," I said.
    "Yeah, but
the carpet won't match the drapes," said Roxanne, with a wicked grin.
    Serena had been
rummaging through one of my closets. "Where the hell are your heels?"
    "I don't
have any," I said. "I'm five-five, that's tall enough."
    "Please tell
me you didn't just say that," she said. "Is it therefore your
contention that you do not own one single pair?"
    "Have you
ever seen me in heels?"
She sat down on the floor facing me. "Now that I think about it, no. Do
you even know how to walk in them?"
    "I tried a
pair in high school. Made my feet hurt."
    "What size
are you?"
    "Six.
Narrow."
    "I'm a nine.
Rox?"
    "Sorry,"
said Roxanne. "I got pancake flippers for feet."
    "Ariel?"
    "Eight."
    "So much for
tonight." She yelled for Ariel, who was going through my other walk-in
closet. "What's the dress situation?"
    Ariel stuck her
head out of the closet and shook her head. "Nada. No dresses or skirts.
Not even a pair of shorts except for some old ones that look like they lost a
battle with a spray can and a weed whacker."
    "Those are
my cleaning shorts," I said.
    "I'm
assuming you clean this room once a year, whether it needs it or not,"
said Ariel. "You know, a man would find this boudoir very inviting."
    I looked around
my bedroom and took in the unmade bed, pile of clothes thrown on the floor and
a potato chip bag which shared the night stand with a couple of empty yogurt
containers. "Fine, I'll get a cleaning service."
    "A snow
shovel would be quicker," said Roxanne.
    "Seriously,"
said Serena. "You don't have a single skirt?"
    "What can I
say, I like pants."
    "Do you even bother to shave your legs?" asked
Ariel, who then ducked back into the closet.
    "Of
course," I said, then shrugged. "Well, not every day."
    "So,"
said Roxanne, "besides the hair, what else is on the to-do list?"
    Serena was making
notes on a legal pad. "You ever try contacts?"
    I nodded. "I
had them in high school."
    "Did you
like them?"
    "Yeah, but
they were a pain to clean all the time, so I went back to glasses."
    "Figures,"
said Serena, who made a check mark. "After the