Pursuit of Happiness vs. Make-up Advice and Serial Killers
![Image](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65Qmf8GIVrEJKbXhRoM4tkqZz_im-kWNHF-J5R5GfgwvSK4WPb38FwAKtxgyyoeLvZ8hmIBOxyLFgwZJOKtASQFJpST1x_l6Xj-XBbMertrkv362lMh-efonYF4Frx3jAe_QM_6Y64OwG/s320/FB_IMG_1522241863205.jpg)
Patrice used to take a personal interest in my looks. "You need concilla ," she told me in her South Cackalacky accent. I made her repeat the word a few times and finally spell it: C-O-N-C-E-A-L-E-R. She had a point - my dark eyecircles are legendary. Patrice was a beautiful woman, masterful with fashion, trying to help me out with the obvious. Over time, though, I found an awkward trend to her advice. One day she was adamant - adamant - that I should try parting my hair on the side. "Just do it one time. You'll love it," she insisted. She'd done her hair with a severe side-part . Obviously it would be good for me, too, because she liked me. Understanding her motivation is exactly the kind of thought that plagues me for years, but I think I've finally sorted it: Patrice felt an elation when she found herself beautiful with side-parted hair. I think she was trying to recapture that elated feeling by replicating the action on me. Sound