Celebrity culture has never been my thing. But I was star-struck when I ran into Nancy Pelosi at a downtown San Francisco spa and waxing studio. At the time, I was evolving from hotep hippy to a posh pothead. Because of the decent money I earned in the hay days of growing weed in the legacy market, it only made sense to go to a high-end spa for virgin Brazilian waxes. The esthetician was so top-tier that she encouraged me to wax my cheeks and entire face. Rude! Yet in her defense, I was born with a lot of hair. On my head, on my body and according to my mother, much of that newborn hair was on my face and cheeks.
Walking up to the receptionist’s desk at the spa, I instantly spotted Congresswoman Pelosi standing in my direction. She was so petite with her bob and that infamous smirk on her face. I was smiling too—cheesing hard when she said hello and politely introduced herself. I thanked her for her service while doing a half curtsy out of the establishment trying to play it cool. In …
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