No More Lentils

She was one of those former deadheads who had been lost since Jerry died. She had spent the better part of her 20's on tour with the dead, and had burned bridges and brain cells along the way, selling bad burritos., ugly hippie dresses and the occasional bag of mushrooms.
Her hair had devolved into about three big ugly dreads, a mouse brown collection of matted hair that made a rhino horn seem attractive, and her overall funk matched the cellulite and thundering hips she'd developed from sitting around between shows, or pointing her decrepit microbus down the highway.
Her better days had been spent tofu dancing with third or fourth generation hippie boys, twirling to the often off key drone of the Dead, and she'd reached the end of the road. She wanted running water, a refrigerator and a steady income.
She just wasn't ready for the shock of seeing her mother in the mirror once she got the short haircut, boring office drag clothes and steady job.
But she sure smelled better. And never ate lentils again.