Seems lately the Universe has just been rants and raves about various topics. Today, I am feeling introspective and quiet, probably because I am listening to Lucinda Williams, am very tired, and extremely busy at work- two of which are a bad combination, the last most annoying, and the first lovely and sad.
Usually, I think about what to blog in the mornings, while brushing my teeth, gulping coffee, and running around trying to make the 7:45 bus (almost never happens. Very much an 8 or 8:15 bus girl. Unless the bus is late, where I occasionally have been an 8:30, 8:45, 8:50 bus girl).
This morning, the thing that is most on my mind, and has been for most of the week, is my hair. And I sort of don't want to blog on it, because I want to move away from ranting and raving, and tell you about the Armless Hipster Girl, or the funny happenings with roomates and one crazy cat, or something else delightful. But, I have not been paying attention to bus people, and the cat is being nice and relatively normal. Delightful is whoopie pies.
So, onto my hair. All of which I chopped off this past Saturday in the thrust of a "must do something life changing and crazy or go crazy myself" moment. Now, I've had mostly short hair for quite a while now. Once I got past that hippie thing in highschool, which I will NOT speak on further, I went for the bobs, the layered cuts, and chin length, ear length, and inbetween kind of cuts. But always, in my heart of hearts, I have longed to get a "pixie" cut.
A pixie cut is what Winona Ryder had. Gwenyth I think too, at one point. Madonna, during that human sexuality phase (yeah that one, not the others). Its short, cropped, yet somehow amazingly feminine. However, I am very much not a "pixie" kind of girl. I am more of a "do what I want or my next call will be to my lawyer" kind of woman. I would think most of my regular readers have picked up on that. And every time I went to a hair salon, I expressed this silly desire, oh ha ha, of just cutting it all off, and always was given the 'hmm, no, not for you' look.
But this weekend, I met Roger. A hair dresser from Brazil, who's mother, father, brothers, and other family members were also all in the hair cutting business. I said, I want to cut it all off. Roger said yes, its hot, its summer. The entire walk to find a salon open past 7 on a Saturday night, I performed and perfected my speech to convince whoever was going to cut my hair to actually cut it. I was going to look them in the eye and try my best to express the desperation, the step away from pure insanity, that was driving me. The absolute knowledge that I needed this now when I said, "I want to cut all my hair off." But, oh bless him, Roger didn't even blink an eye when I picked up a picture of one of those adds featuring the new and best styling products for cutting edge people and pointed to a man who had short, spikey, crazy, and let me stress SHORT, hair. In fact, he said "we'll keep the sides a little longer, yes?, keep it feminine."
And now to the ranting. While most have been receptive to the change in 'do, one friend of mine did mention coyly how much more dykier I looked now, if I wanted to swing that way. Because, it seems to be a known fact, short hair means man-hater. I really wish I could claim that statement as made up by my own creative genius, but I read that in some distant Cosmo, before I decided Cosmo was the devil in glossy form, where guys off the street were asked, "what do you prefer, short or long hair on a woman?" and one man actually said "short hair means man-hater."
And even I, this past week, have been nervous about suddenly appearing too butch, to male, too masculine. In a summer in which I already made up my mind that I didn't give a fuck about make-up (especially over the 7:45 bus), this week, its been on. (Ok, its just been green or purple sparkley eye shadow, but still) And so far, skirts at work, two out of these three business days. In a summer in which I already pretty much decided to be a permanent resident of single-city, suddenly I'm looking for whosoever might be looking at me.
So what the fuck is going on? I have short hair, my adolescent to adult (? me, grown up?) desire. I put dollops and dollops of gel in it to get that cutting edge look, and I do. I love my hair cut. I love being able to run my head under the faucet and walk away. Yet, now I'm on this weird femme/ butch trip and its driving me nuts. I dont give a damn about femme or butch! I dont give a damn about expectations! I like to wear flip flops! Naked juice is the best new discovery of Fiscal Year 2004! If I was in a romantic comedy, I'd be the sarcastic best friend who is pretty much sexless compared to the ultra-fem heroine, just there for the great jokes and witty ongoing commentary. I think the funniest people on earth are goths (this trenchcoat in August expresses my ennui and angst), while the most exclusive snob club definetly belongs to the neo-hippies (What, you don't like Phish and don't wear corderouys? Narc!). Yet here I am, right now, in makeup and a skirt. Its a new skirt, so I probably would have worn it this week anyways, but I'm feeling subconciously nefarious towards myself, and keep playing the What Really Was Your Motive game.
Ah fuck it. I have short hair and it rocks.
"The secret of being a bore is to tell everything." --Voltaire