Saturday, October 23, 2004


Today, procrastination at my house worked in reverse: instead of cleaning and shedding to avoid deadlines, I embraced deadlines to put off the purgin'.

My goals for the weekend included getting rid of stuff and cleaning out the basement storage space so I can get the rest of my things back from The Vexx and call it a something-or-other.

But I did not go into the basement. Instead I tackled the large stack of scary papers on the desk and organized my stories. I brainstomed my December media column and subsequent episodes of the sit-com, pitched a story about a hot young painter and started writing a review of the Icelandic band, Singapore Sling. Turns out SS is not at all like their countrymen Sigur Ros (who are like Radiohead minus the overwrought Moody Blues thing). I was prepared to be underwhelmed as I am with every CD they send me to review but they're good! -- pure pop full of fuzz, flange, feedback and Farfisa. And unlike the Raveonettes they don't seem to be faking it.....I was a big fan of the Cramps and Scientists and the Jesus and Mary Chain back in my mohhicanned days and this brought it back tenfold.

I did practice in yoga today the few 2nd series poses I do (bad idea, as the back is tight from missing a chiro appointment). Afterwords I ate at Wishbone with two other Girls With Pierced Noses Who've Been to India (the best kind of girls if you ask me), and visited the hairdresser. During coffee the other day I noticed my 'do was doing some kind of bell bottom-y thing and was horrified. So I got another mohawk, only it's not as tall so it's easier to drive my car this time.....NO! I had all the red cut out, so now I look like a grey-haired man....... NO! Actually Milio just cut off a bit and added a few layers. Now it's less Roseanne Rosannadanna , more Breck Girl (conservative on the outside -- not a bad idea considering the upcoming election).

Despite the fact that my my stepmother made me wear super short hair, which I HATED, for four long Bushlike years (more on her iron rule some other post. Suffice to say that like Saddam's indicted torturers, she too wielded a cattle prod), I think I cried over a haircut only once -- two years ago in NYC when I was subletting a place in Chelsea for three weeks during Pattabhi Jois' 2002 tour. I asked for some layers at the place on the corner and the woman with unnaturally red hair HACKED away at my own mop til very little was left. I should have known something was amiss before I got in the chair, when the woman said dramatically, in a Russian accent, "First, I must smoke," struck a pose, and went outside to do just that.

I think this is first time I actually liked a hairdo on Day One -- which means tomorrow I will realize how awful it really is and indulge in a big, fat tantrum. Haircuts and I do not get along. Back in sixth grade I was surprised to learn that Joey D., who was kind of popular in a smart assy way, liked me. Of course I went along with it, despite the fact that he was far shorter than I with a too-big, adultlike head. He was nice to me for a couple of weeks and even gave me a chaste peck in front of his friends (I didn't really have any of my own). Then Xmas Judy dragged me to her friend Mrs. Gehrke for one of her ghetto basement $5 haircuts (While she cut bangs that would invariably hang at a 30-degree angle, my eyes would water from the permament wave fumes and I'd ponder the big wooden paddle on the wall that had carved on it, "To My Swingin' Ma. Love, The Brat"). The next day at school funny-looking, smart-assy Joey wanted nothing to do with me, and I became invisible once again. Except for when my classmates wanted to make fun of the Puritan dresses, knee socks and sensible shoes I was forced to wear three times a week (more on Xmas Judy's Mommie Dearest dress code in another post).

I have stayed away from short hair and short men ever since. Well, except for that time in the mid-90's when after eight hours in the chair the woman at Big Hair couldn't get the black dye out and I could no longer stand having Fall Colors hair anymore (Every single leaf color was represented, from bright red/orange to dark brown). It was subzero outside and late on a weeknight and my hair felt strawlike and staticky and I was living in a basement and just wanted it to end. I called the nearest salon, which for some reason was open. I walked over, nostril hairs freezing. They didn't want to do it. I insisted. So as soon as the man with the orange pompadour started cutting it off his toy poodle rolled around on the floor in it; at least someone was happy... Later I had to have Tom from 'Nam fix their awful hack-job (it was supposed to look like Single White Female-era Bridget Fonda), and girls started to look at me with great interest..... And then there was the time I went out with Jeff M., who was incredibly good looking with perfect hair and a great family. But it couldn't last, because I was a whole foot taller. I still have an out-of-focus Kodak 110 picture of us in front of a row of turd-brown East Campus lockers; I am slouched low so we looked like we're about the same height. But we weren't, and he kissed weird anyway.

....Oh yes..... I suppose I am also procrastinating on the basement (and being way overly self-indulgent) by retelling irrelevant events on this here blog.... Oh, well.

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