Who are you to tell me what to do?
You’re nobody, man. You’re not a damned thing.
But as for YOU, Mister Movie Star Man
You can call me, baby, any time.
Don’t be jealous, girls.
Just go out and get your own.
For real, though — I almost cut my hair today.
I was just so damned frustrated with it, the way it always looks like Dorothy Hamill and gets into my eyes. On the way back from taking my child to the dentist, I almost just drove to the mall and got it all cut off again. I’m only growing it out for my boyfriend, anyway. Because he wondered aloud how it would look. Well, I did wonder that, myself. Sometimes I think it’d look really good long, now that I’ve lost weight and it’s not burned orange anymore. But it takes SO LONG to grow out (no pun intended, get it?) and it looks so choppy while I’m waiting. God. But then, instead of driving to the haircut place at the mall, I decided to drive to get something to eat instead. I get really cranky when I’m hungry.
When we got back to the apartment, I threatened my boyfriend that I was going to cut my hair. With my eyes, I dared him to complain. He pointed out that of course I could do whatever I wanted, because it was my hair. My life. There was a moment of silence following this uttering of the absolute truth.
Then he said that if I decided not to cut my hair, all it needed was some styling, and that he could do a lot with it if I would let him.
“Show me,” I said, in the same tone in which someone else would have said, “Prove it” or “Guess my name or you have to give me your first-born son.” I’ve never been good with a blow dryer. I’m not a learned disciple of the school of the coiffure-ary arts.
He made my hair look really good and non-figure-skate-y. Also, he made me laugh. So then we had sex, conversations, fun, and hamburgers. All at the same time, maybe. Then maybe we went to the moon. You don’t know. This is an online journal. For all you know, the whole damned thing’s a lie. But who would take the time to lie about something so mundane? But, then again, who would admit to having Dorothy Hamill hair?
You’re gonna have to decide for yourself. Do you want to read this shit and believe it, or do you want to be more selective with your faith? Either way, do you want to get bent out of shape thinking about it all? Do you really want to go through some big drama about everything you read here that may or may not be the truth about someone else’s life? Send out crazy e-mails? Stay up all night? Violate your restraining order? Kiss the voodoo doll? Tear off its head?
Think about what you’re doing. What you’re doing to yourself. Is it really worth cutting your hair? Why don’t you go get something to eat, instead?
Nourish your body. Feed your mind. Then call me and let me know what you’re going to do with your life. I hope it’s something good.
ha, ha
I tricked y’all when I wrote that stuff above. The whole second half of it was a lie.
Seriously, though… I’m kind of nervous right now. My hair looks great, but I have one reading and one recording coming up (See “upcoming readings and events” link above and to the right if you care. I am a writer. Don’t know if you know that.) and I don’t know which pieces of my writing to read or record. I’ve read my own stuff so many times, I can’t judge it objectively anymore. “I can’t read this piece because I always stutter over that word,” I whine. “I can’t read that piece because Veronica made a weird face last time she heard it on the radio.”
I wish I had time to write new stuff, but I don’t. It’s like I’m not even a writer anymore because all I have time to be is an insurance technician (jeez) and then a single mom (so tired). If I were a real writer, I’d write three to eight new things per day. If I had real respect for art, I’d let my kids paint at the dining-room table and not give a damn what the apt management said about the carpet.
But I’m just a sad little figure-skating-headed girl sometimes, and I don’t know what to read.
Boo hoo.
