My Blogger Dashboard, lately, is littered with the stubs of aborted posts. It seems I've been absent for a while, and having trouble sneaking back in through the side door, tip-toeing gingerly through the kitchen, past curfew, hoping nobody will notice, only to find you, my precious few readers, waiting in the armchair in your bathrobe glaring at me over the tops of your eyeglasses. Leaning in for a cheek but really sniffing my breath.
Where was I, you ask?
Yesterday I decided (by the way, everybody) that I'll stay in DC for graduate school. After this, I was greatly relieved to have the burden lifted, and I skipped aimlessly down the street until my cute-but-newish ballet flats cut blisters and I found myself in front of a hair salon. Broke but be-Visa-ed, I ambled up the stairs and offered up my finicky and unmanageable curly hair to a complete stranger: a thin slip of a hipster with jaunty Jimmy Fallon hair who looked frightened of my head.
I was wickedly cheating on my straight male boutique hair stylist
yet again. I hate him. Our relationship has lasted nearly two years, and I've never gone for two consecutive hair cuts from him because I cannot handle his jokes about fat chicks. After each session, I vow never to go back. I find someone new. But they just don't compare and I always come crawling back. And he knows
I've been with someone else. He can smell
it. I've told him that I was traveling for 3 months in the Ukraine and my head was mangled by a wild shear-bearing, layer-happyUkrainian vixen, but I can't tell he doesn't believe it. Don't be a stranger
, he'll say accusingly as I saunter out, up to here with the fat chick jokes and misogyny. But he knows I'll be stepping out. Just as I did yesterday.
And I'll surely be going back, because I received the most comically terrible haircut of my life
. I swear on the Holy Bible that I very nearly busted out laughing at several points watching this poor guy desperately try to save the situation. I suppose I could have intervened: asked him to set down the snippers and just step off. But I imagine it was akin to watching Jackass
: you know that terrible things are afoot, but you just have to see what happens next. He wielded his scissors like a preschooler at the arts and crafts table. I actually started feeling sorry for the guy, as the situation spiralled out of control and he started feebly patting
at my hair to try and save the situation. Styling Tip for Hair Dude: when you've finished manhandling a head of curly hair, you have to apply some sort of product (anything will do, really!), prior to the blow-drier. Also: a diffuser is the proper implement for blowdrying. Also: after blowdrying, no matter how terrible it looks, you ought to stop cutting
. It is too late, Hair Dude. It cannot be saved.
Sometimes I think my straight male boutique hair stylist has paid off every other salon in the city, Tony Soprano-style, to make sure there's nowhere else for me to go.
So I put myself onto the bus because my feet were blistered and my head was absurd, and my thoughts were alternating between the two poles of pain on my body. Though it's hard to say, that is probably why I left my wallet sitting on the Capital Metro bus seat at 10th and U. I blame the hair.
It's no fun to lose your wallet, and especially not when you don't discover this fact until you are at a bar, magnanimously offering to purchase the beers of the two guests who have come at your invitation to give you advice on your future. Because then, not only will you have to renege on your offer to buy them beers, they will have to buy your beer.
This morning, I made it to the office to find a voicemail from an elderly Mrs. Parker. Mrs. Parker, bless her ever-loving soul, found my wallet on the bus and therein discovered my business card and office phone number. She is keeping it with her at the Senior Citizens' home where she'll be all day today. I love Mrs. Parker. She is a beacon of light and I'm buying her flowers and then she'll pat the chair next to her and tell me stories of her youth as a wild, free-spirited psuedo-lesbian
, and she will change my life into a more meaningful one in which I try to spice things up by wearing saran wrap for my paramour.
Things are looking up, people. And I'll try not to be a stranger.