Sneaking Around The Man:

 

So we all know that I have aberrant pink hair, oui?

 

I also have an interview with a very upscale corporate firm tomorrow.

And it’s a personal referral through one of The Boyo’s co-workers.

 

In other words,
I don’t want to fuck this up.

 

So I did this today:

Nice, normal, aberrant hair

 

 

nice, corporate, expected, BORING hair

 

 

oh look, there's some color.

Now tell me,
if you didn’t *know* that I had pink hair,
would you even begin to suspect that the above is NOT my real hair?

‘Coz that’s gonna matter,
right around 2pm tomorrow.

HAIR:

I have a funny relationship with my scalp follicles.

I kept my hair long (ass length) through high-school,
mostly because people pestered and teased and prodded me to cut it off,
and well,
I’m perverse like that.

And maybe there was something in that tormenting,
since the first time I actually *liked* the way my hair looked was when I finally whacked it all off five years ago–it was really cute, and red, and swingy,
and unfortunately,
never looked as good as it did walking out of that salon.

Teaching didn’t help with maintaining awesome hair, either.

(teaching didn’t help with maintaining awesome anything, truth be told)

When I was working at a post-production house,
I started toying with the notion of cutting my hair REALLY short.

And dying it.

(I think it was the nose-piercing day with Ruth that freed up my inner punk, really)

We were so happy that day. And swollen.

I wanted to dye my hair black and pink.
Not Barbie pink.
Not fluffy pink.
PINK.
Sock you in the eye,
take no prisoners,
glows in blacklight
PINK.

After I got that haircut,
I grinned at my reflection every morning for about a month straight,
in spite of my pink-stained pillows and shower.

This cut had a swath of PINK going up the back of my head, too.

It’s been nine months since I’ve cut my hair.
(yay, unemployment)

I can’t wait to whack it all off again,
and yet?

I’m also kinda nervous about it as well.

I’ve had some really cute hair days lately,
but I’m tired of having to brush, curl, and bobbypin the everliving shit out of my hair every day,
ya know?

The Boyo loves my supah-short hair
(I love that he isn’t a “typical” guy in this regard–
long hair doesn’t look good on me,
so he’s not harboring some inner pout
about the fact that I don’t (and won’t) have it.),
and I love my supah-short hair.

I’m just afraid that it won’t turn out.

Or that the stylist will screw up the dye job
(oh hai, chemical burns!).

Or that I won’t like it anymore.

Or that I’ll feel ugly over the holidays.

Or that I’ll look like hell in photos from my upcoming performance.

Hair is so damn complicated as a woman,
isn’t it?
It’s never just…dead protein on your scalp.

…

At least my dead protein comes in pretty colors, y’all.

*grin*

(Weigh in–does anyone else have a funky-ass relationship with their hair, for whatever reason?)

See This Hair? I Want My Hair to Be THAT Hair. Alas!

waaaaaaaaaant.

She looks fresh, gamine, chic.

Oh, I wish my hair would look like this–
stupid round-faced Irish genes.
Whenever my hair starts growing out,
I see the pixie cut and want want *grabbyhands* it,
in spite of the fact that it would instantly moon-face me.

Dear Emma Watson,

I envy your cheekbones, sister.
Love the hair–hope it stays around.

(photo from gofugyourself.com)