Random hairy bits

All week, I have been editing and tweaking three blog posts. They are shit. They don't capture what I am feeling, it is like one long string of blah blah blah poor me. Other people suck. I want Lucy back. Blah blah.

Sure, there is a place for that. It's in my brain.

I just feel so impotent right now. I feel like my Mercury is eclipsing my moon, or whatever makes your communication skills lousy. This time of year used to be my favorite--the smell of burning leaves, the red hue cast in our house from our fiery red Japanese Maple,the crispness of the air, the holidays approaching. I actually checked the website of le crappy radio station that plays twenty-four seven Christmas music to see when, OH WHEN, does the merrymerryjoyjoy begin. I have my Christmas cards addressed and enveloped. And my Christmas shopping mostly done. I am trying to raise my spirits. But even a hundred times more UP is still me floundering. I am in a funk that you cannot dance to.

:::

I have received a series of rather unfortunate haircuts these past two weeks. It began with a tremendously horrible bang trim. I tried "shaping my hair." Let me just say that I have no fucking idea what I am doing with scissors near my head. When I was pregnant with Beatrice, we bought the house in which my ass is currently sitting. We were moving, and it was November. I was, coincidentally, exactly the same weeks pregnant as I am right at this moment. I had a haircut that was too short for a pony tail, and too long to not get in my face constantly when I was packing. I could not handle it anymore. I lived right in Queen's Village, Philly. So, I called all the nearby salons. "Do you have an appointment, like now? Like this afternoon sometime?" They all said no. At the last attempt, I just said, "FINE. You are now responsible for what happens to my hair." And with that, I went into the bathroom and buzzed my head. Well, most of it. I did attempt to style it. With clippers. And I sat in the hallway whimpering,waiting to see if Sam would be disappointed that he married me. Sam walked in the house after his long rotation of the day, and said, "Ah, Ang, you look so sexy. Let's go fix it."

Scissors + Angie pregnant = Bad idea. I decided after my recent failure with the bangs to just go somewhere respectable and get a cut. I stupidly said, "Sure, sounds good. Whatever you think will look good." to the straight man deciding to give me some "movement." I did specify one thing, which is that I want it long enough to put up, or short enough that it isn't in my way.

I always grow my hair long. It is sort of on perpetual growth circuit. It gets long, and then I look in the mirror and think: Why the hell am I doing this? I a. never wear it down, b. look like a disheveled farm lady, c. spend an hour blowdrying it to resemble Roseanna Roseannadanna, d.don't really care for long hair on myself, and e. get annoyed by the ever-present hair on my face. Still, I persist.

Movement is code for layering. I looked middle-aged. This is a haircut for someone else. This is a haircut for someone who gives a shit. This is a haircut for someone who actually understands and uses product. I gotto my car and put it up in a pony tail. Whoosh. The entire front of my hair fell out. "What the hell?" Grabbed the hair again, tightly, and rebanded it. Whoosh, there it is, blocking my view of the salon. I went home and cut it to the length of the shortest layer. Yeah. How is that working for ya, Ang?

Yo, Eraserhead.

I am back to square one--pixie cut or grow it out? Only my violent mood swings can tell.

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This is one of my favorite random stories usually told after some drinks, but since I am not drinking these days and I am in a funkity funk, I am sharing it to brighten up my morning.

Many many many moons ago, I lived in Tucson, Arizona. My ex was from Nogales, and so we often went there to hang out with his friends. I became quite close to one couple. They are both Mexican with relatives on both sides of the border, much like my ex. When they decided to get hitched, I was asked to be in the wedding party. What a strange series of events the whole wedding debacle became. Also because of hair issues, the entire wedding was an hour and half delayed, much to the chagrin of the now-drunk bride, who spent that time drinking champagne after champagne nervously pacing the floor of her bridal suite. When she confronted her sister and mother after they admitted they decided to hit a beauty school for their styles instead of the salon she booked, her sister classicly said, "Ay, but my hair looked like a Q-Tip." Today, I say that every time my husband is standing at the door, keys in hand, tapping his foot as he waits on me.

Back to the point of this rambling...the bachelorette party. Yes, in the middle of the desert. Literally in the middle. No other houses around, somewhere between Tucson and Nogales, a bachelorette party happened. It was me and fifteen other shy Mexican girls. And one of the women, either a wicked horrible little person or someone with a great sense of irony, hired a stripper. Now, I had never been around a male stripper but when the man walked through the front door in chaps, I definitely thought he had arrived at the wrong type of party. "Hello, ladies. I am Jim, your dirty cowboy." Good lord, giddiup.

So, the girls sat, hands folded on their laps or covering their mouth as they giggled nervously. Mexicans are modest people. It was painful. I heard someone say in Spanish that he had horrible tan lines. So, I assessed the situation. This is not going well.  To bring a little perspective from my half-Panamanian/East Coast punk rock girl corner of the party, I whooped, "TAKE IT OFF, Cowboy!"

"Ay, Angie, you are soooo funny." The girls ended up loosening up and letting go a bit. Teasing him. Hooting. Someone grabbed his ass. It was fun, even if at the time, he was old enough to be my father and not in the slightest bit attractive. After the shenanigans, I retired to the kitchen with the bride to commence the tequila shots. The stripper comes in to the room. "I know you," he said pointing at me. Considering I was the only lady in the entire room to give him any attention, I cynically saw through this ploy. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do. Where do you live? In Tucson?"
"Yes."
"Near the university? On Cherry Street?"
Oh, shit, maybe he did know me..."Uh, yeah?"
"NO WAY! I'm your mailman."

Now, there are a thousand things that run through your mind when your mailman has just stripped for you in front of fifteen Mexican girls, but what is your name is not really one of them. That is, until he said, "It is nice to meet you. I'm Bob."

"So, Bob," I quipped, "You changed your name to Jim to strip to a bunch of women in the middle of the desert?"
"Yeah, I don't like to use my real name."


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And yesterday, when Beatrice and I had just grown tired of staring at each other, our current mailman delivered a package of heART goodies. Yes, Mother Henna's package of Dia de los Muertos art arrived and we unwrapped every piece carefully, and oooohed, and aaaahed. Then we grabbed her freshly painted orange table, and began arranging everything. Beatrice grabbed the camera and started taking pictures of me placing the bits here and there.

There were twenty pieces, including one of my own. Bea took about twenty photos of her dog's ass, which I am not including here. There were paintings, and prints, Jess' lovely piece of paperwork, and Ines' amazing driftwood painting. Mother Henna included an actual henna'ed sugar skull. Beatrice was begging to wear the calavera pin. It was an impressive box of goodies...I am in love.