20 August 2002 ~ Devil's haircut...

At the moment, there is a small gathering of men dressed in orange, staring comtemplatively at the asphalt. They're frowning and stroking their chins. They're standing in a circle. It kind of looks like a religious ritual: some sort of sacred ceremony. In the center of this circle, there is a very, very large orange digger, which is tearing up the street, and, consequently, making a whole shitload of noise, and shaking the ground. It's pretty neat.

This entry is not about that. I just wrote about the construction in case Aaron is reading. Aaron likes construction even more than I do.

This entry is about stupid people. More specifically, ME.

Don't ever give me coffee.

Not even decaf.

It just intensifies the dumbness already wandering aimlessly about inside my head.

It was Sunday night, around eight-forty-five, when I got the brilliant idea to cut my own hair. The thought had been bubbling around for about 24 hours, but it only expressed itself, in its full splendor and logic, at eight-forty-five on Sunday.

I had my reasons, of course. As you all know, I'm broke, and as most of you know, if you've been reading all the entries this month, I'm conducting a sort of miniature experiment on dropping out of consumerism for an undetermined amount of time. So, to save money, I've been letting my hair grow. And grow... And grow... Until it was SO fucking annoying that I was walking around, constantly, with one hand on my forehead, trying to keep my fucking hair out of my fucking eyes. Made climbing up to the roof a bitch. I had to do that by my sense of touch. It seems that the way to get around, doing this non-consumer thing, is NOT to simply "go without," but to find alternatives. That is, not to go to a salon that's going to charge me sixty bucks for what amounts to skillful use of a scissors, but to find a friend, or MAKE a friend, or, what the hell, to find a new shop opening up, and walk in on the first day saying, "Dude, I hear you guys are awesome..." so they'll be nice to you and charge you less, as "I did in Binghamton.

I walked into a pizza place downtown a few days ago, and the girl behind the counter had REALLY cool hair. I asked who does it for her. She said she did it herself... Hmm....

I ordered this CD about a zillion years ago at the mall, a pretty obscure one I knew I wouldn't be able to find anywhere. Because I REALLY hate putting money into corporate CD-stores (believe me, they're foul and evil in every way; I worked at one), I checked at two local independent stores, neither of which could order it. Evidently, it's out of print. The ONE remaining copy of this CD was at the mall, and I HAD to pick it up, or they'd send it back to the company this week. Then I would never, ever have this CD. So, I bought it with money I REALLY don't have. Feeling terribly guilty about this, I decided to give up the idea of trying to find a ten-dollar haircut. Indeed, this haircut was going to have to be free: that would be my penance. No salon, not even a beauty school; this was going to have to be 100% free.

At eight-forty-five on Sunday, I picked up a pair of scissors...

At eight-fifty, I raced down the hall to the nice girl with the big, bushy, black hair (who looks a tiny bit like a very young version of my friend Marketa), pounded ferociously on the door, and yelped ("yelped" is more than just a colorful word: I really did yelp...): "Dude, you've GOT to help me here... I just, like, cut off my bangs, and I'm REALLY scared to go all the way around my head, but if I just leave it like this, it's going to look stupid; you've GOT to help me!!! Do you know anything at all about cutting hair?!"

My neighbor-girl, mini-Marketa, said, with a big set of open, innocent, Aquarius eyes: "I don't know ANYTHING about cutting hair!"

Okay, okay. No panicking.

I rushed back to my bathroom, picked up the scissors, and chopped a few inches off both sides. Even worse. I could have gone outside before: now THIS was just ugly... And I know, I know, appearance doesn't mean anything, and everybody's beautiful, but listen: one's hair is a part of one's appearance that can be easily controlled. If somebody has a bad haircut, it seems to mean they didn't care so much about their appearance. It's kind of a deliberate: "yeah, I look like hell; so what?" And I DO care. I like to be pretty, and whether or not it counts for anything as far as my SOUL goes, or whatever, I don't want people to look at me and think: "Ew, that chick gave herself a BAD haircut."

I put on a hat. One of the berets that the Army kids at Fort Lewis wear. (Nyah-ha-ha...! Tight security in the army, my ass...) I ran down the street to Louise's apartment. I tried not to wail on the way down...

Louise's building is a secure one with no intercom system. I figured I'd wait a few minutes outside, hoping somebody would open the door and have pity on a stupid girl who'd tried to cut her own hair. Otherwise, I was going to go around back, scream Louise's name, and if that didn't succeed, I was going to try climbing the fire escape. I don't even know where the fire escape IS on her building. Hell.

Fortunately, an old guy let me in.

He said, "You don't wanna climb the fire escape, honey. They fine you for that. That's five hundred bucks out of your pocketbook, and I bet you don't have that kinda money in your pocketbook."

No, if I had that kind of money in my pocketbook, I WOULDN'T HAVE A BAD HAIRCUT. Now would I?

I don't even OWN a pocketbook. What the hell is a pocketbook, anyway? A wallet? A purse? "Pocketbook" is a stupid word.

I knocked on Louise's door. I moaned: "Lou-iiiiiiise!"

"Helena!? What's wrong? What happened?"

"I did a really dumb thing, Louise!" I moaned.

"What? What's wrong?"

I removed my hat. "Louise! I gave myself a MULLET!"

She laughed. Hysterically. She just about cried, she was laughing so hard.

"You have to HELP me!!! I can't just LEAVE it like this, but I know I wouldn't be able to cut the back straight by myself!"

For the next hour and a half, Louise labored on my head.

When I left, it still looked like shit. But at least it wasn't a mullet.

It was also very, very short. Boyishly short. I've had it this short before -- once, when I went to the beauty school. "Once," that is, as in, "never again."

...but it kind of looked cute. Uneven as hell, but kind of cute.

Jürgen, who saw it the next day, assisted in the salvaging process. He said I looked like a little boy. I said: "Yeah. I do look a lot more like my little brother now..." He kind of groaned and looked away in horror, muttering something about how people were going to think he was into man-boy love or some shit. (...Believe me, some of the people who are into that aren't HALF as creepy as you'd think, aside from, of course, being into man-boy love...) I told him I would put a bag over my head in his presence if it pleased him. He said, no, that's would be okay.

Then he made me promise not to refer to his help as "butchering," which it wasn't. It still isn't even, but it's much, much better.

Free haircuts give new meaning to the words "cutting corners." Jürgen at least evened out most of the corners.

I still kind of look like a little boy. Not such a bad thing. I've been told it's a good look for me. By a self-admitted pervert, of course, but it still wasn't an insult.

...besides, it will grow out soon enough, and I'll be holding the shit out of my eyes with my hand again, oh so very soon...

~Helena*

"Oh say, can you see my eyes -- if you can, then my hair's too short..." --"Hair."