Adventures with Mr. Pinkwhistle

For the past five days, I have felt similar to what it must feel like to be a large pile of shit.

It is not fun.

Yesterday, however, there was so much excitement over my hair that I didn't have time to get distracted by excrement. It was a relief. A day of respite, a tropical breath of fresh air amongst the mire--

"Excitement?" you ask. "Hair?" Yes, there was excitement, and it really was all about my hair. Details? Right this way...

See, I went to have it cut by this boy that I met on the Haight. I had an appointment with him at nine, so I figured that would give me plenty of time to get my hair cut, finish my homework, and be in class at noon.

Uh, yeah. IT TOOK ME FOUR HOURS. Actually, it took him four hours. To cut my hair. Forget homework, I missed class. I was amazed at the astronomical length of time. I'm not complaining or anything, because I actually had a pretty good time while I was there, but GEEZ. Who would have ever guessed that you could even find something to do with someone's hair for four hours?

Anyway. My hair now looks quantitatively worse than it has ever in my entire life. (Pictures will follow. Well, maybe. If I can stand to let anyone see it.) Don't get me wrong, the boy did a lovely job. The cut is fine, well done, it's picture-perfect. But do you know what kind of cut it is? It's that near-mullet, highly-stylized shit you see on those scrunched-leather-boot-and-leggings-wearing, high-maintenance, pseudo-artsy/hardcore/intelligent chicks.

Feel free to scrape your jaws off the floor.

I wasn't prepared when they began asking me what I thought of it and did a horrible lie-job which included a hefty amount of sputtering and moments of speechlessness. I put my hood up once I was out of the salon's viewing range and when I got home and looked in the mirror in the privacy of my room, I teared up and nearly began to cry.

It's bad.

I told myself beforehand that if it didn't turn out well then I could always shave my head or into a Mohawk or something. But good lord, I didn't think it would truly be so bad that I would have to seriously consider actually doing it!

Pff. Anyway, I've since dyed it black (which helped a bit, but not much) and I'm still considering an electric razor.....but until anything is decided for sure, let's just say I see a lot of the Simon Hat in my future.

The worst part is I absolutely adored the kid who cut it --we chatted it up and got along quite well-- and I'm afraid I've spoilt my chances of being his friend because of my transparent reaction to the atrocity that now sits on top of my head...which he was quite proud of, I might add.

He is alarmingly short and resembles a cross between a dachshund and what an animated iguana might look like, but he is intelligent, pleasant, sociable and unassuming, and he has good taste in music, all of which combines to make a rare find in the sea of discardable twenty-somethings this city has to offer.

I like his hands and the fact that he said "rock and roll" when I asked what kind of music he plays, and the concerned, intensely-absorbed faces he makes when he cuts hair. He runs everywhere and smells --unplaceably-- familiar. Conversation was easy.

Twelve hundred and sixty-nine cheers for distractions. (Even if they come in the form of intensely unattractive hair.)