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8.24.2004 ||>
There have been two times this month where I have been inarticulate with rage. Usually that doesn't happen to me. Like most Irish-Americans, I'm fully content to scream, cry and throw things when I'm angry. Becoming inarticulate is not a common problem, but I suppose when you can't fully express yourself to the other person (because they speak the most difficult language on Earth, apart from Chinese) it's easier. The first was time was the deal with the furniture that you already heard about. The other time was yesterday, which was a mess. But I was good. I did not freak out. I very calmly told the hairdresser that we did not understand each other. I wanted layers. She wanted to give me a mullet. I, in fact, had a mullet (or rather a "femullet" as my old site mate calls them for women) before I figured out what she was up to back there. I did some breathing exercises, thought around the problem as they teach you to do in Aikido, and asked her nicely to cut it off.
"But it's so beautiful," she said.
"You know, it's really not my style." I replied.
"Okay, but I think you're making a mistake."
So she cut off as much as she could without shaving my head. So now, no more mullet. Instead, I have Hillary Clinton hair. I went in for the rock star look and came out with the shortest hair I've had since I was five years old. I still can't decide if I look five or forty, but it'll grow out. And until then, I have lots of hats.
0 snow blossoms
