City Wendy

A Weight Off

This week, you'll be impressed to know, I broke not one, but two personal records. And neither one involved gin! First, I didn't leave my apartment for three days straight, which isn't exactly a feat I've never accomplished before, but until this week I had yet to do so in New York. Even though I work from home, I can usually find some excuse to get out during the day, even if it's just a lunch date or a quick trip to Duane Reade to pick up some macaroons. But when temps took a dramatic plunge on Tuesday after near-Spring like weather on Sunday and Monday, I retaliated by staying parked indoors until today when I broke my second personal record of the week: I got my hair cut for the first time in four months.

Four months! Back in the days when I had so much hair to spare, I scheduled hair cuts like kids in Des Moines schedule trips to the mall. Even between appointments with my stylist, I'd often take matters into my own hands — quite literally — and chop away at my hair over the bathroom sink, aiming for anything that might make me a cuter, younger, hipper version of myself. I'd like to say after MulletGate, I wisened up and just left my hair alone to grow out, but for the next 2 1/2 years, I continued to seek the help of paid professionals even as they urged me to give it a rest, assured me that the longer I went without a cut, the sooner my hair would be long again. But I couldn't resist the cathartic snip-snip of their scissors, the sweet release of all that emotional weight I carried around on my head.

It's a learning process — this letting go...and letting grow. Aside from trimming my bangs just a couple of times in the past few months, I'm proud to say I haven't taken a pair of scissors to my hair one time since, like, last June. That's like a smoker not having a drag off a cigarette in as long a time. And this isn't the only thing I'm trying slowly to change about myself, either. There are other things — more important things: resolutions and goals I made for myself this year that I hope will turn into life-long habits. But it's hard. These things mean confronting stuff about myself I don't particularly like, stuff I'm not proud of, and facing quite a lot of fears and insecurities I've been denying for a long time.

Anyway, it's Thursday night, Drew is cooking dinner, there's a bottle of wine breathing and we've got a pile of movies and some good TV on the agenda. The fears and issues will still be here to tackle tomorrow.

Can't Keep a Good Woman('s hair) Down

In an effort to grow out my hair for real this time, I am resisting the urge to take every pair of scissors I own to it. But dear God, the size it's getting! My hair doesn't grow long, see, it really does grow OUT -- like a big mushroom cap on top of my head. And now that it's a bazillion degrees in the city for the next couple of days with humidity soaring to the sun, I can't manage this mop with a strait jacket. Also...it seems I could stand an appointment with my colorist.

Well...good excuse as any to stay in and drink, I guess.

Side note: Today marks two years since the infamous mullet disaster (I remember the date the way you might remember the day your divorce became finalized or when you totaled your car in a head-on collision). Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have long hair again.

Radiant: UPDATE with photo

I haven't told you about the Paul Simon concert yet, which was pretty great. He sang a few of my favorites and had some other artists — like Josh Groban of all people (my mom will be so jealous) — cover some of his other hits. I loved when he sang Graceland, a song that has a couple of my favorite lyrics of all time: "Losing love is like a window in your heart/ Everybody sees you're blown apart/ Everybody sees the wind blow."

There was a couple sitting behind us at the concert who had an interesting exchange before the show started:

Him: This is what real musicians do. This is what it's about — this is what being a real musician is all about.
Her: You're a real musician.
Him: No I'm not.
Her: Yeah, you are!
Him: No.
Her: You are! You were in the Jay Leno band!!
Him: Aw, that was nearly 20 years ago — I can't just keep using that...

beat

Her (quietly): I wish I'd known you 20 years ago...

And, scene.

Hey, I had another celeb sighting at the show. I saw Claire Danes and Hugh Dancy sitting not too far from us (in the cheap seats!). She looked like a prettier, sleeker version of normal and like someone I could be friends with. Actually, I sort of wish we were friends. She seems like the kind of person who'd remember your birthday and be game for a girl day of pedicures, sushi and shoe shopping.

You know who else I got to see this week? Jeremy Sisto, when he came into the coffee shop yesterday and ordered a latte. If you don't know who he is, he played Billy — Brenda's crazy brother — on Six Feet Under, and if you still don't know who he is, then I implore you to Netflix the entire series immediately, because holy crap, he's amazing in it, as is everyone else, and he also happens to be supah hot. Hotter in person, really. I think I blushed the color of sunburned baby thighs just looking at him. He's got that whole darkly disturbed and angry thing which made me want to reach over the counter, grab him by the collar, and lick his teeth. (He was nice, by the way, and probably not all that disturbed or angry, really. He also has the cutest dog).

In other news, I'm getting my hair colored today, which may not sound like such a big deal, but this will be my first real foray into the NY salon scene. Until now, I've just been getting my hair done with my old stylist and colorist on my return visits to Chicago. I'll actally be there again in just two weeks and could hold out for familiar hands if I really wanted to, but I decided it was time for me to branch out. It's a big step in cementing this whole move, actually, and feeling more at home here. I'm going to see a girl who comes into the coffee shop a couple times a day, who's also new to the city and who works at a trendy salon a couple doors down from the shop. Honestly, the salon is way trendier than I'm used to (think Leopard print chairs and crystal chandeliers), and I already have anxiety that I'm going to seem so out of place there, but what the fuck, the girl I'm going to is super sweet and I'm sure she'll make me feel comfortable and it will all be fine. It just so happens that People magazine this week has a section called Radiant Redheads, so I'm going to tear out the photos of Julianne Moore, Marcia Cross, and Lauren Ambrose (who dated Jeremy Sisto's character on Six Feet Under), bring them to the salon and say to the stylist, "Here, make me radiant. I have some teeth I need to lick."

Update: Someone asked if I would post a picture of my hair after I got it colored, so here it is. I'm not sure the intensity shows as well in the photo, but I'm really happy with the way it turned out and the girl who did my hair was so sweet and really listened to me that I'm even going to put my hair in her hands again next week when I go in for a trim (which I desperately need). She promised she won'y take any much length off since I'm growing it out and will just a clean it up a bit. If anyone in NY needs a colorist/stylist recommendation, let me know and I'll pass along her info.

The Anti-Mullet

So, can you believe I actually went almost four months without a haircut?! It's true--I did! Before yesterday my last haircut was in the middle of April and I only got that one because I had a job interview and I needed to look sort of presentable and the bangs in my eyes weren't going to cut it (no pun intended!). But after the new hair dresser snipped way too much and left a bit of a bald spot near the front, I decided I'd go as long as I could possibly stand it before getting another trim. "As long as I could possibly stand it" came about two weeks ago, but still fearing anyone with a pair of scissors, I poured myself a few cocktails and held my breath all the way until yesterday when I could neither drink another drop nor go another second without exhaling, so I gathered all my courage and went to yet another hairdresser, hoping, praying this cut wouldn't leave me anymore distressed than I have been since that fateful day last summer.

I think I discovered the key to a decent haircut. The guy I saw yesterday--the new guy? I got liqoured up with him twice before the big day--once a week before hand and then again the night before. See, he's a friend of a friend, which is how I met him anyway, and he works at the salon I'd been going to since September where my stylist--the one I'd entrusted to cut off the mullet and guide me through the awkward transitional grow-out--dropped the bomb that she was changing careers, how dare she! So, anyway, the new guy had a little background on me and the pre-trim cocktails only served to further solidify our mutual understanding of the situation. It also gave me a legitimate excuse to utter the phrase, while stabbing the air wth a stir stick for emphasis: "you fuck my hair up, you die."

Anyhoo, I had just the idea what I wanted to do with my hair: the anti-mullet!! Perfect, no? I mean, my hair is long enough for it now, so I thought, " why not?" I told him to go business in back and party on the tops and sides. And this is how it turned out:

NYMan says I looks like kinda like a 1920's flapper girl now, and you know what? I'm gonna take that as a compliment. Better a 20's flapper girl than an 80's Nascar fan, you know?

 

Good News!

My hair has been growing like a weed people, like a weed!

Bad news: It actually kind of looks like a bunch of weeds...

File this one under "hair-apy"

There's a picture of me in today's Chicago Redeye--in the story about what a bunch of losers bloggers are and how we're dying a slow death. I don't know which is worse--the quote where I admit that blogging is constantly on my mind (uh, did "get a life" every ring truer?) or my HAIR! The mullet still haunts...

UPDATE:
You can look here for an interesting take on the article and its inquiry over whether blogging is dying.

All I know is that I majored in media when I was an undergrad, and upon graduation I found that I really didn't fit into any of the traditional media out there-I didn't think any of them represented my "voice"--whatever that meant. Truthfully, at 21, I didn't have a voice. But I certainly wouldn't have found one at the local news outlets or corporate magazines I was applying for jobs with. It wasn't really until I started blogging that I finally began finding that elusive voice. And you know what? I have companies now that are literally calling me up and asking for my insight on weblogs and how they can get on the bandwagon--how they can use weblogs in their businesses to draw a larger audience and to help market themselves. And I have companies pursuing me because they like my voice, because they're realizing that the voice of traditional media doesn't represent or appeal to everyone and that there's this huge population out there who likes the word 'fuck' occasionally thrown into their daily content information.

One day most businesses--and certainly every media outlet--will have a weblog. Blogging will be a  legitimiate professional career with it's own little sub-category in the classifieds sections. Colleges will offer classes on the genre- in the journalism dept., the creative writing dept., business, and marketing. Independent bloggers will continue to make money selling ads on their sites and more and more will start turning their sites into fulltime incomes, supporting themselves--and even their families--on the revenue. When you tell people you're a blogger, they won't automatically think you have this website where all you do is write about what you had for dinner last night and give psuedonyms to the people you're sleeping with. They'll think you write all about biking at the lakefront, drinking endless pitchers of margaritas, and fucking up your hair all the time. That is, if I have anything to do with it.

What about ME?

If you're been reading this site for awhile, you know the issues I have with my hair. You may have even figured out that my hair is a metaphor for my life. That's why it is of the utmost importance that I have a stylist I like and trust, someone who can guide not only my hair into a flattering shape and cut, but someone who can help steer my life a bit as well.

Take my current stylist: in my moment of need, when I was sporting that awful mullet, I met her for the first time just two days before my 30th birthday and asked for help.  She not only convinced me to cut the mullet off, but she gave me a pretty cute cut, too, one that I could stand seeing inthe mirror without bursting into tears.  And all these months as my hair has slowly, slowly started growing out, she has counseled me along the way. When I tire of the awkward in-between stages and ask her to cut it again, she calmly says, "Now Wendy, you have to just let it be, you have to just let it do its thing. You can't avoid the awkward stage, and fighting it will only make it last longer."  Just like that.  Just like she's my therapist.

That's why last time I saw her and I accidently hugged her, I was mortified.  I thought about not seeing her for several months to just let the whole thing die down a bit, but by this week, my color had faded so much, I had no choice but to go in and see her for a touch-up. And as a testiment to our stylist-client/therapist-patient relationship, everything went great!  Everything was better than great!  We were like old friends, old chums--she made me hair look excellent, and I felt back in step with her again, like I finally found the perfect stylist for me, the one who gets me, oh it's a fantastic feeling!

And then!  Just as I was praising my good luck for stumbling upon this wonder of a relationship that seemed to find its fit so effortlessly, she dropped the bomb.

"So, I have something to tell you," she said and she rubbed some pomade into my hair.
"What?" I asked, suddenly alarmed.
"Well, I'm leaving and Saturday is my last day."
"What do you mean you're leaving? Are you going to a new salon? I can just go to a different salon! Yeah, that's no big deal! I mean, sure, this one is just right around the corner, but really, it's no big deal to commute a little, I mean, I can do that. So where are you going?" I asked.
"No," she said, "I'm not going to a different salon. I'm going back to school."
"Back to school?!" I spat, "But why???"
"Well, I'm turning thirty in a few weeks and I've just been doing some soul-searching, and, well, I just think it's time for some changes, you know? I mean, turning thirty just...it makes you think about things."
"Look, I know all about turning thirty. But you simply cannot do this to me!!!"
"It's not you, it's me," she said.
"Fuck thirty!" I said, "I thought we had something special.  I thought I finally found the one stylist who accepted me for who I am and didn't try to change me!"
"I'm really sorry," she replied.
"Fuck. The hug was an accident! I didn't mean it.  It was an accident!!!"

But it was not use--the damage was done and my hard-earned stylist is going back to school never again to touch my hair and or suffer an accidentlal hug from me, leaving me to ask in vain: What am I supposed to do now?!

Why Waves are Better

A horrible thing happened today. I accidently hugged my hair stylist.

It wasn't my fault, really. I thought she wanted it. She did that, you know, open arm thing, after our appointment while I was waiting to pay, and then leaned towards me like she was coming in for a hug, and I was so caught off guard and I didn't know what to do (Shit, we hug now? When did this start? I thought frantically), so I just opened my arms, too, and leaned in and turned my head so we could do one of those quick little cheek-graze, shoulder-touches with minimal contact, but then, mid-lean, she sort of reached for my head with both hands and messed up my hair a little, and I didn't know if she was messing it up in a sort of friendly "good-to-see-you,-now-you-take-care" kind of way (she is from Kentucky), or if she was fixing a stray strand or what, so I continued leaning in for the cheek-graze, shoulder-touch with minimal contact thing and I suddenly lost my balance and kind of fell into her, grabbing both her shoulders to catch myself, and she grabbed both my shoulders to push me away and we both turned our heads at the same time, smashing our cheeks into each other awkwardly and unfortunately there was nothing minimal about it, and I just backed away from her mortified, avoiding any eye contact, and I scribbled my name on the receipt, threw on my coat and hat and ran out of there just as quickly as I could.

And now I don't know how long I have to wait before I can go back. I mean, I can go back, right? Shit, I hope I can go back. It took me so long to find a stylist I trust, and god, our fourth time together and I had to go and fuck it up already just like I always do, and I can't believe my fucking luck, I didn't even want to hug!!  I hate hugging! I thought she wanted it!

Seriously, there's got to be a better way.

Pros and Cons

If you've been reading this site long enough, then you know the kind of trauma my hair can cause me, what with the coloring fiascos, the mullet, and the big chop. Of course, I only inherited my mother's hair obsession, so you can't really blame me for my own. The apple and the tree and all.

That said, I find myself with yet another conundrum, which is: to grow out or not to grow out. Now that my hair's at that awkward stage where it's neither cute pixie, nor sexy shag, but merely dumpy mop, I am tempted to go short again and keep it that way maybe through the summer or so. But as usual, I'm going back and forth on the issue. Back and forth and back and forth and now I have a hair appointment on Saturday and I totally don't know what to do!

So I made a Pros and Cons list for my short hair:

Pros
Easy to style
Looks good with my earrings
Doesn't stick to lipgloss on a windy day
Saves money on shampoo

Cons
Not mistaken for Pamela Anderson anymore

Maybe I was Too Quick to Dismiss It

So, you might remember me mentioning the writing workshops I taught over the summer to ex-cons on the south side of Chicago (which, by the way, turns out to be a HELL of a lot easier--and more fun--than teaching angsty 18-year-old college students at a private university in the burbs, don't even get me started).  Well, with some grant money, we were able to publish a magazine of a bunch of their writing, and this week there'll a public reading in the neighborhood where we had class and it'll be great to see them again and see how they're doing and if they found jobs and if Glasseye's glass eye is treating him well, and anyway, I just got a copy of the magazine and in the front is a picture of me with some of the guys, and I have to say, for all the grief and headache my mullet produced, in this one instance anyway, it actually looked pretty perfect: