Monthly Archives: April 2007

What’s the proper hair etiquette?

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Kerflop’s sad story about her hair prompts a sad story of my own. Last Wednesday I went in for another haircut by the East European lady I’ve been seeing for about six months. I told her I decided to grow mine out, but that it needed a little cleaning up. I didn’t want to touch the length in front. I didn’t want her to cut it too high up the back. Basically I want this on the way back to something like this. But — for the second time in a row — she cut something with layers that start above my ears. Meanwhile, I have the chin of a manatee, and this haircut means I can’t photograph myself from the neck up until the abomination grows out.

So. My question. Being that this is the second chance I gave my hairstylist to help me out, and that she still didn’t give me close to what I want: How bad would it be to just up and find a new stylist at another salon? Ever since my favorite one left the area a year ago I’ve been plagued by worse-than-usual haircuts, which is the result of hopping from salon to salon with my fingers crossed. And this stylist I’ve been seeing — I do like her quite a bit personally, which is why I’ve stayed through three or four haircuts, but even the first time I went (and I brought a picture!) I wasn’t happy with what I walked out with. I feel like I’ve given her a bunch of chances to listen to me but she keeps giving me the same thing (albeit with a smile).

ARgh. So. Would I go to Girl Hell if I just kind of never went back?

(This old post explains what I’m looking for. It’s not much, really. Seriously. Why is it so fucking difficult for me to get a haircut I like? It’s because I moved, isn’t it? The one salon and one stylist that really GOT me, back in my hometown — and I had to fuck it up and move 400 miles away. EEEDIOT.)

Last bit of Google blather, swear to God

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I wish I knew how to quit you, referrers page. (Previously: Avast, ye Googler.)

Googler’s question: Are the calories in cigarettes?

Supa’s answer: No. The calories are in the chocolate cake. The cigarettes are how you stay skinny.

Googler’s question: How do I know if my Gordon Setter is pregnant?

Supa’s answer: She starts crying and can’t stop long enough to tell you what’s wrong.

Secondary answer: She starts watching America’s Next Top Model and won’t let you change the channel.

Tertiary answer: She gets kind of lumpy, right about here *points to abdomen, which is undulating with puppy kicks*

Quaternary answer (Quaternary? Word, is that?): Um, after a while, some baby Gordon Setters come out.

OK. That is all.

With hormones thick as pancake batter

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Yeargh, third trimester. It’s like puberty all over again. There’s a tiny, squeaky, rational part of my brain that’s chirping “GIRL, YOU CRAZY. PUT. DOWN. THE ICE CREAM.”

But the overwhelming majority of my brain is on emotional autopilot: “omg why is life so hard and why do i feel so tired and out of sorts and i just want my mom to come here and make everything okay no wait i just want to go to the mall and buy some new shoes no wait i just want to lay on my stomach and go to sleep on my stomach for chrissakes but i cannot because i am pregnant and one day one day soon i will have a a a a a baby and omg i am creating a person and he’s going to be so beautiful and so amazing but what if someone hurts his feelings and i have to go after that person and maybe even commit a crime on him because no one messes with my children and then i would have to go to jail and oh my gosh life is so hard and I am trying not to cry, where’s the ice cream.”

It’s like … you’re trying very hard to drive to Iowa, because that is where you are headed, and it’s Iowa you are driving to. But the car you are driving keeps pulling to the right, pulling to the right, no matter what you do. And next thing you know the car totally, majorly pulls to the right, so fast! You didn’t even realize it! What happened?! And now you’re in Atlantic City and the bells are ringing and the lights are flashing and Iowa is so far away you can’t even remember what it looks like.