Tag Archives: hair

The lady of alot

Earlier today, the Sally Hershberger of Lowell transformed my hair into some garish assortment of stripes. I think I hate it, but I’m not sure. It’s OK. I can’t have nice things. Sally’s young daughter is jailed in the salon for the summer, and she sat at the reception desk computer looking up breeds of dogs on Yahoo!. Every now and then she’d shout out a new one to her. “Akita! Basset Hound! Irish Wolfhound!” I shouted right back: “Airdale! Pomeranian! BOSTON TERRIER!” This does pass the time. I loved shouting out the dogs.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
I’m begging of you please don’t take my man

While my hair was baking in its foil jacket, I received a phone call asking if a price I estimated covered some wildly complicated new functionality that no one even mentioned in the RFP. I yelled “No, and never call me again! Just thinking about you cost me $300!” and hung up. Then I got another call, and I yelled “I told you never to call me again!” but it was Mr. H, and this made him sad. Then I got a parking ticket. Did I mention the first people I yelled at were monks?

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
Please don’t take him just because you can

Wow. Yelling at a monk on a cell phone in a salon is a whole new level for me.

And I can easily understand
How you could easily take my man

The monks did call back, and they were ready to bargain. I prevailed.

My happiness depends on you
And whatever you decide to do, Jolene

Content Challenge is nearly over. Praise. I hope we can get through this without another mashup.

Already today

I ate a mildly fermented orange. Will this kill me?

I directed a whore who is new in town to a place to get her acrylic nails repaired.

I stocked up on a whole ton of birth control for the day it is declared illegal.

The cat punctured my exercise ball. I shouldn’t have thrown her anywhere near it. Now I realize all the howling was just to warn me not to eat the deadly orange. Sorry, Cat Lassie. Nothing a little duct tape won’t fix.

I had my hair cut by the Sally Hershberger of Lowell. Next week she is going to bring out my inner bottle blonde. No wonder that whore sought me out. While I was in the salon, a man came in and assumed the asian stylist did massages. What an assumption! I know she really runs a counterfeit Harry Potter ring out of the back of the place.

Zellweger forgot to add fabric softener.


Internet, let’s talk about my hair and hard times. Normally I prefer to frequent a salon where they bring you espresso and dole out near-orgasmic scalp massages. It is the happiest place on earth. However, the repeated experience sets me back over a thousand dollars a year, and I’m not even including parking or gasoline mileage. And color is another several hundred at least. So I realized this all makes me a Bad Person, and here I sit with grown out layers and visible white hairs. I am going to the cheapo local salon to have a white stripe dyed down the middle of my head, like skunk. The savings are substantial.

Suffering from existentialism also costs money. Did you know I used to be crazy for free? I know, like peasant. Weekly therapy is fifteen bucks a whack, plus fifteen for the psych-pharm guy, plus thirty-five for assorted medications. If I went back to just lying on the floor and kicking when I felt extra anxious, I could save over $100 a month! I think I will get right on that. Poor decisions are my right as an American. Drink more potato wine, peasant.

My eyesight is terrible in my old age. I cover up by buying enormous sunglasses so no one can see me squint. This also saves on Botox. Also, I don’t eat unless someone makes or opens the food for me, so that cuts down on the food bill. I have a system here, people.

What do you do to save money? Expired can goods? Unlicensed plastic surgery? I want to know!

I’m OK, you’re OK Update!

In Boston news, it’s COLD. It shouldn’t be surprising, this being, in fact, New England, but every year this is News. Surf’s up, Sri Lanka, in Boston it is COLD! As I tottled to work feeling, well, nothing, I thought it might be about time I learned to drive. Maybe Helen will teach me. Especially as she has not had a use for her beloved riding crop since she sold Mr. Sparkles and Ting-Ting to the dog food factory.

In other NEWS, I am getting my hair done today. It IS the apocalypse, after all. This is the year of Day After Tomorrow, and Locusts! And also, Locusts!

Hrmm, what else is going on in our world? i have lately been enjoying my coffee with a bit of cinnamon in it. And the huge 13 gallon cannister of popcorn in the lunchroom is Nearly Empty! Christmas is over at my building, and I thought this would be a matter of the giant fluffy santa village in the atrium there one day, and gone the next. Not so! It is in stages of dismantling, which means all the cotton is gone, and there are empty “presents” boxes standing around. It gives me a hangover, and I have not even been drinking.

Helen is back from Richmond, and I am sure she will have news of her own, as soon as she is back from her de-worming cure.

Oh, and by the way, Locusts!


Win a Date With Lambchop

We here in the 9th circle of Hell are pleased to show you our current favorite for the prized position of being on my arm at tonight’s Bowie concert. It is a difficult decision, as the entries are just pouring in. Thats because everyone knows I am easy. What makes this candidate so special? We like his unabashed appreciation for himself and for Echo and the Bunnymen. We also like his hair. As for his “Natural Cool”, discover for yourselves.

Dear Lambchop,

I am special for many reasons.

For starters, even though I suffer very badly from adult ADD, I am still in the 3rd most popular american synth-pop band of all time.

I like to paint rectangles and I like to read non-fiction, which are categorically stupid things to do, but even with these albatross I am still tattooed on a man’s leg for being as cool as I am. I am also special for having what I like to call a ‘natural cool.’ Even though I am typically surrounded by morons and sycophants I retain an almost ethereal quality which nearly defies description. Is this magic? Possibly. It is this ‘COOL-FACTOR’ which allows me to, say, wear one outfit/hair-do and go to several different parties in several different cities on the same

night. Do *You* Know What I Mean? From a grimy punk-rock venue in Worcester to a fine restaurant in New York City, you will find my coolness special. From a tavern in the deepest reaches of the Maine wilderness to the glamorous stages of London, Miami, Barcelona and Amsterdam, my coolness remains intact and obvious to those around me. I really don’t even have to DO anything, and that is the key. Many people have to DO things to be or at least SEEM special. Not me. My natural charisma and special cool-qualities

are ominpresent, without the need to accomplish or even attempt anything in particular. How was I born like this? Why me? I don’t know….I DON’T. I remain, however, ready to face the challenges or lack thereof that I am confronted with, and I will do so with a smile. If that is not special…well then I’m not really sure what is….

And I know way more about new wave music than you do, suckahs.

How does this relate to dear, dear Lambchop? I am not sure. Sometimes the very concept of taste brings people together, people with say, wildly varying temperaments/tempers. My favorite things about Lambchop? Pure talent in an impure world. Her fondness for pork products, her willingness to let me borrow the first disc of the Echo and the Bunnymen boxset…should I go on? I thought so. Her real color, her fake hair color. The way she almost never wears the same kind of boots my mother would wear. It is a total

package, and any person could appreciate this, especially from a PR standpoint. And really…who better to scream at David Bowie with like two giddy schoolgirls …in…. their…30’s?

Sean T. Drinkwater, Boston, Massachusetts,

June 1, 2004, 12:35pm

****About the photograph (ed- the original photo accompanying this post was lost to the highballs sands of time. The part of Sean Drinkwater will now be played by Sean Drinkwater. In order to see pictures of the Other Sean Drinkwater drinking beverages, please consult the facebook):

I took it upon myself to singlehandedly teach the Dutch about mixed drinks, in this case Orange Juice-based beverages. These were strange and queer to the Dutch, but I have a feeling should I return to Amsterdam this year that will find this kind of thing to be a bit more widespread. I will quietly thank myself for helping the new Europe in this way. A blurry photograph was

chosen to downplay my beauty because I want this contest to be fair.. Shirt: D&G, Jacket: Asics, Outer Jacket: C20 outerwear, Pants: Andrew Christian (this could be inaccurate), Shoes: Camper, Belt: probably Gap.

Get a haircut and get a real job

Yesterday I got the haircut. That’s a start, right? I have 1/2 inch long bangs. I said “I feel suburban,” and my stylist rubbed her hands together with glee at the butchery that would take place. I like it. She asked if people really wear sweatshirts all the time out here, and I said “Oh, but they do!” and she had an involuntary spasm and cut off three inches of hair.

I am starting to see real muscle definition from my escapades at the gymnasium. This is incredibly exciting.

The man upstairs with the piano has enlisted a singing companion. Two days ago, this woman caterwauled “You make me feeeeeel like a natural….wooooomannnnn…..” for three hours straight. Further impetus to get a job that entails leaving the house, as this is no longer charming. I am updating my resume, right after my power nap. I have officially quit freelance and must simply wrap up what I already have going on.


Oh my Gawd!

There were all sorts of characters afoot last night. We went to Jae’s for sushi. I don’t even know all what was in that boat. You could pan sear chicken brains and I would eat it. Pan-seared! For our entertainment, the waste of human life at the next table were getting drunk. The Goombas then impressed their lady friends by ogling me out loud and and then calling me names when I suggested they just take a picture. They even mocked my hat! Only INSANE people wear hats, especially in January.

I rarely ever get openly made fun of these days. That went the way of my Teri Nunn hairdo. So I am rather taken aback when it happens. What class it shows when a bunch of f?!?heads leer and stumble over some nonsensical putdown about the color of your jacket. I can’t wrap my mind around that level of brain activity.

But we went on to the Spinny bar, which revolves over the Charles River. They have frou frou drinks called Popsicles and a Russian DJ. We watched the revelry of what appeared to be Romanian Prom-goers. If they had played the Venga Boys, i swear we would have danced. The bar started to spin in many different directions.

I know you were all out there, enjoying this tinkly winter evening, because I saw you. And I smiled and waved, as long as you weren’t making fun of my hat!


Our house, was our castle and our keep

So, not an hour after I am assured we can move into the new place on Monday, the human blowdryer at the real estate corral calls MY HUSBAND to say “um, you can’t after all.” I guess Verizon was right, the building is imaginary. It’s a good thing he decided to go over my head, because I would have taken his call, kicked my heels up on my desk, and had a voiceover segment. There would have been some spangly dream sequence music, and a perky voice would ask “What would Anna Wintour do?”

And then I would have REAMED HIM WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE. His office is a few blocks from mine. I still might. Throw a cellphone at his head and key his Grand Cherokee.

Point of clarification: I am not really a douche bag when I deal with people. This is a fantasy, designed to detract from how totally crushed and helpless I feel. We’ve scheduled a shut off for the utilities, scheduled them for the new place, given our landlord notice that we’ll be out, and hired movers. Even my new haircut, which looks amazing, thanks for asking, isn’t helping. I am so calling Hank Phillipi Ryan. And, as Aaron suggested, I’ll be booking rooms at the Ritz and deducting the bill from our new rent. One for me, one for the cat, one for all my stuff.

Panic in the streets

Today is all about dread. Fear of the blinky red dot on my mail icon. Fear of the blinky red light on the phone. Fear of the clucking chicken ring on my cellphone, which means messages waiting. I guess it’s my own damn fault for picking that ring, I should switch back to the Bewitched theme.

I am short of breath, and my ears are humming. Now more than ever, I need a personal whitelist of who is actually allowed to address me! I don’t want to field a question from the assorted ding dongs that need to get all up in my existence today. The clueless freelance client who can’t remember where they bought their domain but still needs it pointed somewhere else. The real estate monster, calling to say “We-ell, you can still move in on the first, but you may not have a working elevator…” Verizon, saying “Oh, you would like a phone in your new place? How NOVEL.”

I also don’t want to give advice to people with poor life skills who won’t take it anyway.   Oh, you have baby daddy trouble? That’s too bad. You gained weight? Ha. I am getting a sore throat.

Did this entry stress you out too? I’m sorry. Really, I am. You shouldn’t have to suffer too. Why do we always hurt the ones we love? Let’s talk about a far more soothing topic: my hair. Oh, deep breath. I am soaking in it. I am getting a cut today, which always makes me feel like a squillion bucks. Yes, I know I just got it cut a month ago. But I am like a nappy little Shetland pony. If I don’t go today, when will I go over the next few hellish weeks? The terrorists will have won, and my layers will be shot to shit. Please do not bring up my grown out highlights. I will buy you a gingerbread latte if you just look the other way.


Dateline: Bok Bok Bok!

Wherein I fire my colorist and press charges

“You call those highlights? Try GRILL MARKS! FIX THEM!”

A chunk-a-chunk here, a chunk-a-chunk there. Three hours later, I leave, shaking with rage. The hair is moderately fixed. A brief sojourn in the trailer park is humorous, oui, but try doing that 4 fucking days before the most photographed day of your life. Imagine if you were giving birth on The Discovery Channel and your waxer gave you a fucking shamrock instead of the requested star or heart or Gucci logo. Ugh. Just wrong. I consulted with Kitty Winn, and she was properly livid too.

Kitty and I also discussed wedding night lingerie. I said “Tell me, Kitty, what’s a sexy direction? Crotchless maybe?” And she rolled her eyes and yawned, “Oh, honey, he’s already bought that cow at that point. Give it up. You might as well be comfortable.”

So there you are. Oh, and we got married by a JP in lower Allston. The witness was a giant orange cat named Mr. Fluffy. So pop a cork for me and Mr. H. We could have held out til Saturday, but the paperwork for the gay Venezuelan Jew who was supposed to marry us didn’t go through. Imagine Mitt Romney denying such an application. I never. Now we just have to have an anticlimactic dog and pony show, huzzah!