Tuesday, December 21, 2004

La guerre des cheveux

Get those shears out, I have a defective gene - a defective hair gene. Alls I want to do is a full patchy magoo (*see: pending catchphrase). I've had it up to here with this Chrissy Hynde/Patti Smith-a-locks disaster that's currently sitting on my head like a smug teen pageant queen. Thick and wavy, my overgrown mane can't quite solicit sex to strangers nor can it get away with that ironic bedhead look with perfectly poised peaks celebrity stylists are scrambling to re-create for their bedless, bed-hopping clients.

Seasonal solace, it ain't.

I made an appointment for Thursday morning at a salon located an hour from town. "Just shave it," I might be tempted to tell the hairdresser with a flair for the avant garde. "Perm it, fry it, wrap it in cheesecloth. Read it civil war poetry if you think it might help." Of course, after going through every contraption but an automated car wash, I will come out resembling a young Mia Farrow or pre-expired Edie Sedgwick in all her dope-eyed glory.



I want to watch Hotel Rwanda starring Don Cheadle as a Hutu Oskar Schindler. Early reviews have been point positive and the trailer looks fantastic.

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