Hair

Goodbye (for now), track weave...

PS When my extensions were clipped off and my hair was unbraided, I couldn't stop scratching my long-hidden scalp. The sensation was so unbelievably wonderful I practically purred like a cat. It's a shame I don't have a boyfriend because my hair can finally be pulled without reservation again.

PS 2 Although I have quite a backlog of significant (to me) experiences from the last couple of weeks I really ought to write about, I believe I'll save all that till tomorrow. Or another day.

PS3 I wonder if my earnings will take a dive now that my hair is so much shorter. Ah, stripping...

No Show, Not Quite

"An American woman who respects herself," said Mrs. Westgate, turning to Beaumont with her bright expository air, "must buy something every day of her life."
-- Henry James, "An International Affair"

This morning, for the first time in over a week, I truly woke up-- felt the wet carpet of torpor roll back and could once again embrace the prospect of living with a sense of renewed vigor, joy and energy.

The first order of business was to get my track weave washed and set. Sadly, I ended up spending twice as long as usual-- over two hours!-- in the local Dominican beauty shop due to length of time it took to dry out the moisture trapped in my too-thick under-braiding (note to self, never go to that African hair-braiding salon for extensions again). The braids under my weave are still a little wet, in fact, and smelling musty. Nasty-- I can't wait till after the holiday to get this weave taken out. I want to get the last bit of Barbarella mileage out of it this week before I go back to having short hair for a bit, though. It's good for business, if not my peace of mind. Or scalp.

My long salon delay ensured that, since I was more than an hour late, I had to pay the same 50 dollar fine at work as if I was a total no-show. Seems pretty unfair, but every rule for dancers is ultimately made for the benefit of the club, and they rarely cut anyone slack whatsoever. I took the train into Manhattan to explain my salon issue to the manager and pay it in person as well as to see if it was worth my while to stay and dance that day, fine or no. However, I just couldn't bear to get dressed and finish my shift, somehow. Instead, I scheduled myself to work the next three days in a row, sigh. I really made a particular effort to set things straight and be a responsible employee, but it's a losing battle when nobody ever believes anything one says, and almost everybody in a managerial position is a fucking bully, jerk or totally forgetful. NO SUPERVISOR I'VE EVER MET IN THIS INDUSTRY IS NICE AFTER ONE'S FIRST WEEK. EVER.

Note: this is the first time I've ever been late for work at Tryst and I didn't even get one iota of a break, nor did I expect one. Treating employees as disposable, to put it mildly, is S.O.P. in every strip club I've ever known.

Afterward, blinking on the sidewalk outside the club, and as happy as a dove who had flown her cage, I sat in the shady, mossy graveyard at nearby St. Paul's for a little while, ignoring Ground Zero a few hundred feet away as well as every other thing that reminded me that I was in the middle of an enormous city or ever had to work again.

Then I took a meandering walk down Broadway, ending up not quite by chance in one of my favorite stores, the mega-colorful French novelty shop, Pylones, and bought a few little things for myself:



These little plates are so cute I immediately felt compelled to have a romantic/fun picnic somewhere with a friend/date. It didn't happen. Day jobs make spontaneous daytime jaunts difficult for most other people I know. Booooooo. Plus my cell phone is really iffy right now, and I'm kind of loath to get a new one just yet. I like the idea of being progressively incommunicado, at least for awhile...

When I finally got home I called to book a plastic surgery consultation for next week... I can't wait to finish saving up for these little cosmetic procedures and get them over with so I can treat myself to shopping excursions more often, hopfully with my little brother by my side. Although I suppose I'll have to stop working when he's around, so money might be a problem then, sigh.

I was so happy not to go to work today my heart was absolutely singing. Maybe this means I'm in the wrong line of employment?

What else should I do with myself, though? Be my own housewife? Run away to Alaska? Marry for money? My rent is only 400 dollars a month, though, better marry for love. Eventually. Or never?

Who knows, maybe I'll die tomorrow.

Ah, I want to go on a picnic so badly right now!!!!!!!!!!!!

So AMERICAN

"We may take the stories least like poetry as our guide to the truth"
-- Plutarch, "Parallel Lives"

The romance of poetry holds neither appeal nor ring of truth for me in these times of exhaustion. I long for plain words, comfort food, also to give and receive service impersonally and efficiently.

In fact, all I wanted/was able to do today (so far) was:

Read short stories as well as Ovid and Plutarch, clean my house, eat junk food and sleep. Again.



Around 3, feeling as gray and gloomy as the overcast sky, I shuffled slowly down the 2-block stretch of Broadway that is my particular stomping grounds for groceries and treats here in Brooklyn and bought myself a bag of vegan Doritos. A friend told me about them recently-- a new flavor blissfully produced sans milk. Since I haven't had Doritos in 14 years being able to eat them again is quite a treat-- it's a repeat of the joy I experienced a few months ago, when another helpful companion told me Oreos are now vegan also, and I devoured them on a daily basis, dunked in soy milk, for weeks. These discoveries neither aid me in my eternal quest to lose weight nor curb my bouts of binge-eating, but whatevs.

Somehow, eating this kind of food makes me feel so AMERICAN:

PS I smooshed an avocado as dip, after waking up this morning with an unbearable craving for one. The cause was a vivid dream I had last night, the gist of which involved a fellow dancer I know, recently come back to Tryst after a month in Brazil, lavishly rubbing my scalp with "avos", which may or may not be the word for avocados in Portuguese as well as Spanish. That's the word she used in my dream, anyway.

In reality, it would take more than an avocado to fix my hair woes. If my hair were a person, I'd drop 'bows on him/her. My track weave, which has undoubtedly been good for business because, surprise surprise, men generally like long hair better than short hair on strippers, has become an enormous source of annoyance. No matter how much I wash, dry and style my extensions, the sad truth is they have begun to smell musty and look ratty. Gross.

It makes me want to shave my head, give up trying to be "attractive" and get me to a nunnery.

I hate my fucking hair. 600 dollars and counting since late February and it still sucks.

PS The "Tin House" volume I'm reading was given to me by the Asian lawyer on our last date aka his birthday. That night, trumping my efforts at gift-giving (cookies I baked myself, fish I drew myself, a card, etc.) he gave *me* dozens of expensive presents, with the promise of a puppy the next day, but, truly, as wonderful as getting to know him was, it had to end. I was just not attracted to him, and he deserves a fabulous relationship with a loving woman who wants to be with him for all the right reasons. So I figured I'd just remove myself from the picture so she could show up in his life that much sooner-- his last couple of emails are still unanswered in my mailbox, ah well. God bless.

PS 2 Re: me reading a lot of Plutarch and Ovid lately-- I know I'm really in the doldrums when I start resorting to my comforting childhood refuge of snuggling under a blanket in the pouring rain and reading Greek/Roman mythology/history. When I also start making Cream of Wheat I know a sad call to my mother is inevitable. But I shouldn't worry her. I'm just a depressed person sometimes. She can't solve that one for me.