Godammit, I’m Mad!

Today I came across this bewitching long-haired girl and recognized her at once as another girl I want to be.

I don’t see many of them but when I do see one, it’s like an ache of remorse and disappointment. It’s like, I should have been her! What happened?  Here is another one. Her name is Pandora, apparently, which spells trouble, but I’d like to wake up and be her anyway. Click on her to see the full glory.

It seems to be all about hair, doesn’t it? It’s not just the hair, but hair is a big deal for me. I used to have a recurring nightmare that someone had cut off my hair. It’s a little like the one where you’re spitting out your teeth. The other night I dreamed there were bugs in my bathtub, and when I tried to squash them, they got bigger.  I would say that’s a Sisyphus dream….or maybe it’s just about anxiety.

Here’s another girl, I can’t remember where I found her but I see I have saved the picture as: “I will be her!”

Here’s a young model named Zippora Seven. Eerily reminiscent of Pandora, name-wise.

Why didn’t I get to be any of these girls? It’s a mystery I will never understand. Of course, I would much rather be Patti Smith or Amanda Palmer, but at this point I’ve learned to settle for worshiping them.

Looking through my file of photos, I came across this artist whose name is poetry itself: Marion Tampon-Lajarriette.

I don’t want to be her but I like the idea of putting “tampon” in my name like that. I guess that’s what Art is all about.

The day started out badly and quickly got worse. I realized that I forgot to make my credit card payment, but I don’t have the money to pay it anyway. Then, I tried to negotiate a payment plan with the hospital where I had hip surgery. Two different foreign ladies said No, with an air of vindictive satisfaction.

A family member became excited by the idea of buying a turducken for Christmas. It would only cost $100. Uh-oh, this meant trouble. Soon, the turducken plan became a massive turducken-of-contention. Voices were raised. The subject of no-money was passed back and forth with diminishing effect. Threats were exchanged and grudgingly withdrawn.

The Internet decided not to work. Nothing would changed its decision. I longed for a way to release my frustration and helpless rage, so I impulsively grabbed an old Pearl Jam CD, hoping to scream ‘Why Go‘ along with Eddie Vedder (who I still want to have sex with, after all these years.) But no, the CD is scratched, I knew that but I’d forgotten.

Somewhere, we have a remastered version of that CD, but how would I ever find it? Since my husband is a “curator” of CD’s, there are at least 5,000 of them around the house in racks, stacks and crates. Every CD you can think of is here somewhere, but only my husband knows how they’re organized. I burst into tears of self-pity.

Sobbing and limping with my cane, I tried to straighten up the mess that is my house. I started emptying the drawers of a desk that is blocking the fireplace area where we always had our Christmas tree.  Still crying a little, I sorted through a pile of old receipts and income tax shit.  I came upon a little tiny envelope, like the kind you get from a jeweler, and opened it.

“Money!” I  screamed in joyous surprise. My husband turned to look as I withdrew a hundred dollar bill, a ten and two fives. He came over to kiss me, and whispered, “Better keep it a secret!”

As if I would use the money for a fucking turducken! No fucking way. I see an appointment with my hairdresser coming up!

I have no idea where this money came from or how long it’ s been hidden away in that drawer. All I know is that it’s a true Christmas Miracle.

Mrs. Palin’s longtime hair stylist, Jessica Steele, is in deep shit.

After telling the New York Times that Mrs. P’s hair was thinning and needed emergency help, she retracted this bombshell on Twitter, obviously afraid for her life and the safety of her family.

Not wishing to be busted for running a meth lab, Ms. Steele now tells the Boston Globe that the real emergency re Palin’s hair is that it had lost its shine.

“I think [it's] the combination of traveling and just being down there in the lower 48. We needed to get her back to shiny.’

She reveals that she trimmed Mrs. Palin’s hair and then “kicked up’’ her shampoo and conditioner a notch.

According to Ms. Steele, who will have to retract this ASAP if she knows what’s good for her, Mrs. Palin left the salon with a bottle of shampoo and conditioner by the elitist socialist brand Pureology, at $48 each.

Looking into our Magic PAP-Smear Crystal Ball™, I see trouble brewing for everyone concerned in this Hairgate fiasco.   Mrs. P will not be able to justify spending that kind of money on hair products to those real Americans who share her real American values and want to progress this great country with its vast energy resources and healthy salmon, etc etc.

She will have to either blame this on her PAC fund or maybe on some blogger just sittin’ home in their stained undershirt [I was described this way be a conservative blog that didn’t like my use of the word “cunt’ for some reason.)

Or Jessica Steele will mysteriously disappear. Run, Jessica Steele, run like the wind!

While we await the next Hairgate development, let us enjoy the fact that Pureology proudly supports Global Green USA, good friends of the Sister Wolf family who operate under the assumption that global warming actually exists and isn’t just a Liberal Media concoction like evolution.

On an even more personal note: Haha Mrs. Palin, I live in one of the lower 48 and my hair is shiny AND thick!

Looking back on the Bad Hair Lament and the close call with the Topshop Jacket, I can only say Thank god it all worked out okay.

Andy fixed the hair and if you live in LA, he will fix yours, too. Plus, if you don’t want to talk about your problems, you can get him to talk about his. Or even better, you can toss around business ideas, like my plan to start “Clitter” which would be like Twitter but only for chicks. Thanks Andy!

I wanted a photo of the Fixed Hair to be taken outside in daylight, so I grabbed a jacket from the depths of my heartbreakingly* tiny closet and Look! It’s the beautiful metallic blue leather jacket from Neiman Marcus! I’ve had it for at least 15 years but I forgot about it.

The leather is pornographically soft and supple. The color is so awesome, I don’t even know what to call it. Is there a color specialist out there?

Anyway, I know this jacket will either steal your hearts or make them race, one or the other.

I think I’m ready to give up the desperate hunt for more jackets, at least temporarily.  Now, I’m obsessed with my aging face and how much I want some Restylane or that other shit that costs $600 per syringe.  I need to get the money together in a hurry, before Madonna uses up the world’s supply.

* Still enjoying this word. Taking suggestions for a new one.

When I’m not happy with my hair, nothing else matters. I am acutely fixated on the not-goodness of my hair. I tried lightening it to a brown color, forgetting how stubborn my hair is about staying black. It is now a patchy brown and black with gold streaks. It is dry and dull looking. Hair hair hair hair hair hair hair hair.

My husband says I’m just tripping, my hair looks fine. Today I saw my brother-in-law who observed: “I like your hair better black!” before I even had time to register my hair complaint.

Nothing I do will ever restore my hair to its former state. I have made a blunder of unfathomable proportions. No one will ever love me again. I am shit. I am less than shit, I am the shit with bad hair. I am a Greek tragedy, taken down by my own vanity like Narcissus. The gods are laughing about my hair. They’re going, “Haha, look what that stupid bitch did to her hair! She asked for it!”

I will spend a fortune that I don’t even have on hair conditioners that promise impossible results. I will scrutinize my hair for signs of breakage. I will hate every woman with shiny hair. (WendyB, put on a turban!) I will be humbled by the bald heads of courageous chemo-therapy patients. Then I will return to feeling bad about my awful brownish hair.

Fergie is rocking* some unfortunate new hair extensions, but that’s not the worst of it. In the March issue of Allure magazine, you can learn about the business of hair extensions, and you will never feel the same about them.

The Venkateshwara Temple, at Tirumala in the south Indian State of Andhra Pradesh, is thought to attract more pilgrims than Jerusalem, Rome or Mecca.

Over 18 million devotees visit every year to pay their respects to an incarnation of Vishnu; the God that Hindus believe protects and sustains all that is good in society.

Every day, 12,000 pilgrims have their heads shaved by barbers in two great halls of the temple, which is India’s richest. The offering of hair is a sacred act, a gift of thanks to the Lord.

The hair of Indian women and girls is said to be the most beautiful in the world, and it is collected at the temple to be sold to middlemen, who then sell it again to companies that distribute it throughout the world. It is dyed 56 different colors and then resold to companies that sell it to your hairdresser.

The notion of someone sacrificing her hair in an act of devotion, only to have it end up attached to Fergie’s head, is repellent and grotesque, isn’t it?

The only way to offset this moral blunder is to donate time or money to Locks of Love each time you get hair extensions.

If only all moral blunders could be solved so easily!

I don’t think one can underestimate the importance of hair. As I often say aloud while watching TV, “Hair is everything.” When accused of having an unhealthy preoccupation with hair, I’ve been able to fire off myths and folk tales and biblical stories to support my belief in the enduring significance of hair. Rapunzel, Samson, Medusa, Lady Godiva etc. Then there is the fundamentalist covering-up of hair, as in nuns, orthodox Jews, and Muslim women.

Hair matters! Great hair can raise one’s attractiveness quotient just like bad hair can obliterate it. I once had a friend who insisted that I pose for a $15 video tape on sale at a mall, where different hairstyles were superimposed on my head. (Before we all went digital.) In 12 different styles and hair-colors, I am transformed into a secretary, headbanger, elderly lesbian, and so on.

Today, I came across a story about Liz Jones, a women who described her momentous haircut. Liz Jones is thrilled with her new look, while I find the old look a milion times better.

What do you think? Then there is the writer at Jezebel who shows us her haircut a la Liz Jones.

The photo above is followed by a bunch of compliments, because no one had the heart (or nerve) to say, “Oh no, you cut off your beautiful hair!” In my opinion, this is another tragic haircut, turning a lovely vibrant looking woman into a shorn, innocuous Nobody.

One of my favorite scientists, Steven Pinker, is a member of The Luxuriant Flowing Hair Club for Scientists™ where you can admire his hair and the hair of many colleagues.

Finally, there is the poignant, beautiful and immortal line from Brian Wilson: “Where did your long hair go, where is the girl I used to know?” Caroline, No is #211 on Rolling Stone’s list of the greatest songs of all time, but we all know that it’s really in the top ten.

Now, this is hair! Do you love it or do you love it!

I believe these hair sculptures are the work of Nagi Noda. I hope Amy has seen these.