Thursday, September 30, 2004
Lark.
Today was the weirdest day ever. When I say weird, it sounds melodramatic, but it was just weird. I was really "off" at the beginning of the day...nothing really important to say, but at the same time, for the first time in a long time (Time, time, time, time- there just to get the repetitiveness over with) I was joyous in my "off" mode, rather than being depressed for not being on the verbal ball, precariously balanced witty retorts and whatnot. But, all of a sudden, I woke up, and consequently became turned "on." Oh yes, turned "on" indeed...
But still my day was odd. It wasn't surrealistic or anything, just awesome to the point where I kept wondering when something was going to go wrong. This feeling accumulated to breakage in the last scene of "The Dollhouse" (by Henry Ibsen) when I irrationally had a fear that my cellphone was going to go off in the most crucial (yet incredibly stretched out) part of the play, and people would jump over their seats and kill me in a feministic rage. Or sick their pussywhipped women-fearing husbands on me. And no doubt, it would be Westjet phoning me to talk about his day. I was completely convinced that I'd left my phone on after checking the time at intermission; so much that instead of really paying attention to the overdrawn play, I focussed all my energies on muffling my bag as well as possible with my sweater. So of course, after concentrating all my energy and holding my breath in await of disaster, it didn't ring. It was actually turned off.
My class was unproductive again today. We talked about Toni Morrison's life story-no discussion, no debate, no solid concepts covered, just more promises of "the feminist goodness yet to come" next class. Left me hangin' it did. And then I attempted to complete 12th Night, and almost forgot that Grace Kelly was picking me up to get a professional consultation on my rat nest at her hairdresser's place.
I hate walking into a salon. As one by one the staff turn to look at you enter, their eyes widen in horror as they see the do that you lack. You can see them analyzing the texture of your hair, the split ends, the planes of your face, flipping through the perpetually out of date style guides in their minds. Glances were exchanged and I consoled myself with instead looking at the colors in my hair, which are its best feature in natural light. But, surprise surprise, I got a good person to consult me. No lake of cold pancake mary-kay girls here with fifties-era bobs and fire-engine lipstick on stuccoed faces. So I have the haircut picked out, but the only thing is is that people kept pushing color on me, for "funk" factor. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. I can't even make my clothes match on a regular basis, much less match them to my hair. And the other thing is...I sort of like my hair the colors that it is naturally. I really don't like this "highlight the hell out of everything" phase of hair couture lately either. Everyone's got color, and I guess I sort of started to pride myself in being happy with what I have. Not to mention, I have done the color thing once, and while I really liked the dark dark brown/black chunks in the layering I got, I also got red that only stayed red for like two weeks. It didn't turn awful pink or anything, but it did this coppery thing that was allright, but still... I guess I'm still thinking about it. Apparently it's pretty cheap to color all your hair in one go, and I wondered about like a darker brown or maybe black. I've always been curious about black with blue eyes, but apprehensive because of my ruddy skin. But the other thing is I hate the idea of ever having "roots" showing. HATE IT. It's the most horrible part of dying your hair completely, which I've never done. But, I suppose I'll just have to wait and see. I have the haircut all picked out, and actually, I'm quite excited about it. I love change, it brightens my day.
I got to hang out with the boys today again, which also totally makes my day. It was funny though, because I enjoyed their company so much today that I felt compelled to write gushy emails upon getting home telling them so. They're awesome.
On the bus ride home today, I met some strange people. All first years, so maybe not so strange, but god...naive and untainted, going to Filthy McNasties to celebrate one person or another's legality. On a Wednesday no less. Terrible. I later ended up talking to my bus driver, Jason, who used to be a writer. The fact that he wasn't anymore made me interrogate him, and chide him about how once a writer, always a writer, whereupon he confessed that he still writes but basically (albeit he said this with an indifferent sort of brave-face tone) won't ever show anyone because he fears their judgement. Understandable, but also sort of wussy. I'm not one to talk though either. Point is, he seemed wellspoken enough, and sometimes you can tell if a person is a good writer merely from the way they talk. Anyways, he drives bus, and he loves it, but claims he has no time for writing anymore, and nothing to write about. Balderdash, I say. And he also is freaked out about blogs. He seemed like a bit of an internet conspiracy theorist, and on a few points of the impossibility of confidentiality, I agreed with him, but on the other hand, who the fuck cares? Who the hell cares about my new haircut? Who cares about my deranged family? No one. He seemed to think that the world would be automatically out to get him, whereupon I assured him that only people to worry about were the mothers of old bf/gf's you had when you were thirteen. Take that Gigi.
I'm going to go abashedly to bed now.
¶ 12:37 AM
But still my day was odd. It wasn't surrealistic or anything, just awesome to the point where I kept wondering when something was going to go wrong. This feeling accumulated to breakage in the last scene of "The Dollhouse" (by Henry Ibsen) when I irrationally had a fear that my cellphone was going to go off in the most crucial (yet incredibly stretched out) part of the play, and people would jump over their seats and kill me in a feministic rage. Or sick their pussywhipped women-fearing husbands on me. And no doubt, it would be Westjet phoning me to talk about his day. I was completely convinced that I'd left my phone on after checking the time at intermission; so much that instead of really paying attention to the overdrawn play, I focussed all my energies on muffling my bag as well as possible with my sweater. So of course, after concentrating all my energy and holding my breath in await of disaster, it didn't ring. It was actually turned off.
My class was unproductive again today. We talked about Toni Morrison's life story-no discussion, no debate, no solid concepts covered, just more promises of "the feminist goodness yet to come" next class. Left me hangin' it did. And then I attempted to complete 12th Night, and almost forgot that Grace Kelly was picking me up to get a professional consultation on my rat nest at her hairdresser's place.
I hate walking into a salon. As one by one the staff turn to look at you enter, their eyes widen in horror as they see the do that you lack. You can see them analyzing the texture of your hair, the split ends, the planes of your face, flipping through the perpetually out of date style guides in their minds. Glances were exchanged and I consoled myself with instead looking at the colors in my hair, which are its best feature in natural light. But, surprise surprise, I got a good person to consult me. No lake of cold pancake mary-kay girls here with fifties-era bobs and fire-engine lipstick on stuccoed faces. So I have the haircut picked out, but the only thing is is that people kept pushing color on me, for "funk" factor. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. I can't even make my clothes match on a regular basis, much less match them to my hair. And the other thing is...I sort of like my hair the colors that it is naturally. I really don't like this "highlight the hell out of everything" phase of hair couture lately either. Everyone's got color, and I guess I sort of started to pride myself in being happy with what I have. Not to mention, I have done the color thing once, and while I really liked the dark dark brown/black chunks in the layering I got, I also got red that only stayed red for like two weeks. It didn't turn awful pink or anything, but it did this coppery thing that was allright, but still... I guess I'm still thinking about it. Apparently it's pretty cheap to color all your hair in one go, and I wondered about like a darker brown or maybe black. I've always been curious about black with blue eyes, but apprehensive because of my ruddy skin. But the other thing is I hate the idea of ever having "roots" showing. HATE IT. It's the most horrible part of dying your hair completely, which I've never done. But, I suppose I'll just have to wait and see. I have the haircut all picked out, and actually, I'm quite excited about it. I love change, it brightens my day.
I got to hang out with the boys today again, which also totally makes my day. It was funny though, because I enjoyed their company so much today that I felt compelled to write gushy emails upon getting home telling them so. They're awesome.
On the bus ride home today, I met some strange people. All first years, so maybe not so strange, but god...naive and untainted, going to Filthy McNasties to celebrate one person or another's legality. On a Wednesday no less. Terrible. I later ended up talking to my bus driver, Jason, who used to be a writer. The fact that he wasn't anymore made me interrogate him, and chide him about how once a writer, always a writer, whereupon he confessed that he still writes but basically (albeit he said this with an indifferent sort of brave-face tone) won't ever show anyone because he fears their judgement. Understandable, but also sort of wussy. I'm not one to talk though either. Point is, he seemed wellspoken enough, and sometimes you can tell if a person is a good writer merely from the way they talk. Anyways, he drives bus, and he loves it, but claims he has no time for writing anymore, and nothing to write about. Balderdash, I say. And he also is freaked out about blogs. He seemed like a bit of an internet conspiracy theorist, and on a few points of the impossibility of confidentiality, I agreed with him, but on the other hand, who the fuck cares? Who the hell cares about my new haircut? Who cares about my deranged family? No one. He seemed to think that the world would be automatically out to get him, whereupon I assured him that only people to worry about were the mothers of old bf/gf's you had when you were thirteen. Take that Gigi.
I'm going to go abashedly to bed now.
¶ 12:37 AM
