No Good, Terrible, Bad Days

I was in the worst mood.

I had just spent 9 completely unproductive hours in the office and all I had to show for it were three new paper cuts, 2 new bills that I hadn't realized would be due, and a splitting headache to boot.

When I got home and found my apartment smelling terrible due to a lack of kitchen cleaning, I was about ready to lose it. But I was feeling just put-upon enough that my righteous indignation carried me all the way through a really thorough cleaning of the whole apartment.

Afterward I was still in a funk and riding that same wave of adrenaline, so I decided to work out too. I ran through a Tae bo routine (because I live at least 8 years behind the rest of the world at all times) and then powered through a whole bunch of weightlifting until I was just completely exhausted, and just about dripping with sweat.

Finally I sort of felt my anger at the day melting away. All I wanted to do was crash and watch the last new movie I had from Blockbuster - The Assassination Jesse James Blah Blah Etc and Whatnot. I figured if there was ever going to be a time when I was willing to sit through a 3 hour period drama about the Old West, it would be right then - when I could barely raise an arm, let alone turn get off the couch and turn off a DVD player in disgust.

Except that, once I had toweled off the majority of my sweat and grabbed the DVD envelope, it turned out that they had sent me the wrong disc. Instead of The Assassination of Brad Pitt by One of those Affleck Boys, I had Disc Two of Ellen DeGeneres Here and Now.

Man, I was so steamed. Not that I really have anything against Ellen, but still, when you're expecting hot guys in cowboy hats and you get a lesbian doing stand-up, it's a tough blow to roll with. Really, it was just the whole day and that was the last straw. But I think I was still really pumped up on all the testosterone from the workout, because rather than just collapsing on the couch for a good cry (as my normal response would be) without thinking, I gathered up all my DVD's and bolted for my car to Blockbuster. I was going to find something there that I really wanted to watch and somehow salvage this terrible day.

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I entered Blockbuster with an air of restrained fury and was determined to find a movie and get out in under 10 minutes. When the guy at the checkout counter faltered in the middle of his routine greeting, I probably should have realized things would never be that smooth:

"Hi! Welcome to Blo-*ahem*"

Instead I assumed that maybe my withering glance in his direction had shocked him into silence. About 3 minutes later, though, I caught a quick glance of myself in the reflection of a window, and understood that it was probably my appearance that had shut him up. It also explained the little twitch of a laughing smile he repressed too.

Because in my mini-fury, I had forgotten that I was still in my workout outfit - super small black running shorts, XXXL muscle tee that hung off my shoulders so far that it revealed better than half my chest, and my hair standing straight into the air about 10 inches, from being held back in a headband for an hour.

Whatever. I didn't care, I've got a fine self body image, and I made peace with my hair months ago. I grab my movie (The Descent - I want to see some cave-dwelling monsters get their skulls crushed in. Still very full of testosterone.) and get in line. There were only two other people ahead of me, and they were both high school girls. At first they were giggling and messing around with the various impulse items in the line. As I came up in line they fell into a hushed series of whispers. I tried to tune out as much of their antics as possible, and focused on the rack of candy to my side.

Just visualizing getting home, watching some mindless horror, and putting this horrible day behind me--

"Hey," says Girl #1. They've both turned to stare at me.
"Uh, me?" I look up from the bag of Pixi Sticks I am reading and trying to talk myself out of buying and look around to make sure I'm not blocking someone they know.
"Yeah, you," she saids giggling, punctuating her 'you' with an index finger to my shoulder.
("Is she picking a fight with me?" I start to wonder.)
"What's your name?" She cocks her head to one side and just her hip to the opposing side.
"Uh, Jason." I start praying in my head that this is not going where I think it's going.
"Oh, cool. Jaaason." She draws my name out and smiles. Maybe she's just drunk. Or high.
"I'm Brie. This is Candice. What'cha renting? The Descent? That looks scary. I really like scary movies. But only if I have someone to hold on to." By the end of this rambling line of thought, she's officially moved into my personal space.
"Ahh, I see," I murmur as quietly as possible, narrowing my eyes and attempting to back up, only then realizing that I had already backed up as far as possible and was pressing by back into the candy rack.
I dart my eyes over to the friend, to see if I can find some hint about what's going on here. Is this an elaborate dare? She's got this appraising look going on, and I suddenly really wish that I had more of a shirt on than I do right at this exact moment. High school girls are not this aggressive, right?
"So, are you here by yourself? Is this your first week off from school too?"

It doesn't matter that I'm still completely sort of pissed off from this day, or that I'm basically half naked and covered in sweat in a Blockbuster - I completely just bust out laughing. I don't mean to, but seriously. Like, uncontrollable laughter, from deep within. The two girls stop and look at each other a little puzzled, but don't join in. I realize right then that they might have actually been serious, but I cannot stop laughing. Luckily, almost simultaneous with my inappropriate bout of laughter the guy up front calls for the next person in line.

The girls tell me to go ahead, since they're still waiting for another friend of theirs, starting to look at me a little funny. I get it down to a mild chuckle and tell them thanks, and that it was nice to meet them.

The checkout guy can obviously tell something strange is going on, but he's not going to get involved.

As I head out the main door, my principle interrogator calls out "Bye Jason!"

Determined not to bust out laughing, I turn and wave goodbye. As creepy as it was, I suppose one should still take it as a compliment.

And turning back to leave, I manage to misjudge how far the door will open and slam half my body against the frame. And then - reaching back to steady myself from falling - I crunch the little finger on my right hand against the other door handle.

Not daring to look back I virtually sprint back to my car and vow to never leave the house ever again.

Worst. Day. Ever.

Since this Blog is Only About Hair Now

I now present the picture that was the final straw in convincing me that I should get a haircut, and at the same time is quite possibly my favorite picture ever taken of me.



I'm now sporting a much cleaner and professional cut, but it doesn't photograph anywhere nearly as well.

I mean damn.

(I promise that someday there will be actual content forthcoming again, but that day is not today. Maybe tomorrow.)

Vainposting and the Art of Not Caring

My long term battle with my hair is well documented.

At this point, we've sort of come to an impasse - I don't like it, it doesn't like me, and we've accepted that fact. There was a bit of a scuffle very early in January, when it refused to conform to anything remotely professional looking and I responded by cutting it all off to within an inch of my scalp. But that was resolved pretty squarely in favor of the hair, when I got the pictures back from my January visit to Austin and I looked like the world's most confused and drunken escaped mental patient in every single photo.

But lately I've just let the hair do its growing thing, and it's been perfectly happy to just there lie like a bushy mass on my head. Part of this hair indifference included letting semi-professional hair people do pretty much whatever they wanted to it for the first quarter of the year. When Jordan went to cosmetology school for a month and needed a hair dying model person, I volunteered my unruly mop for a coloring. And then the next month when his friend David needed a model as well, I signed up for a second coating without a thought.

People kept just politely nodding their heads and secretly rolling their eyes when I said that I really didn't care what my hair looked like, but I quite literally meant it. I would still attempt to tame it into something respectable on the off chance that it might finally have given up the battle, but I had truly decided to make a concerted effort not to put too much stock in how my hair reflected my worth as a human being.

And omigosh, it's so great. I realize now that the difference between great hair and normal hair is so much wider than the difference between normal hair and bad hair. And that the difference between bad hair and truly horrible hair is the widest gap of all. Or more plainly - there's pretty much nothing I can do to my head to get out of the normal-bad range, and no one in the world is going to care one way or the other.

So now I go with all out non-caring - I wash my hair in the morning, towel it dry, and then run my hands through it until it's roughly flat on my head. And then I don't mess with it for the rest of the day. Except on occasions when I'm in the privacy of my own home and I wear a headband to keep the hair out of my eyes, as previously disclosed. It's so awesome. And functional.

Plus, it doesn't look that terrible.

Okay, maybe I do look like I've wandered straight out of an 80's movie, what with the feathered nature of how it now falls. And sure, it's gone from 'mildly bushy' to 'so bushy that it brushes the ceiling of car when I get in' while rapidly approaching 'white boy afro' levels. And yes, I have grown out my sideburns down my chin, to offset the 80's look of the upper hair by doing a throwback to the mid 1920's. ...Wait, I forget exactly where this whole story was going.

Um, hair. Yes. Not caring is awesome. I never want to go to a barber ever again. We'll see how long I can hold out. We're currently somewhere around month three. I probably give it another three weeks, roughly, or until I can see my hair at all times in my field of vision. That's usually what causes me to snap. But maybe my willpower and self image have gone up so much lately that I'll be able to last for ages without caring what others think of my crazy 80's mane.

(Yeah, seriously, three weeks)