February, You Can Eat A Rock

Good riddance to a despicable month. March is traditionally my least favorite part of the year, but I have faith it can be better than the trash pile that was February 1-28 in 2015. I hate you, February 2015. I hate all the stressful emails, I hate the whipping winds, I hate the uncomfortable notes, I have hated being sick for four weeks straight. I hate the greasy white board hands, the freshmen who never stop snapchatting, the sharp word, losing the will to keep my phone close, the interrupted dinner stories, and my hair wiley uggo hair.

Of course, there was a lot of good this month. Let's not forget that. Let's just commemorate those times.

Benny the Bull blimpin'.

Karaoke night with cohort. This was "It's All Coming Back to Me."

Galentines Party Apps.

My Valentine.

My music improv team in a finale pose.

Can 'Do

Been told so many times you're not supposed to wash your hair every day. Healthiest to wash every three or something. I could never get on that level. I know, I know, once you start doing it, your hair responds, and it doesn't get greasy by the end of the second day.

Anyway, since I got my hair chopped I started washing it every day because greasy long hair can be braided or ponyed but greasy crew cut just looks nasty. Also, how much can I be ruining my hair? There's an inch of it, ya know?

But yesterday after my long Lake Michigan walk I decided to forgo the shampoo and just let my head do its thang. My only plans for the rest of the day were to buy stickers at Michaels and probably try to time dinner so King of Queens would be on. Gosh, I'm so glad I just spent three years getting an MFA.* Whatevs, point being, I wasn't exactly going to the governor's ball, or even a monster's ball (whaddup Halle Berry) so who would care what my hair looked like.

I really missed that fully clean feeling. I missed it all day. And my face felt shinier? I was super stoked to get the utmost clean today. The thing is, I just really like washing my hair every day. So, like, maybe I'm just gonna do that for the rest of my life. It seems like I just should.

Current state of the quaff. Dizz and I saw Aidy Bryant last week. She ordered "root beer for the table."

And you know that when the truth is told

you can do what you want or you can just get old.

*The funny thing is I really am very glad I spent three years getting an MFA. It's chill, things will happen.

Short Hair, Do Care

Been almost three weeks since I got my pixie cut. As my roommate said, "I feel like all liberal artistic women into gender equality have the short haircut at some point, so it was only a matter of time." If so, at least I am going through this rite of passage now when I am young and wandery and can look sort of like I got my head stuck in a sheep-shearer and its w/e.

Running is awesome. My head feels so light, there's no rat tail absorbing sweat and hitting my back. The shower after is divine. I feel like one complete person. No weeping willow vines. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm like, "Hey, this is okay. I kinda look like Anne Hathaway in Les Mis" and then I remember she was a street urchin who died of venereal disease. I dunno, guys.

I put on makeup a lot more. I have been wearing earrings every day. I grasp these bits of womanhood tightly. "You like a boy from behind," someone tells me, and I do feel flushed. Even though looking like a boy should be as much of a false insult as "playing like a girl." I get pizza with Shells, who also has a pixie, and I'm pretty sure our waitress thinks it's a date. Which also isn't inherently supposed to be an insult (but it's a little jarring). When I went on a real date this week, I felt a little deflated not being able to do anything with my hair. It is what it is now. Freeing, limiting.

Yesterday morning I went to the tiny hip grocery store for a cucumber, strawberries, and hummus. It was 8:30. I was in pajamas. (It's Spring Break.) As the dude checked me out he said

DUDE: Nice hair.
ME: Thanks.
DUDE: How do you like it?
ME: I don't love it. It's fine. This is the shortest it's been.
DUDE: I admire your guts.
ME: It's hard to have short hair. Which is a stupid thing because it's just a hair cut.
DUDE: A woman's hair represents so much in our society.

I mean, tell me something I don't know, dude. Mainly, I try not to think about it too much. Because it is just hair and it will grow back and it's all very vain in the first place. But thoughts are thoughts. Better to ruminate a little than suppress a lot.

Trefoil and chocolate chai ice cream in Virginia.

Haircut (Cute without the E, Cut from the Team...Okay, Going to Light Myself on Fire for That Ref Sry, Guyz)

1. I have previously had problems with stress-cutting my hair.
2. I have no talent for hair styling, so it's not a cute problem.
3. Please reference any photo from the year I transferred high schools.
4. If you have none, take a picture of me you do have, and then add a little boink of hair sticking straight up in the back.
5. When I moved to the desert, it was time to have hair I could style like a grad student and instructor. It was time to grow my hair out for Locks of Love.
6. It took two years, but it was finally long enough to cut this month.
7. I was very scared. I loved my locks of love.
8. But, summer is hot, and I will be spending some weeks in the forest and lakes of Michigan. Long hair is a sand trap.
9. Locks of Love is a semi-lame insitution. This I learned from an article in Forbes sent to me by Bisque.
10. So. Exactly two weeks ago, I chopped off eight inches of my mane and put it in the mail to Pantene Beautiful Lengths.
11. I feel less put together with short hair. Younger. Goober-y. And I don't think I'm making it up that people treat me differently? Now that I write that, yes, it sounds made up.
12. Regardless of if I like it or not, my hair is what it is. It's lighter and freer and easier to maintain. I know it's not exactly volunteer work to just put your unwanted fur in a bag and send it through the USPS, but I do feel good. Right before I sat down in the beautician's seat, I almost called it all off. I gulped. I remembered people I love who have been taken by disease. And I relaxed. Little actions matter.

Cut off all of your hair.
Did you flinch, did you care?
Did he look, did he stop and stare
at your brand new hair?
Local boy, local news.
Power lines, hangin' boots.
Firemen in their trucks cut loose
a local boy's shoes.
Cadillac, cadillac.
Businessmen dressed in slacks.
I'm gonna buy one for us when I get back--
a big cadillac.

Goodbye for Now, Arizona

This is what I look like right now--poorly-maintained hair, running on three hours of sleep, Bat Boy stuck in my head, arms tired from furiously scrubbing the tub, heart overflowing with love for all my friends in the desert.

This is what I look like because tonight was meant to hold solitary packing slowly turned into a mini-going away party. People kept calling. The doorbell kept ringing, and now Curly and Bug remain in my living room finishing up some sketch business, but I must must sleep. My plane leaves in just over 5 hours.

This is what I look like--kinda gross--but no one minds. To all those reading, and to all those not reading, Goodnight and Thank You for making this a special year.

A conversation can't consist of hello and goodbye and the silences between saying, "I love you."
And sometimes
I wonder about that too.

Five Things (11/11)

Five things I have liked today:

1. Catching 11:11 on 11.11!
2. Eggs Benedict!
3. Realizing I am getting better at push-ups!
4. Watching that YouTube video "Girl freaking out because she can't sing" with Kath and laughing hella!
5. Opening my phone to see a self-planted surprise of my favorite Hyperbole and a Half drawing as my wallpaper!


trademark Allie Brosh

That is what I look like after most of my meals and/or snacks!

Five things I have disliked:

1. My lease is ending, and I don't know where I am going to live soon!
2. The post office was closed because of Vets Day, so I have to send my JET app supes early tomorrow morn!
3. I thought it'd be cool to literally run to Kay's house last night, and now I have a giant blister on my foot!
4. I put my hair in a bun, but it actually looked really bad, but I didn't realize it until I had already gone to work and meetings with many a peep probs noticing!
5. I keep egotistically looking at the college transcript on my desk, admiring my own grades, and then feeling like a jerk for doing so!

Hairy

Swim Meet of Kay's while visiting Ms. Blitzkrieg, 2008

It's always my dream, MY DREAM to have long flowing locks.
(When I have short hair.)
But, then, it starts to grow out...and then it's annoying...and then the locks don't even look that good on me (see photo). I think I'm going to have to chop it all off. Yup. Bye. I hate you, hair. I don't care what promises I have made.

Oh, you know, the grass. It's greener. Something.

Anyway, I'm sitting outside at The Cherry Republic, basking in lovely summer air, grateful to have my broken camera healed, and with great company (Cocoa and Kay) wishing using the internet was fun like it was my first year on staff. Now it's just depressing to come online. It's all big kid stuff. This blog is my only consolation, so thank you, readers, for that.

There are bridges you've crossed you didn't even know you crossed until you crossed.

Doin' What You Gotta Do

"I make more money than Calvin...Coolidge...put together!" 2006 Linda, Cosmo, and Don in Singin' in the Rain

Remember when I was blond? Woof city. It was just about four years ago exactly that the awful dye job occurred. Oh, to suffer for art. To jank every healthy chemical out of your hair and leave yourself looking awful for two more years (even after three attempts at bringing the brown back).

I mean just look at that nasty top-dark bottom-gold color I'm trying to rock in this photo of Wall and I New Years 2007.


Really, I didn't care that much. Clearly. I don't have much shame when doing things I need to do. On the Survivor application (post-grad plans here I come!) it asks what you won't do for a milli. I was totally stumped.

Trelly: Wait...but would you...
Me: Yes.
Trelly: Kill someone?
Me: Well...maybe. Oh. Okay. No.
Trelly: So no people or animals?
Me: Animals? No. I'd kill animals.
Wizzy: Why are you so sick?