Sinister: No one does Gay Telese but everyone Studs Terkel

[Laura Llew]

We now interrupt these content filled messages of gigs, new singles, and 
staining Stuart's shoes with puddles of drool for a rambling rant from Laura 
Llew. If you were hoping to continue your life as a parasite continued by 
living vicariously off other people's belle and sebastian experiences you 
shall have to find another host to post. I have enough ex-boyfriends as it 
is.

Ken Kommented: "Getting a haircut is *such* a scary thing, everytime I go I 
get abused by hairdressers."

Some people fear going to the dentist with the scary drills and mottos of 
"be true to your teeth or they'll be false to you" but it's all about 
getting my hair cut which makes me reach for the comfort of a security 
blanket and Lucien the bear. I've entered enough beauty shops with hair 
cascading down my back for a simple trim and left with just one dejected 
craven curl barely long enough to touch the tip of my ear (which then starts 
mutters that if I'm going to start being around people who've obviously 
drink too much then I should start tipping the bottle as well.) This is only 
compounded by the social stereotype that hair dressers aren't too bright.

"You know, at the beauty academy they teach us that people aren't black or 
white or yellow or red, but their hair can be..."

Don't even bother writing me to tell about your genius friend who did nails 
just to earn enough money to get their Ph.D. I know your friend. They cheat. 
Hey - don't blame me for the generalization. I didn't start. I just 
perpetuate it. I personally only want the brightest of people near my head 
with sharp objects.

Of course I get lectured for waiting too long to get my hair trimmed. It's 
such a traumatic experience that I put it off for as long as possible which 
happened to be until last Tuesday. I peeked into the "SmartCuts" place late 
in the evening and found a nice looking lady at the front desk. It seemed 
safe so I walked in and gave her my name. Next thing I know, a young girl 
with hair that looks as if it was schlacked with a heavy varnish comes up 
and says, "Oh I'll take her before I go."  I won't let myself get 
melodramatic here but there was an escape attempt made which failed and 
ended with me being dragged by the scruff of my neck to *the chair*.

As usual, all I wanted was a simple cut. Snip snip and that's it. Nothing 
fancy. I was unaware that I had stumbled upon the oracles of beauty and hair 
care products. The girl hadn't even pulled out the scissors yet before she 
starts sagaciously lecturing me with her knowledge undoubtedly founded 
through her long hours of toil with her hands fully immersed in some poor 
victim's hair while the strong fumes of the dye wafted to her brain. 
Evidently this young lady was abused with thinning shears at some point (by 
the looks of her hair she has been abused by multiple objects - both sharp 
and blunt - in her short life time) as she then began listing the evils of 
such things to me. I have naturally curly hair which if not thinned and is 
anywhere near the short side will give me an afro which Dolomite would turn 
gumby green in envy over. When I used this as my reasoning, she starts 
enumerating the benefits of gels and moose. Usually, I counter with the fact 
that I don't like the way it makes me hair feel but looking at her helmet 
hair - I knew this would fall upon deaf ears. If not deaf, at least well 
padded. (Plus, that's a lie. I'm actually just too lazy for such things. My 
hair is lucky if it gets brushed.)

Besides verbal abuse, there is another thing which happens with regularity 
each time I get my hair cut. It is about the time when the hairdresser has 
started to section off my hair, twirl it up, and then snap a clip on it. I 
don't know the reasoning for it so don't ask me why. She has now meandered 
off into other tangents of conversations and I'm thankful for the respite. 
At some point, something comes up which leads to how old I am (in this case 
she asked me when I had graduated from high school). They stop what they're 
doing and look at me via the medium of the mirror. (That's another pet 
peeve. If anyone is going to be talking to my face in the mirror it is 
should be ME with my standard mantra of telling a wrinkle or blemish which 
is threatening to mar my face that I really do not offer the best climate 
for vacationing and it really doesn't want to become a permanent resident. 
My sister however - ooh her face is a veritable club med! Here's her 
address.)

Helmet Head: "You're how old?"
Me: *gulps & mutters*  23
Helmet Head: *stops and stares at me in the mirror*  No, you don't look that 
old.

I'm sitting there with tufts of hair sprouting all of my head like a Chia 
Pet (La-La-Laura). I DON'T even look human! However, I usually just confess 
to lying and being whatever age the hairdresser deems me and consider myself 
lucky to escape.

Then, I talk my hair out of a stiff drink on the rocks.

Laura
PS - I just dare someone to randomly mention their car troubles in their 
otherwise content filled post. Mine just broke down and lemme just tell you 
about these money sucking grease thirsty mechanics....

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