Gimme a Head With Hair

I'm feeling very hippie-ish tonight. Note to self: Taking Benadryl and listening to the Hair cast album is probably not a good idea. I feel like this is an appropriate time to mention something I overheard while strolling in the city a while ago. I was minding my own business, trying to make my way to Colony, when I overheard an elderly couple in front of me talking. The wife said, and I quote, "I really wanna get stoned and go see Hair." Good for you, ye olde hedonist. Stick it to The Man. But I'm digressing. Yes, I feel positively tribal. I braided my hair. I haven't braided my hair since I was five. I also drew a flower on my hand and put on my most outrageously long earrings. (This led to the realization that my left earlobe is ridiculously longer than my right. It comes from years of absentmindedly tugging on my left ear while writing with my right hand. I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore. Don't judge me. We all have our vices.) Should I be ashamed of the fact that my earlobes are not the same size? I have bad news, friends. My right eyebrow has a little bit more of an arch than my left. Oh, the humanity. Obviously, I'm hideous. I think I accepted this a few weeks ago when a certain person who shall remain nameless leaned uncomfortably close to my face and gasped, "Where's the makeup?" How endearingly shallow. I should have responded with one of my favorite Golden Girls quotes: "Why don't I just wear a sign that says, 'Too ugly too live'?" I've come to the conclusion that I am decidedly average-looking.

I have to say, though. I really hate my hair. I used to have beautiful hair. That sounds incredibly shallow and stupid. (It's 'cause it is.) But I cut it. And dyed it. And it was the worst decision I ever made, aside from chosing to see Legally Blonde over Grey Gardens. Alas, the hair I loved so much took a year to grow back, and still it was never the same again. My therapist has been telling me I need to accept my loss and move on, but I'm struggling. (I'm kidding. My therapist and I never talk about my hair.) Maybe I'll get a bob over the summer, or perhaps a perm. Over lunch yesterday, Lenora and I discussed how I would look with an afro. "You wouldn't look good," she said decidedly. "You're not black." Oh. Oh, okay. Nevermind. As long as we're not being racist.

Don't get me wrong, folks. I don't actually care about my hair that much. Most days I just twist it up and clip it. It's fun. When I was younger, I always lamented over the fact that my hair wasn't curly. Not even a little. Not even wavy. Unfortunately, I am one of those people. You know, the ones who have painfully straight hair. (Side note: The phrase "those people" can also refer to Rock of Ages fans. As in, "No, I will NOT go see Rock of Ages with you. I never knew you were one of those people." Oh, Lord save us. I love the elitist bitches that theatre produces.) By now, I have finally accepted the fact that the only way I will ever get my hair to curl is by subjecting myself to forty minutes staring at myself in the mirror while holding a blazing hot curling iron within inches of my face. Good times. I have grappled many years with my good friends Self Loathing and Hair Envy. (Except not really.) I have mostly gotten over that, but I still readily admit that I am monumentally jealous of Kacie Sheik's hair. Except she looks like a beaver. So nevermind.

Two days to the Tonys, and I am going off the wall planning for my Tony party. I love parties. Sometimes. This is the reason why I am getting up at eight tomorrow to go into the city and get party favors for Berri and Lenora. (If you two read this, don't flatter yourselves. You know I wouldn't pass up and opportunity to go into the city.) We're gonna have a trivia contest. They have sworn to study all weekend and "take me down" , as they put it. I can't wait to get taken down by two girls who didn't know that The Sound of Music and Fiorello! tied in 1959.