When I was a mini-hairrorist of about four and about to enter preschool, my mom attempted to assuage my But-I-don't-wanna-leave-the-house! anxiety by telling me, "There will be arts and crafts, and you can make new friends!" Possibly putting those two concepts together a bit too literally, I imagined myself cutting and sewing fabric and yarn scraps together and filling them with polyfiber to make my new friends, who I guessed would look something like life-size Raggedy Anns and follow me around saying, "[The Hairrorist], you are awesome! Let's play whatever you want all the time!" I was dismayed to find that it didn't work quite like that, especially the part where I could control the looks, behavior, and pretty much everything else about the people who surrounded me, and have the clique I wanted regardless of my own social shortcomings. (Needless to say, junior high really sucked for me.)
Which is why writing fiction kicks ass. Before this month, I hadn't done it for months, even years, but I'm really glad I did decide to go with that one stupid half-assed idea. I love creating imaginary people out of whole cloth, dropping them into a common setting, and seeing where it leads us. I did hit 50,000 words at about 11:50 pm on Nov. 30, so I did technically win, but I wasn't able to upload it from my undisclosed location, so I didn't "officially" win. Kind of lame, but NaNo reminded me that I might actually have talent and imagination and be able to channel them somewhat productively. Which is cooler than any PDF winner's certificate (maybe). And maybe I'm on crack, but I actually think this slapshot first draft may be worth rewriting, and I've already started doing it while I still have a bit of free time.
As a bonus, NaNo helped me get over my law school ex, who was at first a fairly major character, but once I saw how douchey and one-dimensional and inferior to my made-up dramatis personae he looked on paper, I wrote him out of the story except as an occasional practical-joke victim.
So I'm supposed to start beauty school again on Thursday. Yeah, I'm psyched. I'll get to run with scissors, and play with chemicals, and make my new friends... all pretty!
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
NaNoWriMo, Day 26: Hijinks in the Abortion Clinic FTW!
Word count: 41,030. I'm a little behind. I'll probably end up writing 5,000 words on the last day. My plot (such as it was) makes no sense and I still have only the vaguest idea how it's going to end, but at least I'm still having fun writing it.
So yeah, I got nothing, but I did want to share the beyond fabulous video for Amanda Palmer's "Oasis"--possibly the most jubilant song ever recorded about rape, abortion, betrayal, and the redemptive power of pop music (all these topics, punctuated by feel-good Brian Wilson-esque harmonies, are blithely covered within the space of two minutes). The vid's dedicated to Sarah Palin and is probably not safe for work, unless you work someplace that has "disturbingly hilarious" written into its mission statement. Amanda's facial expressions are priceless. I've got tickets to see her next month, the evening of my scheduled re-debut at beauty school. I will not be inviting Melissa Mahoney.
So yeah, I got nothing, but I did want to share the beyond fabulous video for Amanda Palmer's "Oasis"--possibly the most jubilant song ever recorded about rape, abortion, betrayal, and the redemptive power of pop music (all these topics, punctuated by feel-good Brian Wilson-esque harmonies, are blithely covered within the space of two minutes). The vid's dedicated to Sarah Palin and is probably not safe for work, unless you work someplace that has "disturbingly hilarious" written into its mission statement. Amanda's facial expressions are priceless. I've got tickets to see her next month, the evening of my scheduled re-debut at beauty school. I will not be inviting Melissa Mahoney.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
NaNoWriMo, Day Eleven: I'm Such A Dork I Had To Google Gang Signs
Word count: 20,026. I'm a day ahead! This never happens. I'm just having so much fun writing this thing. Let me introduce you to my imaginary friends:
Kay: Neurotic hipstery legal secretary with a tendency to mope and romanticize bad relationships. More fun than she sounds. Makes gang signs in her sleep. Let's hope she never has a fling with one of the Maniac Latin Disciples. May have a demon-infested apartment.
Oliver: Former geologist who dabbles in the supernatural, if a bit ineptly. Now works at IKEA because he got fired from his old job for making the toaster explode while trying to exorcise it. Extremely loquacious and is constantly getting laid. Needless to say, he's awesome for word count. Hecubus-Ted, the evil spirit that only haunts IKEA mattresses, is his nemesis.1
Ariel: Oliver's (now estranged) girlfriend, an arty gothy musician who makes her living playing at a cheesy piano bar. Snarky, charismatic, has trust issues and ninja weapons. Hangs out in leather corsets, rhinestone-tipped false eyelashes, and purple skull pajama pants. She rocks.
These three have been writing the story for me. All I'm doing is hitting the keyboard randomly for hours at a time as I watch them do their thing. If I think of it that way, it's a lot less obnoxious when I crack up at my own jokes.
1The novel's (atrocious) working title is "Deathbed." I feel like it needs a couple of umlauts, in homage to Berkeley Breathed.
Kay: Neurotic hipstery legal secretary with a tendency to mope and romanticize bad relationships. More fun than she sounds. Makes gang signs in her sleep. Let's hope she never has a fling with one of the Maniac Latin Disciples. May have a demon-infested apartment.
Oliver: Former geologist who dabbles in the supernatural, if a bit ineptly. Now works at IKEA because he got fired from his old job for making the toaster explode while trying to exorcise it. Extremely loquacious and is constantly getting laid. Needless to say, he's awesome for word count. Hecubus-Ted, the evil spirit that only haunts IKEA mattresses, is his nemesis.1
Ariel: Oliver's (now estranged) girlfriend, an arty gothy musician who makes her living playing at a cheesy piano bar. Snarky, charismatic, has trust issues and ninja weapons. Hangs out in leather corsets, rhinestone-tipped false eyelashes, and purple skull pajama pants. She rocks.
These three have been writing the story for me. All I'm doing is hitting the keyboard randomly for hours at a time as I watch them do their thing. If I think of it that way, it's a lot less obnoxious when I crack up at my own jokes.
1The novel's (atrocious) working title is "Deathbed." I feel like it needs a couple of umlauts, in homage to Berkeley Breathed.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
NaNoWriMo, Day Four: Barack Obama Elected President
Word count: slightly behind where I need to be, but you know, that's not as important as the electoral vote projection.
I'll probably have a champagne hangover tomorrow and not be able to write much, but I'm okay with that.
Congratulations, President Obama. I am honored to have been able to vote for you.
I'll probably have a champagne hangover tomorrow and not be able to write much, but I'm okay with that.
Congratulations, President Obama. I am honored to have been able to vote for you.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
NaNoWriMo, Day Two: Demonic Possession With A Side Of Swedish Meatballs
Word count: 2,339. Not bad considering I spent Halloween moving out of my old place and didn't have a single plot or character idea until around 9 pm that day. It's a paranormalish not-quite-romance set in IKEA, although so far I feel like I've been typing "Fuck You, [Name of Recent Ex]" over and over. At least it's not about law school.
I need to write about a thousand more words today to be where I'm supposed to be. If I hit my goal I'll go out tonight to see my brother play double duty as rock star and DJ between sets. (He's kind of a big deal.)
I need to write about a thousand more words today to be where I'm supposed to be. If I hit my goal I'll go out tonight to see my brother play double duty as rock star and DJ between sets. (He's kind of a big deal.)
Monday, October 27, 2008
No Points For Guessing What The Soul-Eating Beast Represents
I just signed up for this year's NaNoWriMo. I'm not going back to school till Dec. 10 (leg is still gimpy) and have no employment prospects in sight, so I feel like I'd better redeem myself by writing a 50,000-word novel in a month. Especially considering that I started this blog to catalog my creative pursuits, which so far have been notable for their absence.
I'm not sure what I'm going to write about (not that that stopped me in 2005, the first and only year I did this. In 2006 I was busy studying for the LSAT and in 2007 I was busy being miserable in law school). I've kicked around the idea of a Kelly Link-esque supernatural romance featuring a soul-eating beast, until I realized I was bored with writing or even thinking about romance. I might do it anyway. I have done absolutely no research or outlining--again, something that deterred me not in the least in 2005. I know people who are doing extensive plotting and research beforehand, and while I applaud their diligence, it's more my style just to hit the ground running and see where my imagination takes me. You're probably starting to get a fuller idea of why I was epic fail at law school.
I'll try to post my word count at least weekly. Beyond that, I can't promise anything, except that my protagonist will not be more than 10% me. The last thing I need is to commit myself to 50,000 words about my navel. Bleah. Like I don't do enough of that here.
I'm not sure what I'm going to write about (not that that stopped me in 2005, the first and only year I did this. In 2006 I was busy studying for the LSAT and in 2007 I was busy being miserable in law school). I've kicked around the idea of a Kelly Link-esque supernatural romance featuring a soul-eating beast, until I realized I was bored with writing or even thinking about romance. I might do it anyway. I have done absolutely no research or outlining--again, something that deterred me not in the least in 2005. I know people who are doing extensive plotting and research beforehand, and while I applaud their diligence, it's more my style just to hit the ground running and see where my imagination takes me. You're probably starting to get a fuller idea of why I was epic fail at law school.
I'll try to post my word count at least weekly. Beyond that, I can't promise anything, except that my protagonist will not be more than 10% me. The last thing I need is to commit myself to 50,000 words about my navel. Bleah. Like I don't do enough of that here.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Hola, Amigos. I Know It's Been A Long Time Since I Rapped At Ya
I'm moving n' shit. I'm going to buy some shoes for school today, which should be fun, although the "not likely to maim me when I walk in them" criterion rules out 99% of everything I like.
As promised before I dye it darker so I might have a chance of getting a job outside a tattoo parlor, here's a photo:
(I don't know who I think I'm kidding with those shades.)
I'm still not very happy with this haircut. My entire head is now covered with bangs, and when I don't style it I remind myself of Mark McKinney in the Stinky Pink wig. The clerk at the 7-11 near my place said to me, "What happened to your hair?! It used to be so beautiful!" This seems to be the general consensus. Good thing I'm not dating. When it grows out I'm going back to the inverted bob, trendy or no. Sometimes there's a good reason for having the same haircut for six years.
As promised before I dye it darker so I might have a chance of getting a job outside a tattoo parlor, here's a photo:
(I don't know who I think I'm kidding with those shades.)
I'm still not very happy with this haircut. My entire head is now covered with bangs, and when I don't style it I remind myself of Mark McKinney in the Stinky Pink wig. The clerk at the 7-11 near my place said to me, "What happened to your hair?! It used to be so beautiful!" This seems to be the general consensus. Good thing I'm not dating. When it grows out I'm going back to the inverted bob, trendy or no. Sometimes there's a good reason for having the same haircut for six years.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Answer The Question, Claire
Update: It looks much better now that I have washed all the "product" out and bleached it a couple times. Vaguely Molly Ringwald-ish. I may post a photo when I get it to the color I want, which I have yet to determine.
In Which I Do Something Stupid To My Hair Just So I'll Have Something To Blog About
A word to the wise: If you're over 30, never bring in a photo of a girl half your age with a cute choppy haircut and ask your hairstylist to replicate it on your own head. Even in the hands of the most skilled of hair gurus, you will end up looking every one of your 33 years.
Maybe I'll like it better in a week or so. By then I'll probably have dyed it some insane color (and hope that doesn't end up aging me further).
Maybe I'll like it better in a week or so. By then I'll probably have dyed it some insane color (and hope that doesn't end up aging me further).
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Shaming Your Ancestors Is Awesome
I'm half Japanese. That means I avoided math like the plague even though I was pretty good at it, I'm not considered conventionally attractive although some people fetishize my exotic looks, and I was very happy to see Asians portrayed as stoners in the Harold and Kumar movies (and I practically idolize Kelly, the Indian woman on The Office, who's a world-class ditz, and an AWESOME one). This Onion article pretty accurately describes my valiant battle against "positive" stereotypes. I just want to party, not achieve!
To get back to the part about exotic looks and fetishism, I was annoyed to see this white girl dressed all geisha in the Harajuku Lovers ad at left. What, couldn't they find an actual Asian chick?! Not that I expect authenticity from anything involving Gwen Stefani. But this is the kind of thing that made me want to kill myself when I was a teenager. In a way, it's led to my decision to become a cosmetologist. I want to study these Western beauty standards in depth, deconstruct these golden means, and see if I can help expand the conventional definition of beauty. I do not want to see one more Asian girl growing up hating herself because she thinks she doesn't look white enough to be considered "pretty." Fuck that shit.
So here's who I wish had been around when I was in high school: Thao Nguyen.
It seems never to have occurred to her that she couldn't become the next Kim Deal or Cat Power just because she's Vietnamese. She's cool as a lick of ice cream, and she's gorgeous while still being unapologetically nonwhite. Someone puts her in a perfume ad, I'll buy that shit. Harajuku Lovers, you are dead to me.
To get back to the part about exotic looks and fetishism, I was annoyed to see this white girl dressed all geisha in the Harajuku Lovers ad at left. What, couldn't they find an actual Asian chick?! Not that I expect authenticity from anything involving Gwen Stefani. But this is the kind of thing that made me want to kill myself when I was a teenager. In a way, it's led to my decision to become a cosmetologist. I want to study these Western beauty standards in depth, deconstruct these golden means, and see if I can help expand the conventional definition of beauty. I do not want to see one more Asian girl growing up hating herself because she thinks she doesn't look white enough to be considered "pretty." Fuck that shit.
So here's who I wish had been around when I was in high school: Thao Nguyen.
It seems never to have occurred to her that she couldn't become the next Kim Deal or Cat Power just because she's Vietnamese. She's cool as a lick of ice cream, and she's gorgeous while still being unapologetically nonwhite. Someone puts her in a perfume ad, I'll buy that shit. Harajuku Lovers, you are dead to me.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Not For All The Tea In China, Not If I Could Sing Like A Bird
Disregard, please, the previous post. I'm never going back to law school. Unless I start to crave the ageless beauty of fluorescent lights and pinstripes and billable hours; and eating, sleeping, breathing, and dying for the law starts to sound like a viable lifestyle choice; and I decide that racing to the upper middle class is more important to me than being happy. If I ever start to sound like that, please call the nearest loony bin, for I will have become an irredeemable douchebag. Kthxbye.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Backpedaling FTW
Maybe it's just the medication I'm taking for my leg,1 but I'm actually considering going back to law school. For an actual cromulent reason.
I was on the board for an obscure activity (let's say it was Law Students Against Cutting Your Own Bangs). It was the only leadership position I'd ever held in my life. I was good at what I did because I believed genuinely in the cause. I found the work gratifying and even almost fun at times. I regretfully abandoned my post when I left. But apparently no one else wants the position, and I have been called upon to resume my duties even in my absence from the law school. Assuming I ever got my JD and passed the bar, I probably wouldn't be able to do much with it beyond a low-paying non-profit job, but at least it would make me feel like I'd accomplished... something in my largely wasted life. Or, in my mother's words: "JUST BE A FUCKING ADULT ALREADY AND DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT."
The trouble is, I don't know what I want. This is just a case of grass-is-always-greener-ism, right? I'm just flattered because I feel needed, right? I was only ever attracted to the law because of my deep-seated class issues, right? I hated everything else about law school, right? What would really make me happy would be to make people look and feel fabulous while pursuing my creative interests on the side, right? The mere existence of this blog just proves I am too flaky for the legal profession. Right?
I honestly don't know.
1(mainly beer)
I was on the board for an obscure activity (let's say it was Law Students Against Cutting Your Own Bangs). It was the only leadership position I'd ever held in my life. I was good at what I did because I believed genuinely in the cause. I found the work gratifying and even almost fun at times. I regretfully abandoned my post when I left. But apparently no one else wants the position, and I have been called upon to resume my duties even in my absence from the law school. Assuming I ever got my JD and passed the bar, I probably wouldn't be able to do much with it beyond a low-paying non-profit job, but at least it would make me feel like I'd accomplished... something in my largely wasted life. Or, in my mother's words: "JUST BE A FUCKING ADULT ALREADY AND DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT."
The trouble is, I don't know what I want. This is just a case of grass-is-always-greener-ism, right? I'm just flattered because I feel needed, right? I was only ever attracted to the law because of my deep-seated class issues, right? I hated everything else about law school, right? What would really make me happy would be to make people look and feel fabulous while pursuing my creative interests on the side, right? The mere existence of this blog just proves I am too flaky for the legal profession. Right?
I honestly don't know.
1(mainly beer)
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Insert Your Own Vulgar Bangs Joke
Oh em gee. You know who I remind me of?
Peg Bundy.
Not that Katey Sagal isn't awesome. I mean, she's LEELA! Alongside Lisa Simpson, Kyle Broflovski,1 and practically everyone on Daria, Leela is one of those two-dimensional characters who are sort of like me but just a little more kickass. Okay, a lot more. But my hair is voluminous, and dyed red, and ARRGGHHH! All I need is a pair of leopard-print stretch pants. I am arguably too young and definitely of the wrong reproductive status to be a MILF. Also my ethnic background is off-white trash at best, and my figure resembles not so much an hourglass and more an ironing board. Still. Never underestimate the power of bangs to transform you into a slutty '80s TV housewife.
Come to think of it, where are those leopard-print stretch pants? I didn't give them to Goodwill, did I? Because, hello Halloween costume.
1I was going to say Wendy Testaberger but I don't inspire young men to vomit every time they talk to me. Anymore.
Peg Bundy.
Not that Katey Sagal isn't awesome. I mean, she's LEELA! Alongside Lisa Simpson, Kyle Broflovski,1 and practically everyone on Daria, Leela is one of those two-dimensional characters who are sort of like me but just a little more kickass. Okay, a lot more. But my hair is voluminous, and dyed red, and ARRGGHHH! All I need is a pair of leopard-print stretch pants. I am arguably too young and definitely of the wrong reproductive status to be a MILF. Also my ethnic background is off-white trash at best, and my figure resembles not so much an hourglass and more an ironing board. Still. Never underestimate the power of bangs to transform you into a slutty '80s TV housewife.
Come to think of it, where are those leopard-print stretch pants? I didn't give them to Goodwill, did I? Because, hello Halloween costume.
1I was going to say Wendy Testaberger but I don't inspire young men to vomit every time they talk to me. Anymore.
Evidence Of My Awesome Judgment, Part LXXII
Why haven't I been posting? I have been trying to cut my bangs for the past 36 hours.
I've always had a love/hate relationship with bangs. I love them on other people, hate them on me. They made Bettie Page look hot. They make Chrissie Hynde and Joan Jett look badass. They make Patsy Stone look fabulous, sweetie. They make me look 12 years old. When there's even one drop of humidity in the air, they panic and form frizzy little cliques across my forehead, mocking my efforts. Or else they puff out and make me look like a 12-year-old who listens to Fall Out Boy. The girl from IpanEMO.
So why did I go and cut them again?
Well, I'll let you in on a secret: I like to cut hair. True story. Always have. To the point that I should probably go to beauty school or something. Also, if you have been following along with previous posts, I am currently AN INVALID!! and tired of looking at myself but unable to drive to see my hair guru, Melinda. And when I see pictures of women looking stellar with bangs, I start to think that maybe this time it'll be different; this time I've got the right products, the right flat iron, the right attitude to carry off bangs. And some idea of how to cut them. All you have to do is snip snip snip across your forehead and presto! a whole new look. What could be simpler?
Well, quantum physics, just for starters. Cold fusion. The Rule Against Perpetuities. I won't bore you with details, but my hair is a contrary little bitch that won't do what it's told. (The downstairs neighbor is probably a bad influence.) It knows I like sleek, elegant, precise lines. It thinks it's a scream to pretend it's 1984 and magically render MALL BANGS!!! So I keep cutting and keep cutting until the bastards have taken over half my head. And then I look in the mirror and go, "wait, that section's not quite right... maybe if I just snip a little here...." And 36 hours later I'm still snipping.
It's almost semi-presentable now (no photos; don't even ask!), but I will not be doing this again (not before meditating carefully on this post, anyway), and will probably still have to get Melinda to fix it. At least no one's going to mistake me for Victoria Beckham now. Cause they TOTALLY did before.
I've always had a love/hate relationship with bangs. I love them on other people, hate them on me. They made Bettie Page look hot. They make Chrissie Hynde and Joan Jett look badass. They make Patsy Stone look fabulous, sweetie. They make me look 12 years old. When there's even one drop of humidity in the air, they panic and form frizzy little cliques across my forehead, mocking my efforts. Or else they puff out and make me look like a 12-year-old who listens to Fall Out Boy. The girl from IpanEMO.
So why did I go and cut them again?
Well, I'll let you in on a secret: I like to cut hair. True story. Always have. To the point that I should probably go to beauty school or something. Also, if you have been following along with previous posts, I am currently AN INVALID!! and tired of looking at myself but unable to drive to see my hair guru, Melinda. And when I see pictures of women looking stellar with bangs, I start to think that maybe this time it'll be different; this time I've got the right products, the right flat iron, the right attitude to carry off bangs. And some idea of how to cut them. All you have to do is snip snip snip across your forehead and presto! a whole new look. What could be simpler?
Well, quantum physics, just for starters. Cold fusion. The Rule Against Perpetuities. I won't bore you with details, but my hair is a contrary little bitch that won't do what it's told. (The downstairs neighbor is probably a bad influence.) It knows I like sleek, elegant, precise lines. It thinks it's a scream to pretend it's 1984 and magically render MALL BANGS!!! So I keep cutting and keep cutting until the bastards have taken over half my head. And then I look in the mirror and go, "wait, that section's not quite right... maybe if I just snip a little here...." And 36 hours later I'm still snipping.
It's almost semi-presentable now (no photos; don't even ask!), but I will not be doing this again (not before meditating carefully on this post, anyway), and will probably still have to get Melinda to fix it. At least no one's going to mistake me for Victoria Beckham now. Cause they TOTALLY did before.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Skipping Years Ahead Has Held Me Back
Last week, when I was fixing my airwave (basically pincurls created with a blowdryer) for a third time, the woman next to me commented, "You're a perfectionist, aren't you?"
Caught off guard a little, I laughed and said, "Yeah, I guess I am."
She said, "I can feel your perfectionism from here. Well, somebody's gotta be perfect!"
I laughed again and said, "It's definitely not going to be me."
It doesn't take any special insight to figure out that I'm a perfectionist. I was probably audibly grinding my teeth at the thought of not being at the top of my class. The trees are so pretty and so numerous in this forest I can't see because I'm busy counting the leaves and memorizing the names of the species. I agonize over small decisions: Use the 0.75" or the 1.25" curling iron? The future of Western civilization depends on it!! I gloss over huge decisions: Meh, law school, beauty school, we're all gonna die anyway, right? I wouldn't recognize a happy medium if it came up and bonked me over the head with a 1" curling iron and said, "Do what makes you happy! As long as you don't hurt yourself or others, it's all good. And use this one."
And I still fuck up, of course. We all do. And I am way too hard on myself when I do. So I'm trying not to be too bothered that I have to start the cosmo program over at the end of October because I sprained my leg and have been prescribed at least a week's bedrest (all my own fault, as yesterday's entry explains). So what? I was only three days into it. This is probably a blessing in disguise. I'll be much readier for it this time. Unlike in law school, there's no shame in repeating a module. People do it all the time. I know I'll benefit from the extra practice. It's important to me that I not just pass but be... well, I was going to say perfect. But I'll settle for awesome.
Meanwhile I've got to get my ass in gear (admittedly difficult when lying flat on my back with my leg elevated), and step up my job search, start a new knitting project, brainstorm ideas for NaNoWriMo (whether or not it ends up being doable), and compile a collaborative Halloween CD for my friends. Putting the songs in order is always the most difficult part (it has to be perfect!). Making the cover art is the coolest.
Caught off guard a little, I laughed and said, "Yeah, I guess I am."
She said, "I can feel your perfectionism from here. Well, somebody's gotta be perfect!"
I laughed again and said, "It's definitely not going to be me."
It doesn't take any special insight to figure out that I'm a perfectionist. I was probably audibly grinding my teeth at the thought of not being at the top of my class. The trees are so pretty and so numerous in this forest I can't see because I'm busy counting the leaves and memorizing the names of the species. I agonize over small decisions: Use the 0.75" or the 1.25" curling iron? The future of Western civilization depends on it!! I gloss over huge decisions: Meh, law school, beauty school, we're all gonna die anyway, right? I wouldn't recognize a happy medium if it came up and bonked me over the head with a 1" curling iron and said, "Do what makes you happy! As long as you don't hurt yourself or others, it's all good. And use this one."
And I still fuck up, of course. We all do. And I am way too hard on myself when I do. So I'm trying not to be too bothered that I have to start the cosmo program over at the end of October because I sprained my leg and have been prescribed at least a week's bedrest (all my own fault, as yesterday's entry explains). So what? I was only three days into it. This is probably a blessing in disguise. I'll be much readier for it this time. Unlike in law school, there's no shame in repeating a module. People do it all the time. I know I'll benefit from the extra practice. It's important to me that I not just pass but be... well, I was going to say perfect. But I'll settle for awesome.
Meanwhile I've got to get my ass in gear (admittedly difficult when lying flat on my back with my leg elevated), and step up my job search, start a new knitting project, brainstorm ideas for NaNoWriMo (whether or not it ends up being doable), and compile a collaborative Halloween CD for my friends. Putting the songs in order is always the most difficult part (it has to be perfect!). Making the cover art is the coolest.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Fashion Victim
Last Wednesday night coming home from the Goldfrapp show, I walked all the way up the steep hill leading to my apartment building. In four-inch wedges. As a result I was limping the next couple of days. Now, my school's philosophy and code of conduct--as laid out in the student catalog, which is kind of a hoot--is all about good attitude, affirmations, and positive self-talk (three things that don't come naturally to me, but I'm trying). Even so, I'm having a hard time spinning that incident in a way other than "god, am I ever stupid." Um, I'm fun-loving? I'm a risk-taker? I am thrifty? I enjoy fresh air and exercise?
Then Sunday night I went down to where my family lives, to watch my brother do his weekly gig spinning punk, garage, and soul records. I hadn't seen him in ages. It was great fun, and we ended up pub-crawling and finally walking back to my brother and his girlfriend's house to hang out. The next day, of course, I woke up with my right leg hurting and could barely drive back home. This morning I started walking to my car with my heavy suitcase full of books and beauty hardware, when my leg suddenly gave out and I nearly fell down on the sidewalk. I had to call the school and tell them I would be at the very least late. I ended up missing the whole day, taking ibuprofen and keeping my leg elevated. We were to have started on haircutting today. It seems like that might have been important. I am not the sort of person who can watch someone do something once and then replicate the results (many of my classmates are; I envy that). With physical activities, I can only learn by doing. And right now? I ain't doing shit. Well, I'm having a beer. Purely for its anesthetic qualities.
I should probably go see a doctor tomorrow. If I have to take a medical leave of absence and start over in six weeks, it's better that I find out now. Or maybe if I'm better by Thursday, it's possible I could catch up. I already feel like I started behind the rest of the class, though, just because I'm not as strong a visual learner as I wish I were. People probably think I'm a snotty know-it-all because I finished college and went to law school and always do well on memorizing terminology. But I would trade everything I've got for some kinesthetic intelligence, some basic goddamn common sense, and a cute pair of flats.
(Like these. Which they don't have in my size anymore. Wah!)
Then Sunday night I went down to where my family lives, to watch my brother do his weekly gig spinning punk, garage, and soul records. I hadn't seen him in ages. It was great fun, and we ended up pub-crawling and finally walking back to my brother and his girlfriend's house to hang out. The next day, of course, I woke up with my right leg hurting and could barely drive back home. This morning I started walking to my car with my heavy suitcase full of books and beauty hardware, when my leg suddenly gave out and I nearly fell down on the sidewalk. I had to call the school and tell them I would be at the very least late. I ended up missing the whole day, taking ibuprofen and keeping my leg elevated. We were to have started on haircutting today. It seems like that might have been important. I am not the sort of person who can watch someone do something once and then replicate the results (many of my classmates are; I envy that). With physical activities, I can only learn by doing. And right now? I ain't doing shit. Well, I'm having a beer. Purely for its anesthetic qualities.
I should probably go see a doctor tomorrow. If I have to take a medical leave of absence and start over in six weeks, it's better that I find out now. Or maybe if I'm better by Thursday, it's possible I could catch up. I already feel like I started behind the rest of the class, though, just because I'm not as strong a visual learner as I wish I were. People probably think I'm a snotty know-it-all because I finished college and went to law school and always do well on memorizing terminology. But I would trade everything I've got for some kinesthetic intelligence, some basic goddamn common sense, and a cute pair of flats.
(Like these. Which they don't have in my size anymore. Wah!)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Don't Create, Don't Rebel
I thought of The Slits' "Typical Girls" while waiting in line to buy an issue of Nylon.
This is going to make me sound more obnoxious than usual, but I've never really been a TV person1 and never really cared about celebrities except for obscure-ish musicians. Last week one of my instructors was telling the class about how she admired J. Lo for being a musician, entrepreneur, and fashion icon. I was suppressing a derisive sneer until I remembered that I admire Kim Gordon for pretty much identical reasons.2 Sure, our tastes differ immensely, but rather than snarkily dismiss her, I now found myself able to empathize with my instructor. (However, I still reserve the right to snark at J. Lo in private.)
I'm going to be subjected to a lot of bad music this year. I was talking to a few of my classmates about a show I'd gone to on a school night (by way of explaining my "sleep-deprived and personality-free" state), and none of them had even heard of Goldfrapp, not even the ones who looked like they might have. That wasn't a good sign. Yeah, I am a snob and a misfit. Sometimes I wear the badge proudly because what else can you do? I'm always going to be an outsider in some way, a spy infiltrating Typical Girl HQ. But I hope I'll continue to find that I actually have more in common with people than I think, and the only way I'm going to learn that is by (gasp) talking to them. And trying to empathize, rather than retreating to my My Pop-Culture References Can Beat Up Your Pop-Culture References ivory tower and basking in my alleged superiority. That is so '90s. Atypical girls fall under spells, buy magazines, and feel like hell, too!
1True confession: I've never watched an entire episode of ANTM or Project Runway, but I intend to start. I have a feeling I'll enjoy them. I've just always been weird about TV.
2Well, and also, even leaving aside the fact that Kim Gordon influenced an entire generation of musicians which I don't expect anyone at hair school to care about, there's the whole feminist thing. I may not be as principled as I should be, but I consider myself a feminist all the same. And don't talk to me about how the beauty industry perpetuates the objectification of women blah blah. That's a subject for another post.
This is going to make me sound more obnoxious than usual, but I've never really been a TV person1 and never really cared about celebrities except for obscure-ish musicians. Last week one of my instructors was telling the class about how she admired J. Lo for being a musician, entrepreneur, and fashion icon. I was suppressing a derisive sneer until I remembered that I admire Kim Gordon for pretty much identical reasons.2 Sure, our tastes differ immensely, but rather than snarkily dismiss her, I now found myself able to empathize with my instructor. (However, I still reserve the right to snark at J. Lo in private.)
I'm going to be subjected to a lot of bad music this year. I was talking to a few of my classmates about a show I'd gone to on a school night (by way of explaining my "sleep-deprived and personality-free" state), and none of them had even heard of Goldfrapp, not even the ones who looked like they might have. That wasn't a good sign. Yeah, I am a snob and a misfit. Sometimes I wear the badge proudly because what else can you do? I'm always going to be an outsider in some way, a spy infiltrating Typical Girl HQ. But I hope I'll continue to find that I actually have more in common with people than I think, and the only way I'm going to learn that is by (gasp) talking to them. And trying to empathize, rather than retreating to my My Pop-Culture References Can Beat Up Your Pop-Culture References ivory tower and basking in my alleged superiority. That is so '90s. Atypical girls fall under spells, buy magazines, and feel like hell, too!
1True confession: I've never watched an entire episode of ANTM or Project Runway, but I intend to start. I have a feeling I'll enjoy them. I've just always been weird about TV.
2Well, and also, even leaving aside the fact that Kim Gordon influenced an entire generation of musicians which I don't expect anyone at hair school to care about, there's the whole feminist thing. I may not be as principled as I should be, but I consider myself a feminist all the same. And don't talk to me about how the beauty industry perpetuates the objectification of women blah blah. That's a subject for another post.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Oh, Inverted World
I need a new look.
I've been seeing the same hairstylist, Melinda, for six years. That's longer than any relationship I've ever had. I met her while tagging along with my then-boyfriend to a hipster barbershop to supervise the butchering, and apparently approving of the butchering to the point that I thought, "What the hell, I need a haircut too." Now, I've had a lot of bad haircuts in my life. Some were self-inflicted, but no worse than the salon-created monstrosities I'd been attempting to correct. So it was not without some trepidation that I sat down at Melinda's chair to surrender my head to the chopping block. But she understood the look I yearned for and transformed my unruly, unevenly textured, shapeless mass of hair into a sleek, shoulder-length inverted bob (longer in the front, shorter in the back, flat-ironed into submission). That hairdo turned me from cute to gorgeous. I've followed Melinda from salon to salon since November 2002, always requesting variations on the inverted bob; I don't trust anyone else to cut my hair.1 Someday I hope to be a Melinda to my clients. I want to be The One Who Gets It, and I want to execute this it-getting with skill and artistry.
Anyway, the problem? Now this fucking haircut is everywhere! Rihanna and Posh and a bajillion other obnoxious celebrities are strutting around like they invented it. About a quarter of the girls at my beauty school have the inverted bob. It looks better on some than others. It looks perfect on me. But the thought of looking like everybody else (more accurately, everybody else looking like me) is revolting, and much as I have loved my signature style over the years, it's probably time for a change. I'll ask Melinda what she thinks. Maybe it's about time somebody brought back the Gumby.
1(I did flirt briefly with a choppy layered mullet-esque 'do in law school when I was forced to go to a cheaper salon closer to home. Then one day during spring quarter I couldn't stand it anymore and cut class to book an appointment with Melinda and get my old hair back. The next day I got about 200 compliments.)
Jeez, That Last Post Was Pretty Dark, Especially Considering The Purported Nature Of This Blog
It's been an odd week, to say the least. I promise to get all frivolous up in this piece soon. In the meantime, here! A great '80s pop song, "Mary's Prayer" by Danny Wilson!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Instead Of Recess, There's Cigarette Breaks
(Warning: I'm in kind of a bitchy mood that I've been [for the most part] successfully suppressing all day. Post may be insane and/or overly navelgazey.)
If law school was like junior high,1 beauty school is a bizarre admixture of kindergarten, finishing school, and a slumber party where all the girls do one another's hair and talk about who's the cutest boy on death row. (Not that I was ever invited to one of those slumber parties. I'm going to hair school mostly for the right reasons, but I'll admit that one of the wrong reasons I'm here is that I never got over not being one of the pretty popular girls.) Fortunately, I enjoy bizarre admixtures and long moonlit walks on the beach, although I was never a big fan of kindergarten.
This morning we were lectured on using Proper English with our future clients ("guests"; after all, the school's affiliated with a Luxury Salon). Even in the classroom when someone splats a money-shot's worth of conditioner all over her black velvet blouse (uh, not that that was me. Okay, maybe it was me a little), the instructor will come around and tsk that person for saying the only possible thing, which is "Fuck!!" Now, as I've mentioned, I'm a classy lady. I say fuck a lot. I also say the other six words and many more. I have a linguistics degree from a prestigious-ass university and an Eric Cartman pottymouth. I also say like, totally, whatevs, hella, awesome, retarded,2 lame, and other more exotic slang terms. I've been reluctant to let go of them because I feel like they keep me young, you know? And without the swearing and sarcasm, I'd have to develop real defense mechanisms and who has time for that. Nevertheless, I realize it would behoove me to watch my language if I wish to advance in this industry. For instance, I need to stop saying shit like "behoove." It just makes people look at you like you're high.
On an age-related tangent: I turned 33 earlier this month. David Foster Wallace, in my estimation one of the most dazzlingly talented authors who ever lived,3 hanged himself four days after my birthday. (Yeah, it's all about me.) Despite my essential shallowness, I was moved to do some rereading, and by chance flipped A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again open to this passage:
I am now 33 years old, and it feels like much time has passed and is passing faster every day. Day to day I have to make all sorts of choices about what is good and important and fun, and then I have to live with the forfeiture of all the other options those choices foreclose. And I'm starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life's sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path and time speeds me through stages of stasis and atrophy and decay until I go down for the third time, all struggle for naught, drowned by time. It is dreadful. But since it's my own choices that'll lock me in, it seems unavoidable--if I want to be any kind of grownup, I have to make choices and regret foreclosures and try to live with them.
Needless to say, that's been rattling around in my head ever since, out-of-context aside though it may have been. Eerily resonant with my inexorable metamorphosis from an overgrown teenager to some kind of grownup, hoping I can live with my own choices and foreclosures.4 But you know what really pisses me off? The instructor who scolded me for swearing and who later admonished me to put my phone away while I was in the building (never mind that I was just holding it without intent to dial; another of their kindergarten rules)? She's TWENTY. And like half my class are recent high-school graduates. 17- and 18-year-olds. I may not look 33 (yet), but I'm starting to feel it. It's enough to drive me to drink.
Which at least I can do legally. Nyah nyah!
In happy hair news, I have begun to wield a mean blowdryer! I was always intimidated by those things before today's test of my mettle.
1I swear, I watched Heathers about 4297528904582 times during my 1L year. I even wrote a paper for my Criminal Law class from the POV of Veronica Sawyer's defense attorney.
2I know that people think this word is especially offensive. Please do not yell at me. Kthx.
3And from whom I may have ripped off certain stylistic quirks.
4I'm gonna get kicked out of beauty school for this, aren't I?
If law school was like junior high,1 beauty school is a bizarre admixture of kindergarten, finishing school, and a slumber party where all the girls do one another's hair and talk about who's the cutest boy on death row. (Not that I was ever invited to one of those slumber parties. I'm going to hair school mostly for the right reasons, but I'll admit that one of the wrong reasons I'm here is that I never got over not being one of the pretty popular girls.) Fortunately, I enjoy bizarre admixtures and long moonlit walks on the beach, although I was never a big fan of kindergarten.
This morning we were lectured on using Proper English with our future clients ("guests"; after all, the school's affiliated with a Luxury Salon). Even in the classroom when someone splats a money-shot's worth of conditioner all over her black velvet blouse (uh, not that that was me. Okay, maybe it was me a little), the instructor will come around and tsk that person for saying the only possible thing, which is "Fuck!!" Now, as I've mentioned, I'm a classy lady. I say fuck a lot. I also say the other six words and many more. I have a linguistics degree from a prestigious-ass university and an Eric Cartman pottymouth. I also say like, totally, whatevs, hella, awesome, retarded,2 lame, and other more exotic slang terms. I've been reluctant to let go of them because I feel like they keep me young, you know? And without the swearing and sarcasm, I'd have to develop real defense mechanisms and who has time for that. Nevertheless, I realize it would behoove me to watch my language if I wish to advance in this industry. For instance, I need to stop saying shit like "behoove." It just makes people look at you like you're high.
On an age-related tangent: I turned 33 earlier this month. David Foster Wallace, in my estimation one of the most dazzlingly talented authors who ever lived,3 hanged himself four days after my birthday. (Yeah, it's all about me.) Despite my essential shallowness, I was moved to do some rereading, and by chance flipped A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again open to this passage:
I am now 33 years old, and it feels like much time has passed and is passing faster every day. Day to day I have to make all sorts of choices about what is good and important and fun, and then I have to live with the forfeiture of all the other options those choices foreclose. And I'm starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life's sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path and time speeds me through stages of stasis and atrophy and decay until I go down for the third time, all struggle for naught, drowned by time. It is dreadful. But since it's my own choices that'll lock me in, it seems unavoidable--if I want to be any kind of grownup, I have to make choices and regret foreclosures and try to live with them.
Needless to say, that's been rattling around in my head ever since, out-of-context aside though it may have been. Eerily resonant with my inexorable metamorphosis from an overgrown teenager to some kind of grownup, hoping I can live with my own choices and foreclosures.4 But you know what really pisses me off? The instructor who scolded me for swearing and who later admonished me to put my phone away while I was in the building (never mind that I was just holding it without intent to dial; another of their kindergarten rules)? She's TWENTY. And like half my class are recent high-school graduates. 17- and 18-year-olds. I may not look 33 (yet), but I'm starting to feel it. It's enough to drive me to drink.
Which at least I can do legally. Nyah nyah!
In happy hair news, I have begun to wield a mean blowdryer! I was always intimidated by those things before today's test of my mettle.
1I swear, I watched Heathers about 4297528904582 times during my 1L year. I even wrote a paper for my Criminal Law class from the POV of Veronica Sawyer's defense attorney.
2I know that people think this word is especially offensive. Please do not yell at me. Kthx.
3And from whom I may have ripped off certain stylistic quirks.
4I'm gonna get kicked out of beauty school for this, aren't I?
Friday, September 19, 2008
And here's what I did.
So after (barely) finishing one year at a first-tier law school, I dropped out to study cosmetology. That's right: I am in beauty school. Tomorrow I will have completed 30 of the 1600 hours my state requires for a license. Go me! (Assuming I don't flunk shampoo. Yes, that's what we're doing tomorrow. Hi, Frankie Avalon!)
I started this blog not so much as a gimmicky "gothy nerdy introverted law student goes to hair school in a sort of reverse-Legally Blonde narrative; hilarity ensues" thingy (although it almost certainly will be that), but as a means of remaining accountable to myself: to stay motivated even when the 11-hour days are killing me, and to learn to manage my free time so I can get back into the writing, knitting, singing, reading, photography, cooking, etc. I'd neglected during law school. I'll post creative goals for each week and try to adhere to them. For the moment, my creative goals remain modest: make my resume look prettier because I desperately need a part-time job, and make my apartment look like less of a crack house and more of a crack home (and myself less of a crack whore and more of a crack courtesan). I may also post about things I think you should read or hear or watch or buy. Why should you listen to me? Because I'm awesome.
Everyone has an opinion about my decision, and frankly I'm not interested in hearing yours, especially if it's "you are totally fucking insane."1 All I can say for now is that it was not arrived at lightly, and that although right now I'm constantly doubting myself (just because that's what I do) and adjusting to the weirdness of the transition, I believe I will be a rock star at beauty school, just because this is, actually, what I always wanted to do when I grew up. I know it'll take a lot of hard work, but I am more than ready. I will never be happy sitting in a fluorescently-lit cube every day wearing pinstriped suits and counting up fractions of billable hours. I want to live in a Dresden Dolls video. But hopefully not this one:
I have a lot more to say about all that, but I've got to go read about Design Decisions, otherwise known as "How To Conform To Western Beauty Standards." (I also have a lot more to say about that. All in good time.)
1My mom thinks it's cool; I think she's hoping it'll finally teach me some of the basic social niceties she never got around to because she was working to support our family. Who knows; it might. I've never been the classiest of girls, but I really did not like the person law school was turning me into. I'm done with junior high.
I started this blog not so much as a gimmicky "gothy nerdy introverted law student goes to hair school in a sort of reverse-Legally Blonde narrative; hilarity ensues" thingy (although it almost certainly will be that), but as a means of remaining accountable to myself: to stay motivated even when the 11-hour days are killing me, and to learn to manage my free time so I can get back into the writing, knitting, singing, reading, photography, cooking, etc. I'd neglected during law school. I'll post creative goals for each week and try to adhere to them. For the moment, my creative goals remain modest: make my resume look prettier because I desperately need a part-time job, and make my apartment look like less of a crack house and more of a crack home (and myself less of a crack whore and more of a crack courtesan). I may also post about things I think you should read or hear or watch or buy. Why should you listen to me? Because I'm awesome.
Everyone has an opinion about my decision, and frankly I'm not interested in hearing yours, especially if it's "you are totally fucking insane."1 All I can say for now is that it was not arrived at lightly, and that although right now I'm constantly doubting myself (just because that's what I do) and adjusting to the weirdness of the transition, I believe I will be a rock star at beauty school, just because this is, actually, what I always wanted to do when I grew up. I know it'll take a lot of hard work, but I am more than ready. I will never be happy sitting in a fluorescently-lit cube every day wearing pinstriped suits and counting up fractions of billable hours. I want to live in a Dresden Dolls video. But hopefully not this one:
I have a lot more to say about all that, but I've got to go read about Design Decisions, otherwise known as "How To Conform To Western Beauty Standards." (I also have a lot more to say about that. All in good time.)
1My mom thinks it's cool; I think she's hoping it'll finally teach me some of the basic social niceties she never got around to because she was working to support our family. Who knows; it might. I've never been the classiest of girls, but I really did not like the person law school was turning me into. I'm done with junior high.
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