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.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
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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