Day Three: Darlin', Don't You Go And Cut Your Hair
Man, it is all raining and horrifyingly dank and gothic outside, and the whole situation just makes me want to take a nap, preferably with something cuddly, like a cat or George Clooney. I have gotten nothing done for the last hour, and I am giving the heck up.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I work on the 23rd floor of my building, and so whenever it rains, it seems like the weather is just getting all up in my business, and I have to stop whatever I am doing and watch to make sure that lightning doesn’t come in through the windows and strangle me at my desk. Which, I am sure it...would, and all. I don’t know. I guess lightning doesn’t actually strangle people. I also guess maybe I should go get some coffee.
But, at any rate, the rain tends to put me in a nostalgic and sleepy mood, and that and all the fashion confessions in the comments have really made me think back on all of the things I used to wear, but of which (sadly, tragically) there is no photographic proof. So you will have to take my word for it that, like many of you, I too rocked the rolled down socks in matching colors. I remember a solid two year period in which the favored birthday gift of my age was a Gap tee-shirt and matching Gap socks (OMG THANK YOU!), preferably in some vivid primary color. And my most prized possession was a Guess denim jacket festooned with dozens of buttons, most of which I didn’t understand, but which looked like they qualified for an eleven year old version of subversive literature. (True story: I thought my smiling “Don’t Worry Mon!” button actually referred to an abbreviation for “Monday,” and that this was cheerful advice directed at the forlorn day. Like, chill out, Monday! You only come once a week.)
I also rocked the puff paint sweatshirts, and my personal favorite there was a knee-length white disaster with red chili peppers carefully painted (“puffed”?) all around the collar, a big old necklace of Wrong that gave the impression that I was trying to ward off a roving pack of spicy vampires. I paired that particular monstrosity with plastic chili pepper earrings, a red Multiples belt (if a cylinder of fabric can technically qualify as a “belt”), some red roll down socks and jeans, and concluded that no better outfit had ever been constructed at any time. Seriously, Coco Chanel? BRING IT. It’s CHILI PEPPER FOR THE WIN.
I had pink and turquoise (Catherino is so right, because there I go again with the turquoise) Converse high-tops, and would frequently wear the one blue shoe and one pink shoe, like a Dickensian urchin on acid. And, oh. Bows? DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT BOWS? Because, I HAD A LOT OF BOWS. I had bows in every color, style, and creation, all hanging on yard-long pink ribbons that dangled from the drawer pulls of my dresser. It was a bow for every outfit, and an outfit for every bow, and many featured tiny embellishments, including buttons, shoelaces (YOU HEARD ME, MCKATE), and miniature crayons. I wish I still had some of them, because I would totally wear them to work, and then count the minutes until I was formally disbarred.
In fact, would you like to see some examples of this? I would like to show you some examples of this. Like, here, where I have cleverly matched the bow to the bandana (?) I am wearing around my neck. Because a girl’s got to keep the dust out of her eyes, here in the wild, wild west of Atlanta suburbia. After the party, I went and roped some fillies.
Happy eleventh birthday! Apparently we got you a tablecloth.
Or here, where the whole family is dressed like wayward Redshirts:
Pull your bow extra tight for a satisfying, do-it-yourself face lift!
Still, bows aside, I have one word for all of you, which will probably make you recoil from your computers, all, “NO SHE DID NOT”, and remember that you, too, took part in this particular miracle of science, and that word is: Hypercolor.
Oh, yes. I have been dying to find a prime, functional example on eBay (apparently, Hypercolor has a half life!), because I would like to bring it back in to style directly, so that I may wander the streets of Atlanta with Dukay’s handprints all over my more interesting body parts. Also, this is the only item of clothing which, when you look for it on eBay, includes the description, “Still works!!!!” It’s like the Atari of casual wear. I must own them all.
But, anyway. There are no pictures of me wearing a Hypercolor shirt, and this is a disappointment to us all, but that is okay. It is okay, because there are so many other pictures of me wearing interesting oddities. But even more specifically, there are so many pictures of me wearing such interesting hairstyles, and that is kind of where we arrive today, as we enter the Seventh and Eighth grades of my life, when we all still believed that Milli Vanilli sang their own songs and I dreamily imagined slow dancing to “Take My Breath Away” at my wedding to Christian Slater. (And, oh, the Christian Slater crush lasted for YEARS. I didn’t want just any Christian Slater, but I very much wanted to make sweet, sweet love to the Christian Slater character in Heathers, and that is not dark and angst-y at all, NO).
During this time, although I can’t find any evidence of perms, I have located proof of crimping, and lots and lots of curls. Which is interesting, because my hair is staunchly opposed to curls, and always has been. It is bone straight, and it takes a strictly anti-curl stance on all matters. It will not bend to the will of curlers, and it would very much like for you to fuck off. Naturally, in junior high, this meant that all I wanted in the world was a head full of long, curly locks, and so I tried to trick the hair by filling it with an assortment of mousse, burning it to a crisp with a set of grandmotherly curlers and pastel-tipped metal clips, and then shellacking the shit out of the whole mess with a bottle of Spray Net. And even then, my hair would obey for about twenty minutes, before getting all, “Yeah, that’s enough of that. BONE STRAIGHT AGAIN!”
I can only imagine, then, that these pictures were taken in the few wonderful moments that my hair was distracted enough to forget its natural tendencies, because I damn well know that this is not what I looked like by the end of the day. By the end of the day, the hair was back to straight, only now I’d added forty seven products and just made it mad. It’s like spanking an alligator: you’re not going to train it. You are only going to piss it off.
But still. I had to do something with my baby blue crimping iron, and that is the reason the world has this:
Big crimpin’, spendin’ Gs.
Similarly, I often tried to camouflage “bumpy” as being “curly,” as can be seen here (hey there blue earrings! Come back to me!):
Check out Ziz’s face, which clearly says, “Can you fucking believe I am related to that girl? PLEASE ADOPT ME.”
But the worst was when my hair wanted one thing, and I wanted another, and instead of parting ways and citing irreconcilable differences like other high profile couples, we ended up in a horrifying compromise in which my hair remained straight, but AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, AT LEAST IT WILL BE BIG. I showed this picture to our friend and co-worker, Big Daddy, who immediately exclaimed, “You know why you’re bending like that? BECAUSE YOUR NECK CAN’T SUPPORT THE WEIGHT OF YOUR HEAD.” He’s not wrong.
I am actually too horrified to think of a caption here. Someone else! Think of a caption! Bonus points of Awesome if you mention the gloves.
Whew. And, that is all for today, thankfully, and also because I may fall asleep right now if I don't get up and do something that does not involve tripping down memory lane. But I'll be back tomorrow, and the nightmare will continue, bows and braces and all. See y'all then!
P.S.: Oh, RIGHT. Yeah, speaking of remembering shit (hi), this is kind of important, naturally, which means I totally forgot, what with the excitement of the site starting to work again and everything. But, I got an email from Dachshund Rescue of North America, my chosen charity, the other day, and they are in this contest, and I will let them explain it and we will read it all together in a Learning way:
We have an opportunity to get a $10,000 grant if we are in the top 6 of receiving the highest number of unique contributors. We don't need to raise the most money - so 100 $10 contributions are more valuable than 1 $1000 contribution. We could do a lot of good with $10,000. We have already done over 18 major surgeries this year - each one costing $2500 and up. We are in 5th place now, but we really need some new contributors!
Obviously, DRNA is an organization that I have wholeheartedly supprted for years, so if you have a spare couple of bucks, please consider sending it their way; if they stay within the top 6, they'll get this $10,000 grant, and that really will go a long way toward helping wieners all over. Check them out here, but do it quick, because I am pretty sure that contest is about to end, and frankly, the last thing I need is something ELSE for Bo to be pissed about. We're still on that diet. I'VE GOT MY HANDS FULL ALREADY.
Anyway! Thank y'all, and see you tomorrow!
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