Hairy tales

I interrupt your normal blog-casting of deep, heady morose fare for....

                                             HAIR TALK WITH STACIA!

I have thick hair.  In fact, I may have the thickest hair of any girl I've met.  It bursts hair ties and shatters claw clips as a matter of course.

Typically I give some warning to my hairdressers, the students at Paul Mitchell school.  And typically the lucky student nods naively, greedy to get another haircut closer to graduating.  She gushes over how beautiful it is and how lucky I am.  All is happy-smiley.  But then she starts washing it and wonders what happened to the shampoo.  My hair swallows shampoo by the bottle.

The girl, still perky, giggles nervously and guides my dripping locks back to the cutting chair.  She pins it up.  It instantly falls with impressive weight, cascading down like the Niagara Falls with mighty aplomb.  The poor girl then tries several other clips, each one bigger than the last with stronger, sharper teeth.  As the long task ahead becomes apparent, her frustration begins to jab at my skull with copious hairpins.  I close my eyes to avoid wincing.

She cuts one layer and unwinds another.  I breathe out, calculating that at this rate, the ten tidy twists on my head will be shorn in good time.  She sniffs, grimaces, and pins back half of the hair twist.  Too much.  We share a suppressed sigh.

There is then: a long time.

In which not much happens on my end, but my valiant little haircutter chips--er, snips--away at Mt. Vesuvius.   My girl keeps casting dark glaring glances to other, happier, students with thin-haired clients.   She mouths, Look how thick!  I KNOW!  Can you BELIEVE it?  The other students quickly look away as from a bloody corpse, their minds reeling in horror.

I fleetingly consider charging money to my own freak show or perhaps supplying goods to yarn stores.    There's got to be a better use of my abounding tresses than $10-a-pop public humiliation.

An old Asian hairdresser with feverish eyes randomly flits to and fro between the shearers.  She stops abruptly at me, doubles over and starts hurriedly collecting shorn scraps of my hair.  I forget all manners and roundly stare at her.  Shouldn't I sign some waiver or consent form?  What could she possibly want with my hair?  Is this voodoo or something?
She explains in broken English that she is doing a hair color project and needs samples of red virgin hair.  Well, I do have both the red and the virgin going for me.  Take it away, strange hair lady.  Just don't take my soul.

At long last the deed is done.  Never mind the blow-drying that took the better part of an hour.  Never mind that my girl's arms are about to fall off from heavy lifting.  My hair is shining, laden with product that I will never slather on it again, and I am about just about to leave  my chair when...

The girl's supervisor sweeps by and does a final check-up on the cut.  I smile wanly and nod, Yes, yes, it's great, fabulous, I like the back, yes...  I say nothing of hairpin stabs or smarting remarks.  That kid owes me big.  All I'm thinking about is my snappy exit.
The supervisor then leans in gallantly, delicately lifting layer upon layer of pampered hair.  He is a tall, regal and strangely bald African American with a flashing wide smile.  Motioning to the mass of butchered hair lying sadly on the floor, he comments sweetly, "I'm going to take your hair and glue it on my head, and then I'll be as pretty as you."

I nervously chuckle, picturing little patches of auburn hair pasted on his dark bald head.  Was that a compliment?

As I pay up and leave, I am reminded of a roommate's comment; she and the other roommates love my hair.  She laughingly warned me that one day I might just wake up and find it shaved off, and the girls dancing around with little Stacia hair wigs.
Talk about a disturbing visual!  Although...I suppose there's more than enough to go around.


Notes:
~All of these things really have happened over multiple visits to the illustrious Paul Mitchell School.  There's actually more that I've witnessed there, including random dance parties and a marriage proposal.  I am so serious.  Men: do NOT, I repeat, do NOT propose to your girlfriend in a salon.  I don't CARE if she cuts hair.  It is beyond tacky.
~I actually love getting my hair cut because I get a head massage.
~Oh, and virgin hair really is a thing--it just means that you've never colored it.  It's rather rare these days, and every single time people are shocked that I'm still a virgin.

airport imaginings

This is kind of a long-standing tradition with my sister; we're each writing a sentence (or impassioned paragraph) to create a stunningly brilliant short story! kai shi ba!

bonus points for pp who can tell which narrator is which sister.

Once there was graceful young porpoise who loved to swim among the swaying seaweed off the coast of Tasmania.

This porpoise was very delusional, for she believed she was a mermaid and swam around humming tunes about princes and lobsters and fish named Flounder.

In her quest for a prince, she stumbled upon a family reunion of merpeople who were welcoming back a constantly singing redhead who promptly slapped her for trying to steal her story.

The spiteful princess Ariel continued to harass the poor porpoise until she was well outside of the barriers of the kingdom. Overwhelmed as her blissful ignorance was shattered, the poor dear aimlessly swam deeper and deeper into the unknown depths of the uncharted seas........

Suddenly her snout scraped against coral, and, smarting, our heroine Blenfulsy realized that she was entangled in the Great Barrier Reef. As she collected herself, a band of clownfish solemnly assembled.

Taking one look at her, they uniformly shook their heads and, in unison, grimly informed her that she needed to get her act together. After helping her dislodge herself from the coral, they gave her pointers on embracing the beauty of the porpoise, the true essence of her species. The first thing to changed had to be her name. Instead of the common mermaid name of Blenfulsy, she would now be called Seastar... a coveted name among porpoises.

Blenfulsy blinked. Could she really take on another name? She started to hyperventilate, her whiskers annoyingly getting sucked up into her nostrils. Yes, she could. And she would! "Thank you, my little friends. I will gladly take up your name for me." The newly christened Seastar thanked the kind but grim little clowns, and twirled upward.

Though Seastar now understood that her standards for a man must change, she still wished to find the prince of her dreams. However, why stop at porpoises? Why not a killer whale, or a shark, or even a whale? She had heard there are plenty of fish in the sea and she set out to test the theory.

Seastar now traveled west, set on Italy and dark-eyed Italian killer whales with smoking eyes and accents. She practiced "Ciao!" and "T'Amo" with newly found chuzpah. But just as she was passing South Africa, she heard the most dreadful noise--

She looked over to see a fellow porpoise belting his heart out to the languid tones of Celine Dion. She scrunched up her nose in disgust and began swimming off as fast as she could.

"neear, faar, whereEEEEEEEEVVEEER you are, I beliiieeeeve that our hearts wiiill (BREATH) go ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOooooonnnnn....."

Seastar swam faster, wincing.

Suddenly the porpoise stopped and said, "Wait, I hear you, who are you?" Surprised by the odd wording, Seastar turned around to discover that the porpoise was actually blind! Having not quite let go of her previous fantasy she said in her sweetest mermaid voice, "My name is Blenfulsy!" To her joy he replied "Oohh I've never met a mermaid before! It really is a pleasure!"

"The pleasure's all mine!" she chirruped. "I'm just on my way to a European cruise. I hear that Grecian beaches are just deLIGHTful." The porpoise sang out jubilantly, "Hallelujah!! I was just heading that way myself! Please allow me to accompany you, beautiful mermaid. My name, by the way, is Gus."

So they set out together! Everyday Seastar would tell Gus magnificent stories about the glamor of being a mermaid and the burdens of the beauty and fame that accompanied her race. He would drink in every word with an a awe and reverence that never failed to boost her confidence level even if it all was a lie. Until, one day, Gus confessed

"I'm not really a singer." Seastar gasped. Gus whimpered. "I never was! I always wanted to be, but everyone told me I was awful. that's why I was wandering around alone in the ocean. I was trying to practice." Seastar comforted him, "Well, I've gotten so tonedeaf since listening to you, I think that everything else sounds worse! You can always sing for me, Gus."

Gus, tears still bubbling, slowly turned toward her--

"I'm also not blind Blenfulsy, or whatever your real name is. I was only wearing these glasses to gain inspiration for my rocker image. But now, after spending so much time with you, I am convinced that you are far more beautiful and glamorous than any mermaid that ever lived."

Seastar sighed in delight. "Reeeally?" "Would you like me to sing it to you?" Gus offered. "No, no, I believe you dearest," Seastar hastily replied. "Let's just elope to New Zealand. My name is Seastar, by the way."

"Charmed," said Gus gallantly.

the END