whacked

A friend recently wrote email with the subject line "I got whacked." She did not mean that she was starring in her own personal version of a mafia movie. It turns out she was laid off from her job, one that only weeks before she'd been talking about retiring from, in order to escape from the "dysfunction" there. She sounds happy and is making many last-minute fall escapes to the cape. We're having lunch in a few days so that I can hear about how bad it really was and what happened behind the scenes.

And in my very own drama, I got whacked too, but in a third sense. I've just received a hair cut that is perhaps the most precise and technically accurate hair cut I've ever seen while at the same time being the most unbecoming one I've ever had to wear. It's a brush cut (my hair stands straight up), making me look like a fat boy with military aspirations. I might do well in a dyke biker bar, not that I'm frequenting those places much these days. Some gay boys might give me a second look, but only from behind, and only if I'm wearing something loose that doesn't show off my -er- curves. I'm all jowl and double-chin with none of the elegant swoosh I'm used to sporting. Ugh.

This all happened because my usual hair cutter sprained her ankle, so I went to her associate, someone who's given me great haircuts in the past. She started by taking way too much of a snip off the middle of the top of my head, and I realized I was basically stuck for at least two weeks, maybe three. I could wear a bandana for a couple of weeks, or maybe a hat, but it would probably be best if I just wore a paper bag with holes cut out for my eyes. I'm mortified and embarassed and can't wait for it all to grow out and get shaggy again. Get well soon, Tish!

-- liz