A Hair Story

It's not so much about hair as it is about the experience I had today getting mine cut. I rolled out of bed around noon -- I love this week off I've given myself. Of course, this was after the third (I'm gonna try to keep track of them) dream I've had about my PhD applications. This one had to do with the fact that the deadline for the Rutgers app is Jan. 2nd. I already submitted my application online, but they require supplemental materials to be sent by mail. Annoying.

Not wanting to deal with post-office crowds, I decided to go today. Yesterday. The 26th. It's late. Early. Anyway, in the dream, I was in desperate need of one of those handy little FedEx things and I couldn't find one with labels. Despite the fact that I had plenty of time, I was way stressed out for no reason and then I woke up. There is absolutely no reason for such dreams, but I keep having them. Three and counting.

So I went to the post office. That was fine, although I don't understand why people don't move when you say excuse me. I had to shove a bit. This guy had his arms around his girlfriend and he was standing in the middle of the aisle. Then he thought he'd look at me. I think the look on my face deterred his staring. After leaving the post office, I went into Manhattan to see if I could get an appointment for my haircut later in the day. It turned out that the woman was ready then. But first we had to listen to a cute little story from a guy who used to live in L.A. about a bad haircut he got at the Beverly Center.

I told him I was raised in the Valley. He didn't seem to care. Where's the love? I immediately regretted the interest with which I listened to him. He left finally and I went to put my bag down.

I was unsure at this point who was going to cut my hair, so I didn't know where to go. Then she started talking to me and I heard the word "shampoo." I didn't respond and then she said "papito." I think. I shook my head. "How did you know what I said?" she asked. "I didn't," I responded, "but you said 'head,' didn't you?" She laughed and shook her head. "What did you say?" I asked. "I asked if you wanted a shampoo." "Oh, no, I don't need one."

I went and took my seat and proceeded to tell her what I wanted. As she was clipping, she took the time to admire my earrings. "Your mother let you do that?" For the next second or two, I was confused. "Why would I need permission," I thought to myself. Then I realized she thought I was young. "I'm 30."

She stopped what she was doing, placed her hands on my shoulders, leaned in with amazement in her eyes and said, "nooo. You look like a baby. How do you keep your skin looking like that? So young?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't do anything special to it. I don't even eat vegetables."

"You don't eat vegetables?"

"Well, I shoved some in my mouth last night." "I can't believable. (That's not a typo.) You're not 30."

"I can show you my ID." As she was getting over her shock and awe, she resumed clipping.

Not two minutes later:

"You look Spanish."

"I get that a lot," I said. I was in a good mood and within two minutes, I discovered that this was going to be a fun haircut.

"Where are you from," she asked.

"Los Angeles," I responded with a huge smile on my face, knowing she was looking for something a little more informative. But she seemed satisfied and continued her line of questioning.

"Does anybody else in your family look like you? "Nope. I'm the black sheep of the family. They're all white."

"What is your father?"

"Well, there's a story behind that." She stopped as if to prepare for storytime. I continued. "There's shock value in it. Wanna hear it?" "Yeah." She was practically drooling in the clippers. I told her the dealio, she stopped for a split second, and had the same look of amazement at hearing my age.

"And your mother kept you?"

"Well....yeah. She dug me. You would have too if you'd have seen me. I was cute."

She smiled and continued clipping. At this rate, I was beginning to wonder if I'd get the haircut I went in for. It usually only takes about 10 minutes. Believe it or not, the conversation didn't end there.

"You were like the son she loved."

Oh lord.

"Son? No. Daughter. I'm a chick."

"Noooo. You look like a man."

"Yeah, I get that a lot. I'm not."

"But you look so much like a man. You're a woman?"

"Yeah. I can show you my ID."

This then led to a discussion of sexuality, which then led to a discussion of butch/femme relationships and the fact that there are women who dig butches. Thank god.

Anyway, we also discussed that special type of lesbian that doesn't understand why a woman "would want to be with a woman who looks like a man."

Why don't they just be with men, is the standard follow-up question. The nice woman from the Dominican Republic then let me know that there were a lot of religious people who didn't agree with gays. Who believe that we choose to be gay. "I'm not like that, though. I have lots of gay friends. And they tell me they would love to have the marriages and the babies." I didn't want to get into this arena with her, but I did tell her I had just watched "A Wedding Story" on TLC and I'm definitely hoping to one day meet a woman I can have a "wedding" with.

She was cool. And funny. And blunt. But that's real. I can respect that. She ended the haircut by reminding me that I am at least in the right place to be who I am. I didn't have the heart to tell her about the evil stares I get from people, but at least I am not in Laramie. I know that. And am grateful for those open-minded people. Or maybe it's just that all of them really do think I'm a guy when they walk past me on the street. Whatever.

It's all good till someone gets killed in the end, I guess. So that's my hair story.

Cornelia and I watched A Mighty Wind and Best in Show. During the first film, I began officially freaking out about my thesis. I want to get to it, but I have a couple of other things on my plate I need to take care of. I mentioned it to her and we started talking about Derrida, Lacan, Foucault, and Butler.

I will probably be using only the latter two, as the first two are totally difficult and I'm only on page 23 of Lacan's Four Fundamentals of Psychoanalyis. And it's difficult. I did decide from our conversation, though, that I'm going to look at the film Orlando rather than the novel. But yeah, I'm really starting to freak out. Holy shit, I have to write a thesis.

What the hell am I doing here?