do the rachel

you stupid, no good, piece of crap haircut.

I have identified my problem. Gosh dang it all. I will never have another good haircut unless I move back to Albuquerque or Durham. Actually, the salon I'm talking about was in Raleigh, but the memories all live in Durham. Studio 929, husband-wife-duo Silvia and Brian, representin the 9-1-9, holla! Or as I like to say in Jewish circles, Challah!

I guess there always has to be a tradeoff. In Durham, I lived alone in a state of forced misery that I thought would confer the Legitimate Grad Student mantle upon me. I drank Tang, ate canned biscuits, and tried (unsuccessfully) to skip the occasional meal. But it was here that I had The Best Haircut I Ever Did, or Would, Have. I got the first one in December of 2001 and thought nothing of it, other than it was $45, more than I had yet paid for such a service. Until I was at a party with the girl who had recommended Silvia, and another woman came up to her and gushed, “I just had the bEST HAIRCUT EVER WITH SILVIA! OH MY GOD!” I thought she was just trying to be the next Sex & the City tagline, but it got me thinking. Could there really be a “best haircut ever?”

Turns out there can. And I've already had it. And don't have a chance of ever finding it again.

Also turns out I am always on a quest for the best [_______blank_______] ever. Best breakfast burrito ever? Albuquerque, of course, at either Twisters in the South Valley or Flying Star. Or Java Joe's. Or R.B. Winnings. Basically, wherever I'm the most hungover, that is where the BB will taste the best. Best eggs and grits ever? Durham, at Elmo's. Best makeup shopping? Mark Pardo in Albuquerque, where you can pretend to be looking for the 'perfect mascara' and get a free makeover by the best undiscovered queens the city has to offer. Best mall food? Walking by Gloria Jean's at Coronado with Lucrecia or Beth, then stopping at See's for a free sample, then giving in completely at Wendy's or Del Taco. Best waste of money? A day in Kona. At least that one is still applicable to my life. $4 for a cup of locally grown coffee? Come on.

Anyway. Living in paradise? The tradeoff is having your every haircut be a game of Russian Roulette. Where your stylist could be a woman named Paulette, who refers to your home island as “paradise” at least twenty times during the 45 minutes, and tricks you into confiding in her about your religious inclinations because you assume she is somewhat liberal, then turns out to be a Mormon from Utah who doesn't believe in living together premaritally. After you've told her you are living with a half-Jewish guy, and realized she's noticed, and expressed disapproval of, your bi-racialness.

AND CUTS YOUR HAIR IN THE RACHEL GREENE.

That is what I've realized. No matter how many pictures of the tousled, non-Rachel-styled bedroom look from Victoria's Secret I take in, how many creative verbs and adjectives and adverbs I use to describe my desired look (“I want the hair to cavort lethargically about my nape"), all haircutters, save Silvia, revert to their trump card from the Middle American Hairdos of the Mid-Nineties Deck: The Rachel Greene. They perfected it back then, so why not break it out at every possible opportunity now? Their careers between 1994 and 1999 were probably a facile assembly line of shoulder-length shags. When they see me walk in the door with my clueless look and obvious obeisance to the beauty industry, I am a flashing goldmine. Click, autopilot: Give her the Rachel, act like "it's about time" and jump ahead to lunch.

So when I've said I looked like Claire Huxtable, this is what I meant. I've had this haircut six times in the past wo years. Claire was a better, blacker version of Rachel, at least hairwise. The working woman's mullet.

Never again.

NEVER AGAIN.

dear reader(s)

Please stay with me! I have seen the error of my ways (communicating sporadically at best, being a sometime blogger, emailer, and caller) and have found my way back to the light. Here are some things that have happened since my last missymussion:

I. School let out for Spring Break. I now have one week (of two) left, and while I have to accomplish a great many things (planting a garden, reading five books, grading, spring cleaning, getting a haircut, doing my taxes, and starting an exercise regimen), I feel more relaxed than I have all year because there's only one quarter left, the State Assessment is over, and the end is in sight.

II. Carolyn and Scott, guests extraordinaire, honored us by spending their honeymoon with us. I've always hearted Carolyn, but now I heart Scott as well! He made a great playmate for Ben, too. Their stay was ideal for several reasons:
a) neither Ben nor I had to work;
b) Scott can't stand to have dirty dishes in the sink, and takes care of business; and
c) they share my attitude toward vacations, and life in general:
1. if ice cream presents itself, eat it.
2. Wal-Mart and Costco are perfectly respectable and worthwhile tourist destinations.
3. There's no wrong time to drink alcohol when you're on a sanctioned vacation.
d) they left me a little gift of Scott's rosemary-thyme body wash which I had been
coveting, though I tried to hide the fact that coveted it.

III. We had a par-tee at our house that, may I say, was our best yet. We invited the brothers, and they serenaded us with bluegrass music, silly ditties, and an old-fashioned sing-song broke out on the back lanai. The neighbors probably hate us now, but it was worth it. There is a hilarious anecdote about Ribsy that I am trying to figure out how to tell while preserving its hilarity.

IV. I got a ridiculous-looking sunburn that sealed my fate as a leathery-chested lady in the now-nearer future.

V. Ben scored tickets to a Chocolate Festival, where we were served about 40 different chocolate treats, coffee, wine, and champagne. I made the mistake of eating a 3-pound Portuguese sausage-omelette-fried rice at Teshima's just beforehand, and thus had my smallest appetite for chocolate ever, but it was fun all the same. I drank enough champagne to de-sensitize my fullness mechanism and managed to choke down some truffles.

VI. The Chocolate Festival, which was a fundraiser for the local Waldorf School, provided me with a new poorly-reasoned soapbox from which to pontificate. I need to work on the specifics, but I am pretty sure I feel strongly about it, and will start a viewpoint article for the newspaper that will never see the world outside my computer screen. More on this later.

Dang it, I can't get the spacing right on my outline. Please know that I do know how to write in outline form.

it's. a. duck blur!

We had lots of fun at the par-tee! Can anyone tell me what juvenile book that is from? It's the same one I obliquely referenced in yesterday's post about eating too much cake and barfing. Also, maybe the short party pants.

My hors d'oeuvres were a success, although I had to swallow my pride when I overheard a few people helpfully explaining to their mates, "They're little pancakes with guacamole on top." Avocado salsa, you rubes. There's a vast difference.

We had been instructed to provide entertainment for the birthday boy, and while I had a pipe dream all week of doing a comedy routine, we chickened out, so Ben recited some Ogden Nash poetry that had people in stitches.

The highlight of the party was when Ben and I were being miscreants out on the lanai with these two brothers who look like Jason and Jeremy London, while the others were still politely listening to the folk song performances inside, and somehow incited the brothers to sing the theme song from Duck Tales in its entirety. Ben and I chimed in rap-style on the words we knew at the ends of lines. Our chorus became so loud that we stopped the school librarian's rendition of "Scarborough Fair" (Faire?). I'm hoping the London twins will want to hang out with us again. They play the guitar and accordion, and maybe also the banjo. Imagine the '80s TV song possibilities!

and etc.

Okay, I'll admit, that last thing (Animal, etc.) happened a few weeks ago. I've been meaning to tell someone about it ever since. I kind of like being told I look like Animal. I mean, he's a party animal. But Shelley Winters? Her character in Lolita is one of the most pathetic in film history. Of course, Ben is proud as can be about his resemblance to the guy from Sling Blade when he adopts the right posture and mannerisms. So darn it, I will wear these similarities as a badge of honor.

Tonight Ben and I are going to a birthday party. I've got on my party dress, and Ben will wear his short pants and jacket. We'll be on our best behavior, and try not to eat so much birthday cake that we barf. I hope we get goodie bags!

Seriously, and bittersweetly, I am taking wild rice and scallion pancakes with avocado salsa. Sniff, sniff. Whenever I make anything that I first cooked in either college or Cimino Compound, I get emotional. Days gone by, caprice of youth never to be recaptured, etc.

Last night I dreamed I was visiting the CC dining hall, and didn't know where anything was, or where to put my dirty tray, and all the other kids were my current students, who tried to be helpful, but it was obvious I was an outsider. Then I had another dream where I was getting ready for school (high school), and felt that all-too-familiar teen panic of a wardrobe and/or hair crisis. I went back and forth between thinking I was going to teach class or attend it. I am awash in existential confusion, at the crossroads of adulthood.

But shouldn't I have come to this crossroads sooner, like maybe at the age of 20? I hate being a late bloomer.

non sequitur

I have been compared to Shelley Winters (watching Lolita, in which she is particularly whiny) and Animal (while doing my air drum in the car) in the same day by my boyfriend. Humph.