Dear Internets,

Oh, am I behind. Numbers 5 & 6 pending, & now 7 in swing? Oh gracious.

I’ll tell you now that the Elton John ballad is still being rehearsed, War & Peace is still being read (SO MANY PEOPLE DYING EVERYWHERE IN THAT BOOK) & just today I took my first class in letterpress – an adventure I’m working on logging as we speak.

In the interim, though, please know I am here, I am alive, I have not forsaken thee, 12×2. So for now, whilst I play catch up on my projects, please enjoy a story about my hair.




A few weeks ago I modeled for Vidal Sassoon in front of a bunch of Norwegian stylists at Rockefeller Center. My fashion repertoire is usually limited to Target’s 75% off rack, so sitting still in some cockamamie Morticia Adams gown was a little out of my league. Same for the Viviane Westwood-esque heels, which did not come in half sizes & made shockingly loud noises when hitting the ground. Noises like the sound of something expensive being damaged. Or children playing with things they shouldn’t. Regardless of my lack of experience (or comfort), I had somehow secured this ridiculous gig & I was eager to see it through.

There were five models, & all but one of us were there for the lark of getting paid to have our hair done by VS’s top international stylists. Call time was 8:00am, & all of us were to arrive faces bare & hair unwashed, with mind-boggling punctuality. All of us, that is, save The Professional Model, whose gazelle-like legs ushered her into the salon an hour & a half late. Not that it was really her fault – Rockefeller Center is a big, confusing place, & the mascara which had sutured her eyes shut kept her from finding the proper door. Poor thing.

Most of my day was spent in quiet obedience, watching stylists in white lighting call out dye numbers & hair processes in their secret, hair-dresser language, brushes & bowls & scissors & discarded lengths of hair covering every possible surface. My hair was prelightened, then bleached, & it was not until I was placed on stage before the Norwegians (every one of them meticulously strapped into complicated black boots which crept high up their legs) that Richie, my colorist (my colorist) declared to the crowd, “Now, charcoal is not a color normally used in a salon setting, but today I thought, Oh, fuck! Let’s just THROW SOME CAUTION TO THE WIND!” The Norwegians leaned forward and I, frozen in the spotlight, could do little other than sit. Sit, and die a little inside.

Color in place, I was ushered back into the waiting portion of the salon (The Model Corral) where I was left to either slog through War & Peace or sit in silence & contemplate my hunger. I used to live with a model who would, as she called it, “eat for the future”, in which she would eat, say, a brick of cheese, or a six year old child, to prepare for long bookings which might not serve any food. Silly though it had seemed at the time, I was finally seeing her logic. It was getting close to 3:00pm, feeding the models not high on the priority list. What shock.

The chemicals washed from my hair & my face shellacked with a battery of powders, creams, kohls & whatever else might make me look not like me, the residents of Model Corral were invited to dine on salad & penne pasta for roughly two minutes & sixteen seconds before being herded into our respective garb – for me, this:


Which, considering some of the other models wound up in black sequined catsuits, could have been worse. The Professional Model wore a dress similar to mine &, to my tremendous irritation, looked predictably excellent in it, even while touching her hair over & over, whimpering, “Is it ok? You’re not going to dye it, are you? Is it ok? Will it be ok?” It is a weird, sad truth that I, when in the presence of models, specifically, those who are professional models because of their freakish amalgamation of features deemed desirable (even if those features seem to have been lifted from a fresh corpse), I become hypnotized in a way which is totally unacceptable in a public setting. John, a fabulous tower of a man who loved nothing more than ripping on “moronic middle Americans” (hey!) in his prim British accent, politely woke my from my dazes, cast a very English What the fuck is wrong with you, luv? look my way, and scooted me onstage once more.

“Vidal Sassoon does not razor cut,” he declared, & showers of blonde hair began to fly around my face. Think Edward Scissorhands. The Norwegians (who had all changed clothes, by the way, & now favored gray over black. You heard it here first, kids. Gray.) leaned forward, leather accessories moaning, then leapt, digital cameras blazing, oohing & ahhing, reaching out to touch my head as John batted them away, still cutting closer & closer to my scalp, fringe shrinking, fuzz flying, Norwegians snapping flashing stepping – & then it was done. AND THEY APPLAUDED. THEY APPLAUDED FOR MY HEAD. & yes. I understand that it wasn’t me. That I sat & served as a head of hair, that an English Setter would have sufficed all the same & required half the bathroom breaks but STILL. APPLAUSE FOR MY HEAD.

Following photographs & commentary (“It it ok? You must tell me. Is my hair ok? Is it dyed? Is it ok?“), I was allowed to free myself from my black sheath. High on applause, I scuttled to the bathroom as quickly as my death-heels would allow, throwing my clothes in a stall & diving for the mirror:


I believe the phrase is, “Holy Crap.”

I can’t say I was smitten with the cut at first. Perhaps the Posh-like wisps hugging my chin was the big turn-off, or the fact that most of the back of my head was missing. Maybe the subtle eyemakeup played a part. Whatever it was, I spent the rest of the evening in shock.

The cut eventually settled down, & began to look like something that might have grown from my own head:

photo-111Not something I would have done to myself, but interesting. & hell. I made a week’s worth of pay just sitting still getting a haircut. Not too shabby if you ask me.

I sent the picture to my dad who later responded with “Don’t worry. It will grow back.” Thanks, pops. Thanks a bunch.