The sky is endlessly growling and hissing and it is crumbling down on us slowly but surely as i speak. The great court of our main building has a skylight in the middle of the ceiling made up of 81 tiny windows on the heavens arranged by nines, and when the sky is this angry the building is cast in the make-pretend candle light held up by tiny cherubs flirting with the shadows that surround them. When i hear thunder i bolt out of our back office door to imagine the court as i might have seen it lit a century ago.
And our website doesn’t have a single picture of it; however, this is the visageless keeper of it all.
Blogger is dumb. I ought to start keeping a blogger is dumb tally somewhere of the number of estimated words that it’s eaten. This time i just pressed ‘esc’ with a stray finger and it cleared the blog box. Whatever, we all know it’s got dumb flaws. Better than using live journal, i suppose.
Anyhow, the relevant part of my post was about heat. Heat is such a relative concept… right now there is a heat index of 108 firmly in place for my walk home. So, i’m sure i’ll be hot. But, really, heat isn’t something i especially notice unless it’s pointed out to me. This morning i gave my typical walking backwards tour for an entire hour to a huge group and when i got back i was informed that i was feeling 110 degrees of heat for the entire tour, when in my head i think i figured it was 86 or 92 or some other acceptable test-score number. Really, the difference between my perception and the reality was the same as the difference between 70 and 90, and i’m sure i could tell the difference between those two.
a-hem
“I loved color commentary so much, too, and now it can finally be said: I’m ready to have so much gay sex with Peter.”
Also, “So… that signed photo of your ass…“
Yeah, you’re gonna keep hearing about that picture for ages. Also, isn’t it nice that i have all of these PuppetMaster folks to keep my self esteem up despite the fact that my haircut only looks halfway decent when i don’t have any clothes on? Or, maybe that’s why they like me so much all of a sudden…
a-hem
It’s nearly 90 degrees outside even though it’s nighttime, and i’m in the PuppetMaster wrapup chat being a huge whore and i think i might be naked on the webcam right now because my new hair looks much better on me when i’m naked, but, um, yeah, i’m busy. Nevermind. Oh, and, Ashley won PM, and it’s been a bitch not linking to her because i’ve been reading her all month. Hi Ashley. You’re witty and hot!
Hairdressers are more dangerous than psychics. A psychic has to make the first move; their job is to know what to say before you tell them what they should be talking about. If a psychic has a false start, they’re done for. Your disbelief is suspended only as long as they can keep pumping out vague connections and suggestions.
Hairdressers are an entirely different story. With a hairdresser, you start the exchange – they will stand there and glare at the back of your head and clip clip clip until finally you feel the intense need to break the silence. The clicking of the scissors eventually overwhelms you, and you open up your mouth to speak. Even then the burden isn’t on the hairdresser, because for all they care you could talk to yourself in the mirror the entire time. That’s what the mirror is there for, afterall.
And so you talk and talk to your own reflection until finally you strike upon a topic. Astrology. South Philadelphia. White trash. Divorced parents. Heat waves. And, suddenly, you are putty in their hands.
This is how hairdressers operate. They lie in wait like a spider at the center of a web just waiting for a fly to catch its leg on the tiniest strand. And then the pounce – yes, they know just what you mean about living in South Philly a mile away from the projects and trying to pick the nicest street to take up to South and oh my aren’t those little old ladies that live next door the friendliest thing ever? I sometimes think hairdressers all take classes in character acting and do regional surveys so they can be anyone they need to be for you to talk to; the only reason that they have a shampoo girl is because they are at their station slipping to right character for you.
Hairdressers bait and switch. Trash South Philadelphia but then mention that you just moved in a block away from my house. Talk about how astrology never works and then talk about how your boyfriend’s sign is perfect for you. Mention how the news overhypes heat waves and then lament the heat-related deaths. And then joke about them. Because, the haircut is immaterial, really. I know plenty of people who consistently get bad haircuts but keep crawling back for the same damned happy banter. Hairdressers are our pop-psychologist, our armchair psychic, our trendy aunt with the cool hairdo and hip belt. Their opinions matter, and they are forever waiting for you to just say the right words.