Sep 1, 2001


This morning I went to get my hair cut. It's something I don't like doing. It's sitting in that chair in front of that wrap-around mirror underneath that full blasting flourescent light that bothers me the most. I mean, you go to the hairdresser's because you want to feel beautiful. Instead you're forced to sit there and look at your defects Face to Face. And it's as if the hairdresser knows that you feel insecure and thus in A Polite Sadical way has to telll you how fine and fragile your hair is and thus so difficult to do anything with as if you, who's been living with that head of hair all your life, didn't know.
Then, dressed in a white smock like a surgeon, the hairdresser starts clipping and cutting away after first having force fed you some gossip magazine full of Hollywood Stars with overhauled tits and liposucked asses. And no matter what kind of personal style you have or what the shape of your face is, you wind up with a cut that's The Season's Trend.
But the part I hate most is that gig with the hairblower and the sausage shaped brush. Rolling and blowing, rolling and blowing, rolling and blowing my hair. So when the rolling and blowing is finished, I feel I'm in drag. I look in the mirror and see my hair that's imitating a wig.
So I sit there trying to be calm knowing that it's just a matter of time before I'll be walking out the door while taking a comb out of my purse so that I can pull my hair back into a ponytail and thus return me to me.

DRAW: she watched him cut her


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