Drama!

You know, I’m still a little on the dramatic side when it comes to retelling every day events, and I can get really…overexcited…when it comes to little things, and holy lord, I am the master of snowball thinking. I mean, it’s no secret that I spend a lot (A LOT) of time thinking up potential future scenarios and, as Lawyerish and I discuss almost daily (no, actually, it is daily. More like 11 times daily), I am constantly torturing myself with the ever-present, “WHAT ABOUT THE BABY?” question. You know, the baby that I do not now have, and likely will have, but I do not NOW HAVE, is the point.

In fact, Adam is often correcting me on this line of thinking with the words, “Jimmy doesn’t have asthma!” because before we decided to move an airplane ride away from home, I spent an entire night in hysterics because not only did we suddenly have a toddler the second we moved away from home, but (in my mind, you understand), we had a toddler that got motion sickness, did not fly well and also (also!) was allergic to the air circulating on planes, and broke out in near-deadly hives from synthetic plane seats.

All of these issues with little Jimmy meant that we had to drive back to Boston every time we wanted to have a family get-together, and what, just WHAT would we do then? I would never get to work again, I would never write a book or write…ANYTHING (woe!) and we would go broke on gas money and a lifetime worth of screaming and torture from little Jimmy’s motion sickness and polyester allergy, because the car is also fraught with polyester and moves, just like a plane does! So we will be housebound until he is old enough to take a special dose of prescription-strength Dramamine, oh my God.

But really, it’s better now, and while I do torture myself with massive what-if scenarios, it’s no longer quite so…dramatic, but when I do get dramatic, that’s the kind of drama I embark upon. I mean, it’s no picnic, but it beats the pants off of the existential drama I endured/inflicted for much of the college years and my early 20s. God, I do not miss lying about on cheap cushions next to someone’s bong asking in a husky voice what it all MEANS, what it REALLY, REALLY MEANS and pondering life, the universe and every bloody thing in it, because we could be heroes! Even if it’s only for one day!

I’ve grown out of this. We all grow out of this.

Unless you are my hairdresser. As a random aside, I feel compelled to let you know that apparently my hairdresser is famous in my uh, town, for when I told someone at my office who did my hair, her response was, “Wait wait wait…THE [hairdresser's name]. The one I can’t get an appointment with? THE FAMOUS [hairdresser's name]?” And then I pretty much laughed in her face, because really, uh, famous? We live in a small town. There is no FAMOUS. However, at least three more people chimed in that yes, fine, he is hard to get an appointment with, so I’d better tread lightly because he is temperamental and also FAMOUS, you know, like Ken Paves. I might add when I told Squiggs that this scenario played out at work, he insisted that yes, he WAS indeed famous, and what did Adam say when I told him I had a famous hairdresser? Adam, for the record, couldn’t give a shit if my hairdresser is Libby down the street at Sport Clips, and frankly, I’m with Adam, because being “famous” in a town of 11 people really isn’t saying much, honestly. Perspective, Squiggs!

Needless to say, I’m not buying a lick of it, but it does mean that I am stupidly paranoid enough to change his name to Squiggy, transparent as it is. Because, seriously, good hair is basically all I have going for me right now, and I while I’m all haughty about blogging nicely about friends and family, apparently it’s my hairdresser I need to be most concerned about. I mean, what would that be called if I lost my hairdresser because of my blog? Somehow I don’t think the term ‘Jonnikerd’ would really catch on, nor would the phenomenon be that widespread. But whatever.

I spent last night getting my hair done, which meant I spent last night in a world fraught with drama! death! destruction! Squiggs recently suffered a death in his partner’s family, and I got to hear – in excruciating detail – all about how he was the deceased’s “guide to God – shaman, sherpa, whatever, if you will” throughout the “death process,” and how he really “felt the presence of God, enter into him.” He said this as he dipped to the floor in some sort of Elvis-like trance, hand over his face, down on one knee.

And also, Squiggy, ever the clairvoyant, knows that this death? This horrible, horrible death? Is just the beginning of a holiday season of death and devastation. There are a few potential death scenarios that could play themselves out before the end of the year, and one of them is very likely to be his own death, or that of his partner, so perhaps I should have a backup hairdresser just in case, and also rethink my 2007 appointments (which yes, I already have scheduled)? Granted, he also acknowledges that “the spirits are never specific” and he could be getting a vibe not of his own death, or of his partner’s “but of maybe his great aunt or distant cousin or even a client!” [insert creepy music here, and also, shifty eyes] Which, if you think about it, is quite the departure from his own death. Distant cousin, client, own death. Same dramatics, different impact, unless you happen to be a client, although I have been assured repeatedly that my energy is very strong, and I will be around for a “long, long while,” even if it means I’ll be heading over to the Aveda concept salon up the street, because Squiggs bit the dust.

And of course, no hair appointment would be complete without some sort of gross, completely inappropriate genital reference, and last night’s came when the subject of personal waxing came up (afreakingGAIN), and this time, he warned me against a waxer a few doors down who used the same stick on a client’s eyebrows that she’d used on a different client’s vagina, resulting in – my worst nightmare – herpes of the eyebrow. Which means I’m never waxing anything again, like, ever, even though it smacks of urban legend. However, he was sure to recommend his own waxer for his Brazilians, yet again, which is always a pleasing image. And one I will leave you with as you kick off your Friday.

Have a great weekend.

*Erasure

17 comments November 30th, 2006