happy hair fetish
Someday, I’d like to write a book entitled The Decline and Fall of the American Longhair: how those damn hippies got jobs and barbers. It would be a coffee-table book, full of black and white photographs of protest rallies and office buildings, and sparse, dispassionate text.
You random Internet-People probably haven’t met my hair fetish yet. Hair fetish, meet random internet people. Random internet people, meet hair fetish. It’s not even a fetish, clinically speaking, but “hair preference” just sounds dumb. Anyway, about a month ago I broke up with my favorite source of hair, after a year and a half of cuddling and making our friends puke. I was going back to Iowa, and then to Denmark, and we won’t see each other again until January. We both knew damn well it would never work. Fine, goodbye, I’m very glad I met you and we fell in love, good luck.
Of course, now I’m single. I haven’t been single, really, since my freshman year of high school – as soon as one boyfriend left, I magically found another. Or else I magically found another, and then the one left, but that’s another story. I’ve often wanted this freedom, and now that I have it, I just want a hug.
The rest of this angsty rant was averted at the last minute by DOM, who flirted with me until I felt better. Yeah!
In other news, I garnered some beer money today by participating in a linguistics experiment. I sat in a small room, while listening to disjointed sentences, repeated over and over by many different speakers. The overall effect reminded me very strongly of one of the acid-inspired dada scenes from a Robert Anton Wilson novel. I also bought a new watch, for 99 cents. It’s lime green, and makes me happy when I look at it.