September 2008:
January 2010:
My ponytail is making a spectacular comeback. It’s almost a full-blown mane of glory.
Also, please take a moment to note the difference in my work environments. Thank you, Emma, for saving me from Sir Allen Stanford.
We have a small crisis at the JAM house. One of us (I’m not saying who) got some bug bites (I’m not saying where) that are now inflamed (I’m not saying how).
(Okay, I am saying how.)
Never put Nair over top of bug bites.
I’ll let you do the math.
Nair is an evil, evil invention. It DISSOLVES HAIR. You do realize that that is the same job description held by Drain-O?
Let’s change the subject.
Actually, let’s just leave it at that.
Before I begin, let’s all just take a minute to acknowledge the huge thing that happened yesterday. The thing that made the world feel small – like everyone, no matter what culture, tribe, or tongue, agreed was a big event. An incident that shook us out of our day-to-day reality, and made us think about what is really important in life. A happening resulting in headlines, workplace chatter, and blog posts.
And she looks fab. Give her a cat-call, a high-five, and – my own personal favorite display of affection – a quick palm-circle-rub on the back.
In other news, there are a few things that I’ve decided that I “need”: a pair of black heels (how do I not own a pair of black heels?), a soft case for my guitar, and a new [insert the engine part that keeps my car quiet and not shaky] in my Honda.
Instead, you want to know what I’ve been doing with my hard-earned cash? Donating it to This American Life. Only twice, but still. Shouldn’t I be allocating my limited funds some place other than to what could be a FREE podcast? I feel like I am telling you my secret shame – confessing something I shouldn’t – like how I feign a healthy diet only to shovel cupcake icing into my mouth when no one is watching.
But I can’t help it. Ira Glass is my geek crush. He tells me the best stories out of anyone. And then he asks me to give money (“One dollar – five dollars – whatever you can spare. What kind of person do you want to be – someone who contributes, or someone who sits back and assumes someone else will take care of it? Do your part, so we can do ours.”), and I’m like, IRA I WILL DO ANYTHING.
Seriously, though. What a guy.
I never thought I’d see the day, but sure enough.
Like the Terminator, like Backstreet…
Now I know: any time I am ever feeling a lack of estrogen in my life, all I must do is post a blog about my hair – and voila, THE WOMEN APPEAR!
Thank you for your feedback, ladies! Emily, Kristy, and Erin, I’m sorry to report that I listened to the majority, played it safe, and can still ponytail it. I’ll save the next chop-fest for some cataclysmic day, like when TV goes digital.
Now, I must have a productive day at work. I forgot my breakfast this morning - for the first time in YEARS, literally. I’m not quite sure how I will make it to lunch with nothing but coffee, but I suppose that people have survived worse. I will leave you with this clever little font fest.
You don’t even have to say it. I already know.
You are desperate for an update on the growth of my hair.
Ever since I cut off my hair over a year ago, I have been longing for it to grow out. I have patiently not so patiently endured the days, the weeks, the months of the “in-between stage,” feeling dowdy and frumpy. I have kept you up to date with the growth progress – all I can say is, lucky you. It is now long enough to put in a ponytail without bobby pins, to French braid, to even do a fancy side knot thing when the occasion calls for it.
But I have a haircut appointment today during my lunch hour. And – so help me – I am THIS CLOSE to chopping it again. People, I do not have the PATIENCE for the in-between stage. I remember back to this stage, and think, “That was cute!” even though we all know that at that point, I sure didn’t feel like it was cute.
But right now, my hair is an unruly mane of mediocrity. It’s kudzu-gone-crazy.
I’m stuck. I know that if I cut it off again, I’ll be starting back at the top of the downward helix of discontent. If I just get a trim, and let it keep growing, I’ll continue being drab for a few months – but then again, maybe by the end of the summer, I’ll have flowing locks like Liv Tyler.
What should I do?
You have until noon, central time, to weigh in on the matter. But then, it’s the moment of truth.
First things first.
Did anyone else notice that they said “hootenanny” last night during “Lost”? My name was said on national television! I AM SO TOTALLY FAMOUS!!!
Next things next.
Last night as I was dying my hair, it hit me: I am a responsible and intelligent girl, not one to slack and make bad financial decisions… and maybe it was the ammonia, but… I don’t think I’m going to get a job for a while.
Since I ended my tenure as the Temptress, I have felt a burden lifted – a heavy weight that I didn’t recognize was there, since I was too busy convincing myself to be grateful for a job at all. But once I walked out of those heavy glass doors, box of possessions in hand, I felt it: I could breathe.
For the last two weeks, I have felt so light, so buoyant, so UNLIKE 2008 ANNIE. I am realizing that over the past year, I had been so entrenched in the daily grind that I had lost the part of me that I rather like – the part that says things like, “Tell me about your day,” and “How are you doing?” and “I’d love to get together!” and “Yes, 10am sounds perfect,” and “Sure, let’s drive to Pennsylvania.” Instead, there were a lot of grunts and frowns and silences.
There were also a lot of Facebook video wall posts, which was always a little bit awkward the next day.
Anyhoodles.
Obviously, I cannot and will not stay jobless forever. I’m too high-maintenance, and I know it. One of these days, I’m going to snap, and scream, “Give me Aveda! NO MORE SUAVE!” But until then, I will be engaging in a season of Survivor: Nashville. I am allowing my spirit to take a deep breath, living much more simply, and finding creative solutions to my financial problems (and yes indeed, of course, there are problems).
I’m going to take advantage of this time and drive to Kansas City next week to help my family during a period of major transition. I’m going to spend some days working on my EP. I’m going to stretch something called my IT band, which I didn’t even know I had – until it got terribly inflamed and rendered me semi-crippled. I’m going to continue applying for jobs. And I’m going to hope and pray that the right position will come along at the right time.
A foolish risk? Perhaps. Worth it? I hope.
In the meantime, you should see my hair. It is dyed. It is fabulous. It is foxy. It is… exactly the color it was before.
But BETTER.
As a bridesmaid in San Diego this weekend, I was treated to a pre-wedding hair/makeup extravaganza. When first presented with the opportunity to have my hair and makeup done for me, I was hesitant – to say that Annie Parsons is a control freak is like saying that Courtney Love is a train wreck. I understand my hair and my face, thankyouverymuch – no need for any help.
Until I sat in the chair, and the stylist said, “Your hair teases like a champ.”
And I was like, “All of my dreams are coming true.”
Have I ever told you about my since-junior-high dream? My dream of looking like Faye in “That Thing You Do!”? I want to be alive in 1964. I love Liv Tyler so much. Someday, I hope to once again have a ponytail of her glory. And a boyfriend like Guy Patterson.
After my stint in the makeover chair, I was completely ritzy glitzy. My hair was big and bouffant. I had fake eyelashes – which, can I just say, are AMAZING. I was wearing a floor-length gown. Bibbity bobbity boo. For a girl who rarely feels pretty, it did my heart a world of good. Never again will I turn down a chance to be glamorous.
P is also for PS, which is for “Pretty in pink…” … which is the first line of my newest song! If you’re in need of some Monday morning sass, go check it out.
Just like my stack of washcloths:
Slowly but surely.
I overslept. Again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but for as long as I have been setting an alarm clock, come morning, I do not hear it. I mean, I must hear it at some level of consciousness, because I hit the snooze button. Excuse me, the “SNOOZ” button. Why do alarm clocks leave off the “e”? Or is that just mine?
Wait, is that true? Does my alarm clock really say “SNOOZ”? I think so. I can’t remember. I can’t say that I’ve ever “officially” checked; it just seems like that is what is embedded in the deepest subconscious part of my brain – the part that gives me REM cycles. I’ll have to do some reconnaissance and report back.
You know what’s funny? The phrase “snooz button.” Say it ten times fast, and try to keep from laughing.
You know what’s annoying? The phrase “alarm clock.” I bet that if, instead of a beeping, my alarm clock just said, “ALARM CLOCK. ALARM CLOCK. ALARM CLOCK,” over and over and over, I would get up and get on with my day.
So, late again, I jumped out of bed and threw on a t-shirt and a skirt and my red heels, and ran out the door. Things I neglected to think of:
• My skirt is covered in slop of some sort.
• My white t-shirt has a ketchup stain on it from the spicy fries I ate last night at the French Quarter, where I played a show with the fantastic Meg Allison and Josh Stevens.
• I’m not allowed to wear t-shirts to my BUSINESS PROFESSIONAL workplace.
• Having no time to do any quality control, the hair on the back of my head strangely resembles a mangy badger’s rump. I am so not as cute as this girl today.
I desperately want to be a morning person. They’re so chipper and spry and productive and put together. But I’m not really a night person either – I used to be, but now I am an old lady, in my late-mid-20’s, and go to bed by 10pm most nights.
So if I’m not a morning person, and I’m not a night person, I guess that just leaves me mid-day. And isn’t that the best time to be alive anyway? That’s when things happen. And today, the lunch hour part of my mid-day is going to include a free sample meal at my happy place: Whole Foods Market.
