Monthly Archives: August 2011

A trend, I’m beginning to sense.

Once again, the technology of the past decade has let me down. I’d managed to get my old desktop working again, and a week later, it decided to take a shit on itself, and I’ve been internetless for the past two weeks and a couple days. Now it is August 30th, 2011. Better known in my household as “My 21st birthday.” I’m eating an omelette and trying desperately to remember any hint of something interesting I may have done over these past two weeks besides watch every Star Wars movie ever made.

My sister and I have been hanging out more, lately, and I’m very glad of that. We always end up spending most of the time giggling like school girls over little things that only we’d find amusing, up until she starts geeking over her latest obsession and I’m left rolling my eyes and waiting for her to pause for breath so I can dive back under the water and resume pretending to be a lost mermaid princess swimming. She and I have a scary amount in common, and we rarely have anything to do with the other’s obsessions, we’ve just always had the same basic taste in shit. Except, she’s pretty into Supernatural, and I’d usually rather not watch two pretty men dance with mythical creatures. If she reads this, she’ll probably yell at me for weeks about that.

I also attended my first meeting of the Cowford Steampunk Society, and it’s so much more relaxed and entertaining than I thought it would be. The Mayor stepped down after three years, my persona, Captain Zylphia Flint, gained employment under Lady K, and people were shooting each other from balconies, minimally trying not to hit the exhibits. (We meet in a museum.) While the physical ages ranged, the only people there you could have really called “Mature” were some of the ladies. The men and younger people all seemed to act like 12 year olds, and watching them terrorize each other with little foam darts assured me I’d found my kind of people. I even got to see a female Dread Pirate Roberts, so it all rounded out quite nicely.

Last, but most certainly NOT least, I went to audition for the haunted house I worked at last year. Got to see a few old faces, and take a peek at the selection of fresh meat we may have this year. It really is amazing the kind of people that show up to auditions for a haunted house. There were three girls that I’d have expected to pee themselves at the sight of a kid dressed in his mother’s linens, or wrapped sloppily in gauze bandages, but one of them surprised us all and bested last year’s screamer. Of course, most of the people that showed up probably weren’t Night Terrors material, but it’ll be nice to have a few new faces in the make-up room. I’m a little sick of Frankie’s smug face goading me into airbrushing genitalia onto him.

Well, there’s not a whole lot more I can write here today. I don’t have a terribly exciting life, and most of my time is spent wondering what to spend my time doing. Today, however, is my birthday, and I refuse to let this day go by unnoticed, so I’m off to lick someone’s spoons. Adieu.

Creeping out of comfort zone: 1% complete

I’m an avid believer in “If it works, don’t change it” and there are a lot of things I do that I am severely stubborn about; cutting my hair, how I dress, badgers, etc. However, a few days ago, I stepped out of my comfort zone.

I let a non-professional cut my hair.

One of my best friends is an aspiring cosmetologist, last I checked, and she’s been cutting her mother’s/sisters’/friends’/donkey’s/toothpicks’ hair for a while now, and I’m too broke to afford to go to a salon, so I called her up. Well, actually, I sent her a message on facebook, but you get my drift.

I haven’t had a haircut since April of ’09, and a good 5 inches of my hair was as dead as a politician’s soul basically just split ends. I’ve known for several months now that it would be good to get a trim and get it re-layered, but I didn’t have the money or the time, and then I forgot.

Anyway, I sent Samantha a message and asked her if she’d cut my hair, and she agreed. The next morning, though, I started to get nervous. She, by no means, has a “normal” hair cut, and, while it looks fine on her, I couldn’t help but imagine myself looking like that very disgruntled cat wearing a lime peel for a helmet.

By the time she actually got to my house to do this delicate procedure, I was almost nervous enough to be shaking. I’m very VERY vain about my hair, and the last time I let a non-professional cut my hair, it looked like one of Lady Gaga’s hairstyles had had some monstrous love child with a mullet and an 80’s do.

Of course, she neglected to tell me she wasn’t used to working with wet hair until after I’d drenched it, so that was a little nerve-wracking, and the entire time it felt like she was cutting it right next to my scalp. All I had to go on to watch her progress was a distorted shadow hovering on the wall.

Well, you remember how, in the first Harry Potter movie, Harry was sitting under the sorting hat praying it didn’t fuck his shit up? That was me while Sam was cutting my hair. I kept mumbling “Pleasebelongerthanitfeels pleasedon’tcutallmyhairoff” and hoping she didn’t suddenly sneeze or have of tourettes-esque fit of jerking and cursing, therefore making me look like I’d pissed off a bewitched lawnmower.

Once she was done cutting, I looked in the mirror and saw an immediate difference, which usually is no bueno when your hair is as curly as mine.

I let it dry, washed it, and screamed at it to dry faster before I made a solid opinion of my decision to be adventurous. (Or, as adventurous as my fragile mind will allow. Baby steps.)

Samantha, I know you’ll probably read this, and I’m not just saying this to make you feel better. I really do like it.

Conclusion: The world doesn’t end if I tell my OCD to fuck off once in a while.