Digressions

Well, it's been two weeks, my hair is not noticeably longer, but at least I don't keen every time I look in the mirror. In fact, I try not to look at my hair in the mirror much at all. It's tricky, but the human capacity to see only what one wants to see is deep and universal.

I have just a month and a half til my probation at my job ends. I am rally excited, especially since the CTA and my alarm clock are now cooperating and letting me get to work on time. That, and I've been hauling my ass out of bed a full half hour earlier in case I get stuck with the Idiot Barista at Panera for my morning mocha. Now, I have had shit jobs before, in fact that's most of them, but I would think that a requirement for a barista is that they have better hand-eye coordination that a Chevy Chase character. And know something of physical speed. Baristas should probably be paid more than they are to attract better candidates, but really, folks, this isn't hard. Coffee, chocolate, ice, milk. Mix vigorously. Panera also seems to have the same strategy for holding down personnel costs that Kohl's has, which is to grossly understaff. If this continues, the Dunkin D is actually closer to the El station, and they know how to speed things along. End of Panera bitch.

I was trying to say how things seem to be going better at work. My boss is still learning the administrative ropes, and she has to enlighten me on what on earth I'm supposed to do with all the audio books that are missing cassettes. The whole audio book story is like something out of Kafka, and it's not over yet. I feel bad for Lisieux sometimes, she's used to running her own section and leading herself, and getting treated like a cog in a wheel is proving confusing: less responsibility, less power. I hope she doesn't leave any time soon, cuz I like her. Lisieux made a cake with kickin' frosting as a thank you for something we did and brought it in. Lisieux is good in my book, even if she rewards my getting my work done with other people's work. I guess I'm just not a good socialist yet.

And I digress yet again. Work is going well, near as I can tell. I salute and execute. Books are weeded, books are processed. Holds are placed, questions of all kinds are answered politely and with a touch of humor, if possible. Hopefully, I'm not missing anything in terms of expectations from my superiors. I just can't wait for October 11th to get here, assuming the news is good.

My personal life is going fine, too. I've been boarding the train in such a way to maximize my chances of seeing a guy I knew during my time as a library intern. The last time I saw him was bittersweet, since apparently he is now affianced to the woman he was dating when we worked together. I could see the rock on her finger from halfway across the train car, and he was very attentive to her. Well, I guess I better get used to the fact that most people my age are getting married. Especially when they're cute and reliable and sweet. I suppose in five to ten years half will be back on the market, but it probably won't be the better half (no pun intended). Speaking of men from my past, another has shown up, and I think I misjudged him. He's got his faults, that's for sure, but I don't think they're the ones I thought they were. Perhaps I will be glad to be wrong. I have to think of a catchy pseudonym for him, since he didn't like the one I gave him the last time I mentioned him. Anyone got a good one for a boozing, smoking vegetarian?

I Went to Indianapolis And All I Got Was This Lousy Abortion Of A Haircut

That about sums it up. I have now discovered that nothing will make you start to feel sorry for yourself like hair butchery. I was looking forward to this weekend, despite the fact that BRD forgot when I told him a month ago that I was coming this weekend and opted to go to Geekapalooza instead, that (I suspect) one of my contacts is in Ireland and another is at an out-of-town family reunion, and my parents have their own shit to worry about. I was going to meet up with someone I hadn't seen in ages (known here as CP), and was really looking forward to seeing her right after my haircut, when my mother woke me up this morning to tell me that CP's dog was dying and had to be taken to the vet to be put down, and CP was really distraught and in no condition to do coffee. This is not such a bad thing, since it saved CP from having to watch me have a meltdown, complete with weeping, after having my hair hacked off and blow-dried back to 1986.

I confess, I am vain about my hair. No matter how much I eat or little I sleep, it still looks passable, assuming basic maintenance is performed. I hadn't had it cut since the day I got may master's degree, which is two years, seven months, and seven days ago. Needless to say, my hair was long, and the ends needed serious trimming. I felt that something shorter, say, to my shoulder blades, would be nice. The Hairdresser From Hell, came highly recommended to me by CSL, who is the friend I suspect went to Ireland this week. It's a good thing too, otherwise I'd be tempted to call her up and scream, which she probably doesn't deserve. Anyway, I conveyed my wishes to HDFH, namely, cut to about the shoulder blades, otherwise, I trust you. I should know better than to trust a man I just met. Someone needs to give MS an anatomy lesson, because the last time I checked, my shoulder blades were located on my back, not the base of my neck. I didn't realize just how short it was til I tried to run my fingers through it. It looked longer wet. This was, of course, after I tipped HDFH. I wasn't as concerned about the blow-dry style, for while it was tacky and somewhat painful to produce, I knew a judicious application of a hairbrush could set matters as right again as they're going to be for a while. So, other than bursting into tears in the parking lot, and again at home, and again at the store where I went to pick up a pet sympathy card for CP, what could I do? I brushed out my Totally 80s coif and put my chopped hair in a bun, where it will remain for a year, which is about how long it will take for my hair to grow to the length it was supposed to be today. Oh, hell, I'm tired of being civil. HDFH is Michael Stout, he works at Mane Street at 86th and Ditch, and he fucked up my hair.