Anyway. I bring you a list of what I’ve done tonight.

1. I Colored My Hair.

It’s a process.

STEP ONE involves uncapping the squirty-bottle, which, if the diagram in the coloring instructions is to be believed, should make your hands assume a weird, teacup-holding posture, despite the inelegant plastic gloves worn by the dyer. < /run-on sentence >

STEP TWO is endlessly frustrating. In this step, you pour the coloring solution into the squirty-bottle, which holds some alleged conditioning bullshit. Then, to mix the contents of the two bottles, you shake-a shake-a shake-a.

Shake-a.

SHAKE-A FUCKIN’ SHAKE-A. Dammit.

The shit doesn’t combine. You can still see wormy filaments of conditioner, anchored to the bottom of the squirty-bottle, which refuse to osmose into the coloring stuff. So, you continue to shake-a, like you’re administering a very vigorous hand-job to some poor dude who could only possibly withstand such dynamically rhythmic wrist-work if he were unconscious, shackled, or both.

STEP THREE is that in which you put the squirty-bottle, now full of a decently osmosed mixture of conditioning crap and dye solution, to use on your unsuspecting hair. You spooge that crap all over your head until all of your hair is soaked with it. If you are dying your hair RED, you can’t help but notice the mixture’s resemblance to bar-B-Q sauce. You think “Fuck it,” and massage your hair with your be-glovened hands until your whole damned head looks like a big ol’ scab.

STEP FOUR is simple. You wait, pour yourself a drink, wait a bit more, and pour yourself another drink.

STEP FIVE is the rinse process.

This is fun, if you’re patient and can separate yourself from your body to enjoy the empirical process of flooding your hair “until the water runs clear.” (That, by the way, is a huge joke. Your hair-towels will still be absorbing redness for a week.)

You look down at the water running under your feet, and laugh, because it kind of looks like you’ve had a uterine hemhorrage. You rinse-a rinse-a rinse-a until the red tide abates.

If you’re dying your hair brunette, I imagine the water turns a fervent shit-color, making you doubt the health of your digestive tract. If you’re going blonde, maybe the stuff coasts down your back, melting acidic rivulets through your flesh. HOTT! If you’re doing some combination of more imaginative punk colors, I hope you experiment with the finger-painty Rorshach patterns you can bleed out of your head. (I really have to try that the next time I’m not working in an office environment.)

In the meantime, though, you play with the splatter-patterns created by the dye on the shower tiles. You flip your head back and forth, and notice that it makes your bathroom look like the colorized version of “Psycho,” if such a thing exists. You congratulate yourself, yet again, for having a glossy of screaming Janet Leigh, pre-dramatized-“Psycho”-stabbing, on your bathroom wall.

See?

Man, are you cool.

The rinsing takes a while, especially if you have thick, spongy, frizzy, Janis Joplinny hair like mine. So, to pass the time, you sing. A lot.

If you’re me, you opt for your favorite Tom Waits sad ballads, including “Who Are You,” “Ruby’s Arms,” and "On the Nickel." Ahhhh. Maybe you endeavour a bit of Jeff Buckley, who really must’ve been a castrati. (Oh, Jeff. I would’ve loved you, anyway, scrotum or no scrotum.)

The water finally runs as clear as it’s gonna for the next few days.

So, you CONDITION, and sing some more.

Next,

EMERGE AS A REDHEAD! When your hair is finally dry, if you’re me, you notice that again there’s a stubborn patch of hair right in the middle of your hairline, the roots of which refuse to dye.

You decide that if anyone asks about it, (which no one will,) you will tell them it’s a mutation, reminiscent of where your horn should be, inherited from your ancestors who used to be unicorns. You take for granted that anyone who asks, (again, that won’t happen,) won’t know that mutations aren’t hereditary.

REVEL IN THE REPLENISHED SHININESS AND FUME-EXCUDANCE OF YOUR HAIR. Really. Enjoy.

The end.

2. I watched the newest The Stepford Wives..

It’s not brilliant, but it’s a decent update of the original. I don’t think anyone of my generation can watch the original version without thinking it’s a little dated, which is a totally moot point.

I like Nicole Kidman. I notice, however, that the only movies in which she attempts an American accent, are comedies. Seems to me, when non-Americans try the accent, unless it’s a colloquial accent like that from the deep south or Brooklyn or something, their words sound more forced and harsh than they should. It’s not terrible, and certainly not as comparatively offensive as when we Americans attempt British accents,* but something’s off. It’s hard to listen to prolonged monologues when an actor sounds like he/she is thinking too hard, or constipated.

3. I Watched Conan O’Brien …

… who still doesn’t know that he’s my boyfriend, as evidence by the fact that he’s married and has a kid.

Among his other virtues, Conan always has much better musical guests than any of his late-night counterparts. I love him. LOVE. His musical tastes smack so soundly of Cambridge, MA, and of his Alma Mater, Harvard. (Blah, blah, blah.)

4. I Watched Goddamned Carson Daly.

I used to despise Mr. Daly with the red-hot passion of a million angry hells, but that hatred has waned. He’s not my favorite, but he makes fun of himself in a way that I respect. He acknowledges the fact that he, a generic frat-boy, totally fell into this crazy life in which he’s idealized by sexxy teeny-boppers, makes wads of cash, and parties with celebrities whom he can call friends. And, that’s fine.

Tonight, he’s interviewing Michael Stipe, who seems as unaware as Conan as to his devotion to me. What the hell? Just because he’s sexually ambiguous and probably bones Patti Smith? (I don’t care what you say about her age and skeletal status, Patti Smith is HOT, and could rock anyone’s world.)

I’m not even a huge Stipe fan. There’s just something ridiculously appealing about him.

5. I Went To Bed.

G’night.

* When I was in London, I acted in a play with the University College London Drama Club. There, I learned that an American badly attempting a British accented is called a “Dick Van Dyke,” in reference to said actor's caricatured “Chim-Chimmery” cockney in “Mary Poppins.”

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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