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Jett Superior laid this on you on || October 11, 2006 || 11:06 pm

Guitars and restless hair: I am a child of the seventies.

One of the ways I was blessed in life was to receive the Good Hair Gene from my father. His whole side of the family: Hair of wildly varying lengths and natural colors, but great heads of it, bouncing, shining and following direct orders.

So lucky me, I got Responsive Tresses and a good load of it to boot.

Last year it hung in a mass, kicking here and yon, down my back. I grew it out specifically to whack it all off and send it to Locks of Love. Plus, isn’t there some unwritten law that says if you are not a Hollywood screen-prowler then it’s rather a faux pas to gad about in shoulderblade-length hair past the age of forty? I mean, I’m not terribly close to forty, but I am closer than when I was twenty. By my astute (though mathtardly) calculations, that gives me only a handful of opportunities to grow it long between now and then.

So yeah, grew it out, cut it up to shoulders and just a wee bit beyond; now I am about thirty-six hours from going under the shears again. The plan is something short (ish) and shaggy-messy. Feeling oddly sentimental tonight, I pulled out the lemon yellow velcro rollers and assembled sculpture of (various) plastic(s) and keratin about mine cranium. The velcro roller is yea and verily the halo of the common, ground-dwelling angel. Take note, all ye mortal maletypes.

I painstakingly applied somewhere in the neighborhood of three dozen rollers to my head. Slice out a strand, apply gel to same, wind around a roller. Repeat, repeat, repeat repeatrepeatrepeat. Mother Louise! Can you believe I had the patience for such? I mean seriously, if you’ve been around these parts for some time, can you imagine?

I got all this hair on top of my head and decided I’d get some writing done. Longing for the fantastic caress of my most favorite, floppy-soft grey hoody, I dug into the closet. I emerged, some two minutes later, a mess of rollers and hair sticking out of the neck hole. Also, if memory serves, I was making little noises of sadness and disappointment (however creepy that may be to you, fine and fair reader).
I made my way over to the bed, where I expressed my mild sadness to Maxim.

“Baby,” he said, mingling exasperation and amusement well, “you didn’t think about this before getting all those rollers in your hair??”

“NO,” I tried to be heard through the mess of shirt, “who thinks about what shirt you might wear after the rollers go in. Who thinks about that?

“Well, there’s only one thing for it: I’ll take ‘em out.”

“Why don’t you just get another shirt?”

“‘Cos this one is the one for my skin tonight. I’m taking ‘em out.”

You did all that work. All that was for nothing.” Sort of baffled-sounding.

“It wasn’t for nothing, silly. I learned that you can’t fit a head full of rollers through a hoody-hole. That’s something.”

Hair’s hanging in wet waves around my face now, comfortable and happy enough.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Once upon the first couple of years of a marriage, a wife approached her bassgod husband, lusting knowledge for her fingers. The fingers wanted a great deal to abuse and caress, in turns, a bass guitar. There had always been something feral and appealing about that instrument, and her eyeballs glowed (a glow that originated somewhere around the vicinity of her toes, picked up steam roundabout the pelvis, and pulsed in her chest) every time she thought of even standing, prepared to play, with the great thing slung about her torso.

As you may have guessed, that wife was me. Maxim always kind of brushed this aside. Come to think of it, each request brought some redirecting gift: mic, new stand, and one time even one of these:


I don’t have any idea why his behavior was what it was. I never really took offense, so it wasn’t important to ask.

Lately I’ve again taken to the notion of picking up a bass. I approached Maxim with this delicious idea one more time, and he seemed very enthused at the notion. I dunno what’s happened in the ensuing years, but at this point in the game he has decided it would indeed be smoking hot to teach his determined wife how to thump and pop like I’ve been doing that shit from the cradle. And well, wicked.

*rock fist aloft*

2 worked it out »

  1. del 10.17.2006

    you may or may not know what johnette napiltano (concrete blonde, which btw was named by michael stipe of rem) decided to play the base and sing… “If sting could do it….(play the base) how hard could it be?”

     
  2. c 10.17.2006

    it’s never too late to rock

     

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