*snip, snip*

November 15, 2010

Hello. I got a haircut.

Now, you probably have a picture of me in your mind at this point if you have been ‘following’ me or whatever. In one person’s mind I might be a sneaky chimney sweep with long black hair and ghostly eyes, while another person may picture me as a fat sports fan with no hair and no eyes. I still won’t bother to tell you what I look like, but now that I have informed you of my haircut, you may now take whatever picture of me that you have conceived, and simply picture him (or her?!) with shorter hair (or, if you pictured me before as bald, picture me now with the top of my head removed, so that you can see my brain).

I don’t exactly adore they way I look after a haircut, but it serves it’s purpose of restraining my little forest. You may not like me using the word “forest” to describe hair. If it makes you feel any better, I hire well-trained mini-soldiers to hunt down all the critters in my forest, so that no sounds come from my head when I don’t want them to.

I never really enjoyed getting haircuts themselves, either. For one thing, my hair always turns out just right the day I get a haircut, most unlike the days in which important events take place, when I am actually required to look halfway decent. This makes me angry and gives me a sense of regret…

Also, when my haircut is done, I feel all itchy and weird. Whenever I touch anywhere from my shoulders up, I get little pieces of hair on my hands. When I take a shower, I touch my head and am shocked at the lack of hair there. Likewise, whenever I grab the back of my neck because of embarrassment on not being able to explain why something incredibly wild happened (this happens quite often), I feel -or rather, I don’t feel- the the hair there. This puts my mind in a worse state of stupidity than it usually already is.

Yet another annoying thing about getting a haircut is that the snipper (or snipperette, as I call the ladies) makes sure that the whole experience feels rather like a trip to the psychologist than a trip to get one’s head shaved. Especially when you are a child, they will ask pestering questions like “Why aren’t you smiling??” and “So what’s going on with your life?!”.  And of course the inevitable “How’s school going?”. I imagine the answers to all of these questions are generally the same for most people (“Good.” “Yes…” “Good.” Yeah pretty much….”).

And then, just to add a final insult to you, they get your haircut wrong. And that is why I love getting my hair cut.

I was on facebook today, and saw something that was quite funny. A girl had taken a quiz called “What kind of flirt are you?”. But what was funnier still was that it kept popping up, showing different results for her every time. I guess she didn’t stop until she was affirmed by the almighty facebook that she was, indeed, the kind of flirt that she perceived herself to be. How insecure she must be to do that; indeed, how insecure anyone must be to take a quiz on facebook that actually tells you who you are (much less something as petty as what kind of flirt you are)! …As if people don’t already have enough things telling them who they are. Even though we seem to have the choice here in America to become what we wish to become, we really don’t give ourselves, or each other a good chance to do anything but what the media or our ‘friends’ tells us (or implies) we can do.

A couple days ago in English class, we got our papers back. What papers, you may ask (or not care about but I’m going to tell you about it anyways)? 4-page essays on the play The Crucible, by Aurthur Miller. It was not a very good book at all, but my class had fun acting it out and making fools of ourselves like we do on a daily basis. The movie wasn’t all that great either. I actually think that I played John Proctor’s part better in the classroom than did the actor in the movie. That isn’t a compliment to myself, by the way; it means almost nothing. There was one part in my paper where my teacher wrote in red ink: “This sentence doesn’t flow really well.”. I gladly pointed out to her that instead, she should have written “This sentence doesn’t flow very well.”.

…That’s called an oxymoronic situation, ENGLISH TEACHER! Bwahaha.

I have one more thing to say until you read a very ill-conceived poem that I wrote.

Whenever I write something in italics, I write the word. Here is an example: word

…But after I write the italicized word, a great turmoil fills my heart. It is a fiery battle within the depths of my soul. The horrible stress and relentless tension that develops within the darkest pits of my inmost being are all over one question that I have always had:

When I type out a SPACE in italics, is the SPACE any different than it would be if it were in regular print?!?!?!!

…I doubt anyone will ever uncover that mystery. Oh, well. Here’s my ill-conceived poem that I promised you.

Oh possum, Opossum…

Why dost thou chooseth to thrash…

…IN MY TRASH?!?

You had better get out…

And scurry on out!

…Or it will be your head

…That I bash.

THE END!


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One Response to “*snip, snip*”

  1. Christina said

    You are a pure genius and I am in awe of your wordsmithing capabilities.

    The space is nothing special.
    The space is nothing special.

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