Haircut & Laundry

An hour ago I was having one of those cathartic haircuts that make you feel all bright and shiny and new. I have to give my hairdresser credit for giving me a cathartic haircut while keeping my hair long. Of course, that’s also a function of the long, tangled, fried and Rapunzel-length hair I had this morning—when I looked in the mirror and wanted to tear it all out by the roots.

I still remember the most exhilarating haircut of my life, when I was 8 or 9 and I got a perfect Dorothy Hamill bowl-cut. Then we went shopping and my mom bought me a Tommy Roe record from the cut-out bin, and I went home and listened to my record over and over again and danced around and admired my bouncing hair. Such a happy little dork I was. Of course, I could never get that haircut fixed right on my own. It turned into one big cowlick.

Now I am at the laundromat, where the grouchy Norwegian man has raised his prices. Despite his new rates, he hasn’t splurged on an air conditioner or a wash cycle long enough to get your clothes clean or dryers that will get any of the lint or cat hair off of them. I can’t believe it’s June in New Orleans, it’s 92 degrees right now, and I’m SITTING IN A LAUNDROMAT WITH NO FUCKING AIR-CONDITIONING, DRINKING A LUKEWARM DIET COKE.

This is not the glamorous adulthood that the little dork was dreaming of.

Oh well, look—

8 weeks till I leave my job
9 weeks till I move
10 weeks till I start law school