Why I'd Rather Go to the Dentist Than the Hair Stylist

I'm going to be honest. I do not give anything resembling a damn about hairstyles. I'm not sure if that makes me unpatriotic or what. When people talk about waking up three hours early to straighten or curl their hair, I throw little funerals for the hours of excellent sleep they missed. When my grandmother gives me hair care products I try to see what the chemicals will do to the insects I find on the sidewalk (hydrogen peroxide on slugs...do it.) I think about hair in the way that the average American thinks about Iraq: infrequently, impatiently, and with less interest or focus than I give to the latest diet fad (seriously, soy-free, dairy-free, egg-free, wheat-free food is not food, now is it?)

No. No it isn't.

 However, recently I began to notice that the long(ish) hair hanging in my face all day meant horribly complicated things like brushing, blow drying, and styling. I was having to wake up a full five minutes before I stumbled out the door in the morning (not because I go to work or anything, but because I'm usually still hungover and accidentally in someone else's house.) I found this unacceptable as did, I might add, my mother (although possibly for different reasons.)

Enter the convenient trend that gives tribute to Rosemary's Baby without having to sacrifice embryos to the devil: the Pixie Cut. I love the Pixie Cut. I would like to French kiss Tinkerbell for introducing it to us (but not the one from the Disney movie, where she inexplicably had long hair, since obviously Disney hated freedom.)

Seriously, what is this shit?

The Pixie Cut is all about looking sexy without working at all. It is the simple solution for people like me who have flat, thin, straight hair and yet have never felt the urge to pump it full of steroids and try to get it its own reality show just to make it feel better about itself. Waking up late in the morning? Comb it for two seconds. Forgot your comb? People will think you messed it up on purpose to look cool. Can't find a hand towel? There's a perfect one right on the top of your skull. There is no going wrong.

Except.

Except that for some reason this sort of thing never goes right for me. Let's start at the beginning. Feeling I ought to do it right, I go to a salon where they ask me what I would like as far as a "look." This is what I had feared. A personal opinion of mine that would quite probably lead to tears. I had been hoping that I would walk through the door and be accosted by women in smocks who would tackle me to the floor, grab my hair and say, "This hair has got to go! Get this woman's head under an emergency upside-down strainer or we're going to lose her!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but it...doesn't look good."

But no. These people think that I know what I want. If they had known that I am a 23 year old with a B.A. in English, they never would have assumed that I know what I'm doing. So the woman asks, all smiles, what it is that I'm looking for. I, of course, gesture helplessly at my hair and just sort of say: "See this? Less of this."

Then I begin to worry that she might mistake such detailed instructions, so I say, "But not too short. I still want to look feminine." Which is something I haven't remotely resembled since the third grade. So this woman already has a task in front of her.

So then she makes her mistake. She hands me a stack of magazines and asks me to leaf through pictures of airbrushed plastic and ask me which starlet Barbie doll I would like to resemble. This has immediately given me false hope, as though perhaps she'd just offered me plastic surgery instead of four inches less hair. Suddenly the possibilities are endless! Clearly my problem isn't that I don't Photoshop my skin enough or bathe in big bathtubs full of foreign currency--it's that my hair is just too darn long.

Or possibly that I don't move in slow motion enough.

 So I pick a picture of a woman who looks like she spends more time grooming her two inches of hair than I will raising my own children. Perfect. Off we go. The woman gives my scalp an unnecessary and entirely erotic massage. Then I perch in the old sit-and-spin and try not to look in the mirror as the woman gives me an insanely long haircut. I don't look in the mirror because I know that inevitably I will change my mind halfway through, have an enormous panic attack, and start desperately trying to glue chunks of my hair back on. So I don't look, and I keep in mind the sexy, sexy celebrities that I will obviously resemble after a short amount of time.

So when I'm done with my appointment, I imagine that I am going to look something like this:

Sexy lips and all.

Unfortunately, as I'm sure you probably could have guessed, the whole thing turned out looking a lot more like this...

Above: My high school yearbook picture

I wish I were kidding. I look like Justin Bieber. I'm not sure if that makes me a tom boy or a really really girly girl. Either way, I'm looking into the most dignified forms of suicide. At least when you go to the dentist you're expecting to be orally violated and to experience a lot of pain. Somehow, with hair stylists, I never see it coming.

Temptation

"If thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be made bread."

"Dude. I'm a Celiac."

Breaking News!

Pastafarianism Accused of "Gluten Intolerance"
Associated Press, Chicago


Pastafarianism. Originally intended as a satire against the inclusion of intelligent design in public school curricula, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (FSM) has morphed into a sect wherein members may unite and oppose the teaching of creationism.

While The Flying Spaghetti Monster has long been considered an ironic parody of the exclusivity and oppression associated with mainstream religious groups, this week it has been accused of a surprising charge: bigotry.

  
Walter Cronkite Jr. reported this week that the Celiac Association of the National Territories for the Elevation of Atheism and Tolerance (CANTEAT) has threatened to sue the church of Pastafarianism for making them feel unwelcome. 

Many members of CANTEAT who attempted to join the Church of the Flying Spaghetti monster felt that they were being purposely oppressed, since they cannot ingest wheat, rye or barley without severe intestinal issues.

"I was really into the idea of Pastafarianism at first," CANTEAT member Pat Douglas said in a tearful interview. "But once I realized that the Flying Spaghetti monster was made entirely out of wheat noodles, I just couldn't support it. How can you worship a deity that gives you a case of the runs every time you even look at it?" 

Douglas admitted that he felt excluded by the FSM members because they would take part in weekly spaghetti dinners, often intoning "This is my body, eat it in memory of me." 

Former FSM member and current CANTEAT chairwoman Mary Feldman admitted to feeling as though there was prejudice against her for her dietary beliefs. "I'm into making fun of religions and mocking their rituals and all that, but the use of gluten-filled noodles seemed really unnecessarily hateful." Feldman added that she felt particularly alone since "atheists don't often have get-togethers."

There is no word on whether the FSM church will pay for emotional damages among its former members, or if they will instead switch to gluten-free noodles made of rice or quinoa. Church president Bobby Henderson was unavailable for comment.

My Sad Attempt at LOLCats

Seriously, this thing lives near me. I'm not trying to make a statement or anything, but dear God, if you're building a church, try not to give it chomping teeth and eye windows that follow you everywhere as you run like hell down the street. The hardest part of this was trying to figure out how to misspell everything correctly. No idea how I did, there, but I think it might have given me a seizure.

There's No Reading in the House

     A few summers ago, my family and I went on vacation to Washington D.C. Having been no farther east than the Mississippi river, I suppose it was unsurprising that I felt like a huge frickin' tourist in a place that should, ideally, feel comforting and welcoming to every citizen in this country. Obviously, this sentiment identifies me as an insanely liberal nutjob, and quite possibly a terrorist.


    For a few days we went along the hamster wheel, riding the metro, visiting museums, waiting in line after line just to see money being made (depressing) and the original C3PO suit (totally worth it.) Finally, we made our way to the House of Representatives.

   Now, let me just say that the House of Representatives must be in constant danger of violation and defilement, because it had on the biggest chastity belt of all time. Only a handful of people were allowed in the building at once, and it had to be at a certain time. We went through airport-level security twice, and my camera was confiscated. Because, as you know, no one has ever photographed the elusive House of Representatives.

Pictured here.

In fact, until I saw it with my own eyes, I was quite certain it was a rumor.

    When we finally got in, the House was empty. Slow day for legislation and all that, or else there was a Congressional kegger we'd missed on our way over. I hadn't exactly expected to see history being made, but it was a bit of a letdown. Still, we sat in the balcony of that capacious justice stadium, just to imagine that we contributed to the way the country was run.

    Here I should mention Younger Brother, who is a huge nerd. Older sisters are, by law, required to think so, but Younger Brother is a history buff to a disturbing level. For instance: he gets all of the jokes in Hark, a Vagrant. For instance: His idea of a good game is seeing who can list all the U.S. presidents, in order, in the shortest amount of time. (I got five. To be fair, though, it was enjoyable, because I turned it into a drinking game! Good luck not taking shots when it comes to Taylor!)

Who? Oh, right.

     So, as we lounged in that sacred space of freedom and such, Younger Brother decided that it would Super Awesome to see who could list all the amendments in the Bill of Rights. I agreed to it, even though the House of Representatives' security people made it clear to me that I was not to turn this into a drinking game. As I stammered hopefully through my first guess, ("Thou shalt not... bear arms against Jesus?") Younger Brother whipped out his pocket Constitution (See what I mean? Nerd.) in order to judge me.

    Younger Brother is extremely proud of this Constitution. It goes everywhere with him. It is mostly worn down to tissue paper by now. It has taken on the shape of his butt. He basically has it memorized. What better place to use and peruse it than here? When he pulled it out, I half expected it to glow and for the Zelda "You Did It!" music to start playing.

   Clearly, though, I don't enjoy irony the way that the Universe does. No sooner had the tattered little book made its appearance, then a burly security guard materialized before our eyes. I had a brief, terrifying moment of wondering if the Constitution had been legally banned. In retrospect, that still seems like the least surprising option. The man loomed over Younger Brother with his starched blue uniform, radio, baton, and deep displeasure.

      "There's no reading in the House."

     Seriously, I could not write a better punchline than that. There were a few ill-advised chuckles on my family's part, to which the guard was apparently immune. I knew that Candid Camera had been dead and buried for a mercifully long time, but I still wondered for a moment. Finally, Younger Brother found his words.

      "But...it's just the Constitution. We're looking at the amendments." You know, because they're really important to know. Especially here, seemed implied. He looked at the guard, hoping for some acknowledgement. As though there may have been a misunderstanding, and the guard only came to us because he thought we were reading smutty romance novels, erotic Harry Potter fan fiction, or worse, Twilight. The man stood patiently for Younger Brother's stammered explanations with the unrelenting inflexibility of a cop who is definitely going to give you a ticket but still asks "Is there a reason you were going that fast?"

"Go ahead. Convince me."

     "There's no reading in the House," the guard repeated, and waited until Younger Brother put that Constitution back where it belonged, i.e. closed and in his butt pocket. As the forefathers decreed.

Then he left.

     I suddenly realized that four years of learning to write theses, essays, rhetoric and arguments had not prepared me for illogic of this magnitude. I had found nothing to say to this man to defend our right to read the fucking Constitution. It wasn't that I didn't have persuasive arguments, it was that I knew he was going to be completely unreasonable. Whatever I said would register as a simple, blinking "Noncompliance" on the computer monitor that was his brain. I probably would have gotten us kicked out.

     I guess it's a good thing that I was surprised into silence, because what I probably would have said is, "Way to encourage kids to stay knowledgeable about our government, our rights and our history. Asshole." I kind of wish I had said it, and then maybe round-house kicked him in the face.

As our forefathers decreed.

    I still haven't come up with a reason why the rule even existed. To keep people from hanging out all day in the House of Representatives with a good novel? If you want to prevent loitering, just limit the amount of time a person can visit. I could have asked the guard, but all he would have said was, "There's no reading in the House."

    This will be our downfall. Unlike Orwell's vision of laws being subtly changed to suit the powerful, the laws will remain the same. They will be preserved in beautiful white sarcophagi that we are forbidden to open. The problem with us is that we don't ask questions. I'm sure that guard didn't ask why he had to tell us to stop reading. I didn't ask why we couldn't. We're used to signs that say "No public restroom," "No shirt, no shoes, no service," "Walgreens is not liable for your car being broken into and peed on while you bought milk." Stated rules like this allow people to be unkind and inflexible. They encourage it. It becomes easy to say, "Sorry, it's not my decision. It's company policy."

"Sorry sir, your insurance does cover axe wounds, but not that brand."

   This apathy and rigidness when it comes to basic human courtesy means that you can't be given treatment if you don't have insurance. You can't get that refund if you don't have the receipt. No one will help you unless they are given specific instruction to do so in their employee handbook.

That doesn't seem like the ideal this country was founded on, but then again, I'm not allowed to check. There's no reading in the House.

The Lifecycle of a Miscellaneous Screw

Excedera

Hey! Do you have trouble keeping your anal retention at a minimum? Are you constantly correcting other people's grammar and pronunciation? Do you freak out a little bit every time you hear the letter "X" inserted into a word  that hasn't been near the end of the alphabet?
Be honest: Is this you?

 

What Your Political Bumper Sticker Is Actually Doing

So you're cruising down the highway in your sporty little red Miata, and there's what has to be an old person in a biege Toyota driving the speed limit in the left-hand lane. You're pretty sure you're required by law not only to pass him, but to cut him off and tap the brakes just to make him pay for abiding the law and all that crap.

As he blares his horn at you, you feel the tiniest bit of remorse. But don't worry, it's a momentary thing, because you have your POLITICAL BUMPER STICKER working for you! It really doesn't matter what party you go for. In your head, it always goes something like this:

(YES, that's what I think a Miata looks like. Sorry.)

When to Move From the Left Lane to the Right on the Interstate

Add caption

Harry Potter and the Unaddressed Plotholes

      Please don't misunderstand me. Harry Potter is a fantastically droll and intricately designed story. However, because it is such a widely read and insanely well-praised book, it should be held up to closer scrutiny than it has before. These are six things that I must have put more thought into than J.K Rowling ever did.

1. The Trace

When J.K. (as in “Just Kidding, Harry doesn't really die) Rowling introduced the concept of the Trace in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, it was clear that she didn't really understand the rules for her own magical universe. (“How about, if Harry uses magic, all the car alarms in a 50 mile radius go off?”)

When Dobby uses magic to levitate a pudding in the Dursley household, Harry gets a warning that threatens expulsion the next time he crosses the line. Fine. We can ignore for the moment that magic is less precise than a GPS unit or the kind of tracking device you put in your pet.

If you hate them.

The problem isn't so much that the magic is vague and imprecise, the problem is that the magic is inconsistent.

Let's fast-forward to the fifth book (Harry Potter, the Angsty Little Bitch) where Harry has been expelled (this time for actually doing magic.) He is warned by several adult authority figures not to do any further magic under any circumstances. 

Except, you know, special occasions

Death and Ataxia

       I am not particularly looking forward to death. 

       Many times in my life, actually, I have sincerely prayed that I do not die before a certain event happens. Mostly around things with a lot of hype, like the seventh Harry Potter book and the Lord of the Rings movies. Once upon a time I prayed that I would live long enough to see the Star Wars prequels, but now when I think of those I often have a change of heart.

 I probably should have been sufficiently warned by the Star Wars Christmas Special

What I'm saying is that unless I was someone really unfortunate, like the Elephant Man or Stephenie Meyer, I would never feel good about the possibility of being deceased.

            Or so I thought.

The thing is, I think all of us feel like there are certain situations where we're glad we'll be dead, because it saves us effort and energy in the now. For instance...