Thursday, March 31, 2011

In Which I Cry A Lot

I was told today by two of the most morally bankrupt, universally hated people I know that I have a bad attitude and poor work ethic. I'm going to choose to view this as a compliment!


So, yeah, my day was full of suck wherein I silently took a great deal of undeserved abuse mostly centered around my character, something I can not, and should not, have to change and then I cried all over my clients. I pride myself on my professionalism, but today I didn’t have it in me to be stoic and had a wee moment of vulnerability. I was pleasantly reminded that while the world is full of horrible people, it is equally filled with kind hearts and soft shoulders on which to cry and maybe wipe your nose a bit. My clients are wonderful.

After bawling and venting and being genuinely confused by human nature, I came home and watched the amazing Vlog Brothers on the Youtubes and was cheered immensely. By immensely I mean I stopped dripping on the keyboard and was able to eek out that little crooked half choked smile you get when you’re crying but want to smile and it gets stuck half way in between.

Today I was also reminded of the blessing great fathers provide. My step-father, on discovering from my mother the pile of suck I was mired in and from whom the mire was originating from, rushed to my place of work to offer a hug and the promise of physical violence to any and all that dare make his daughter cry. He didn’t say this in so many words, but the vein pulsing in his forehead spoke volumes.

The reason this small act means so much to me is that my birth father is a horrible little bully of a man similar to the one I had to cower to today. And actually looking back I now realize that the horrible man today used physical intimidation by invading my space with a truly creepy and victorious look in his eye that I wasn’t afraid of then, but oh god looking back I should have been. That doesn’t say much for my survival instincts. New York here I come! Is that a kitten in your van, mister!? Is that… Is that CANDY?!

My step-father/best most amazing man ever gave me the comfort and strength I needed to get through today, along with my mother who TWEETED for the first time to tell me to inform said bullies to “go straight to hell”. Ah I loves her.

And with that love and support I was able to move past the shame that others had tried to force upon me and realize that, ya know what, I’m awesome. And I plan to make something of myself. Actually, I plan to make a whole hell of a lot of myself and do whatever it takes to get as far away from hatred and drama and negativity as possible. That isn’t me. I’m a mellow, relaxed woman who’s passionate about my work and my education and who refuses to be squashed by soulless monsters out to hurt those they’re either threatened by or who confuse them. I will use their negativity to fuel the rocket ship I’m using to get to the top and may the flames fry off their eyebrows.

I know that I have the support of some pretty amazing people and while I may not get to speak to them as often as I’d like, or live near them to give them the hugs they deserve every day, their approval means more to me than anyone else’s disapproval. One of whom is one of the most well regarded stylists in the country. He said I’m pretty good. I’ll take that.

Also, we got puppies! In our family apparently a crap day equals puppies! Welcome Butter and Mocha to the herd.






On that note I will remind all of you of the Vlog Brother’s motto: Don’t Forget To Be Awesome.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

I'm like totally awesome

In this week’s blog, I would like to delve into the world of coolness and how I have none.

Recently I’ve started almost looking for salons in New York to work for. I say almost, because I loathe job hunting. I suppose I’ve been very lucky over the years to have been sought out at all of my places of employment and have only sent out one actual resume. I wanted so badly to work in Ozark’s only cool clothing store. I was not offered a position. I am afraid I will also be denied employment at the tragically hip salon my friend suggested I check out.

The salon is called Revolver and they have several shops around New York and most conveniently a salon in the immediate area where we are planning to live. I put off checking them out for a few days, dragging my feet and hemming and hawing, only to be proven correct in that, oh wow, this may not be the place for me.

It’s not that Revolver isn’t amazing because it seems like they are. The mega nifty moving illustration they have at the top of their webpage makes my knees sweat. It’s not that they don’t offer to clients all of the services in which I specialize because they do that as well. The prices are pleasantly high without being utterly outrageous. My friend also said that they have a wonderful energy and seem to genuinely care about the client and each other which is something that is very important to me.

On the surface, Revolver seems like a perfect fit. The only thing is, I’m a dork. Normally I kind of own this. I’m not ashamed to wear my Monty Python’s The Holy Grail t-shirt with obscure references. So what if I sport the same pair of beat up leather Chuck Taylors to work every day because they’re ergonomic and I have high arches. I may have also spent a large chuck of Wednesday night on Twitter constructing a make believe Star Wars alternative reality involving figure skaters as the main characters. I know what an MMORPG is. While all of these lovely quirks were once a badge of pride, I am now forced to see them as they are: badges of dorkdom.

Of course, I must not limit myself to only one choice for employment. I’m sure there are other hip salons willing to hire a five year stylist who has been working in the same salon in the same tiny town since forever. But oh boy, this place looks really keen. It’s always possible that they’ll look past my massive lack of experience or impressive references to the inner me that I’m obviously going to have to make up to get the job.

I’ve never had to create a persona before. I mean, what should I wear? Do I have to take off my Family Guy shirt? Do I need to buy Louboutins? Do I get points for knowing what a Louboutin is?

I suppose it comes down to whether or not I have the balls to simply be myself and hope that what I have to offer is enough or be realistic and realize that I am woefully inadequate in the awesome department and work at a Fantastic Sams.  Is being cool something that can be learned?  Maybe I can find a how-to book.

Or not...

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Pageantry and Facedesking

This week was interesting. By interesting I mean really unpleasant! But as any good artist knows, I am going to turn my pain into your entertainment. I'm like Taylor Swift only with less sex appeal.


For those of you who go to hairstylists, which I assume is the majority of humanity, may I request on behalf of your loyal hairdresser to PLEASE call 24 hours in advance of your bailing on us and ruining our day. Eight no shows this week. Silver lining, I did get a lot of reading done. Glass half full. Of booze.

And speaking of hair and silver linings, I assisted a lovely girl named Victoria in her high school pageant last weekend. And we WON! Yes, I say “we”. Don’t judge me. She and I have done this bloody high school pageant for years always placing in the top three, but never winning. Well, we aren’t losers anymore!


Victoria Victorious

Helping Victoria and other girls with their various school, fair, chili cook-off, and motorcycle club pageants is the closest I’ve ever come to such a spectacle. Actually, while I was in school I don’t recall realizing such things existed. Of course, I knew what Miss Ozark High School was, but as far as having friends that participated or, shudder to think, myself competing, it was well beyond me. Not my kind of crowd. That I now lend a hand to girls in what I had before thought of as a meat parade is just zany. I have also come to find that they’re actually quite fun! As long as your girl isn’t a bitch. Important fact: you definitely want to work with Miss Congeniality.

In preparation for the event, the girls had practiced for weeks on their walks and… twirls and… Ok, honestly I’m just there for the hair. All that other business is still a mystery to me and can remain as such. Though my impact is relatively small, I still get dreadfully nervous before an event and I have to remind myself that they’re the ones up on stage being judged and smiling so hard you can hear their makeup crack. Mind you, they’re up on stage with my hair on their heads. One misplaced bobby pin and the entire thing explodes. Judges loose eyes, the girl stumbles off stage in humiliation. Yeah, no pressure on me at all.

This year was a bit different. For whatever reason, the other girls apparently decided that fixing their hair or even brushing their hair, putting on their makeup neatly, bathing, and so forth, were not requirements. I have never seen a motlier group of girls. One of the poor things had all three of her sisters working on her, each one looking like a freshly released inmate from Alcatraz. Another had decided to eschew Spanx for saran wrap. One young lady was complaining about her shift at Hooters. At any moment I was waiting for girls to start hiking up their dresses to flash their tattoos. Oh wait, the girl from Hooters did just that. It was a butterfly. Very sophisticated.

So there I am, quietly spraying my girls boobs with Elmer’s craft glue to keep her dress in place thinking, “These hoes are going down.” For once my bitchy inner monologue was correct! Victoria sashayed to the top and won with flying colors. I almost felt sorry for the other girls. Almost. Remembering all the years of nasty looks I’ve endured from the other stylists (a term I use loosely in regard to family being employed to assist), the heartbreak of first runner-up, and watching girls with more money and political pull win over the less socially adept beauties I stopped feeling quite so sympathetic.

I’m going to choose to hold this memory to my heart and pretend the rest of the week didn’t happen. For photographic evidence, please check out my Facebook Album and notice the wee “like” from Mr. Eric Alt, my stylist hero. That alone kinda made my month.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Oh it's all so bad

It has been a very rough couple of days.  This blog's intention is to share with you what it takes for a small town girl to move her entire life to New York. That should entail full disclosure. The good, the bad, and the fashionably crippled. Sometimes it isn't all good.  Sometimes even being fashionably crippled seems like a minor annoyance and if you know me, that big annoyance would have to be pretty huge to make fashion an afterthought.

As a matter of fact, the annoyance is quite large.  My move is hitting some snags.  Unavoidable and truly no ones fault, but there they are.  Big ugly snags.  Moving may be delayed by a month, possibly more, possibly less.  Everything is up in the air, a state that I loathe. 

But as with all things, something beautiful may come out of something ugly.  This unraveling has shown me that I am not taking nearly enough responsibility for my own life.  One of the many things that endless hours of therapy has taught me is that we all must depend on ourselves first because when it comes down to it, we are all that we've got.  So to regain a sense of self, I’m going to start working harder on facing my fears and being responsible for my own life.

After taking a long walk today, letting my ears rest from phones and television, the pervasive hum of the computer, I was able to ask myself what was really upsetting me.  I’m moving to a city that I love to live with a friend I adore.  What’s not to love about that?  No, I will not be familiar with my surroundings, but I will be in time.

I have lived a fishbowl my entire life.  Ozark is all I have ever known.  This small town and its inhabitants and my family are the only people I’ve spent a great deal of time with.  I haven’t had that time to wean myself by moving to a city that’s not too close and not too far to start anew like most people.  At 27, I am coming to a phase in my life that most people meet ten years prior.  With me though, that’s par for the course.  For whatever reason I have always seemed to come to things later than others.  I am a wonderful one for avoidance.  Only I can’t do that any more.  Not and be able to move forward in the direction I want my life to take.

In facing my fears I realize that they are relatively minor.  For someone with phobias it is harder, but perspective is important.  Of course, with the tragedy in Japan and the Middle East, worrying about where you’re going to work or when you're going to arrive in an unfamiliar city seems beyond trivial.  None the less, it is my life and it is immediate to me.  And again, my fears can be summed up as where am I going to work and live in one of the greatest cities on earth.  As far as fears go, that’s not too bad.  The more frightening aspect of how I plan to support myself and what will I do if I’m faced with going this alone are very difficult for me to confront and would scare anyone.  I imagine.  I mean, honestly, I do not want to have to go buy that duck.

So yeah as soon as I figure all this mess out I’ll let you know.  Ugh, how horrible and serious.  I can’t end on this note.  Here, watch something irreverent!  That has to do with hair!  Sort of!

Do not try this at home.  Please.  I need a job.

Friday, March 11, 2011

How to fail in business without really trying and a bug story


For those of you who don’t know, as of a month ago I started working at a second salon, The Purple Door.  It involves a terrifying 45 minute drive, schlepping my extensive haircolor accoutrement and tools in a giant suitcase, and the mild irritation of my first boss but thankfully blissful kindness of my second boss all to earn a little extra cash with which I can feed myself and can also dream of bigger things in a city Far Far Away.

Only it isn’t quite working out the way I had imagined. The bum rush of people I had thought to knock down the door has yet to occur.  The streets were supposed to be lined with people clamoring, begging for me to salvage the sad wreckage of their hair!  Children were to come to me on their knees begging on behalf of their house ridden mothers to rescue them from their mullet-ed plight!  The phones would ring, literally, off the walls making quite a flattering mess!  What happened?  What went wrong?

Oh yeah, no one knows me in a city miles from the home I never ever leave.  And I suddenly have a tremendous amount of competition.  And the business is so established that they never get walk-in clientele.  And I have all the get-up-and-go self promotional savvy of a hermit advertising his extensive knobby twig collection.

Also taxes are rapidly approaching and as I had the audacity to use protection while having sex (Sadly, I can no longer remember what the experience is like.  It involves a duck, right?) I have no hoard of children to claim and while I am disabled (Crohn’s Disease, we’ll talk about it later) I refuse to BE disabled and can’t claim that either.  Suffice to say, this year will be painful.  Last year I had money stashed away for such an occasion.  This year I failed to do so having spent it on FREAKING FIGURESKATING.  Damn you Johnny Weir and your fine rhinestone covered booty.  Damn you.

“But Jessica,” I hear you all saying, “how can you live in one of the world’s most expensive cities when you only have $20 in your bank account?”

Well let me tell you!

I have no idea.  Hooking is sounding like an option but I need to get a duck.

As a side note, in the event of my body being found dead in the morning due to asphyxiation, I had a rather embarrassing moment earlier today involving some pesticide that I feel needs some explanation.

I was speaking to my mother on the phone when I noticed a big gross long legged spider lurking between my door and wall.  Just hanging there like a fat bodied omen of doom.  It had to die.  So after pleading to my mother to come rescue me, which she didn’t, I dashed to the cupboard, grabbed my official Terminix kill’em spray and with my eyes half shut and squealing I sprayed the bastard.  That son of a bitch immediately LEAPT from the wall straight at my face! Screaming, I started spraying the walls, floor, windows, anything with a surface aiming desperately at what had to have been a Mexican Jumping Spider trained as a ninja.  After my fiftieth spray, the disgusting monster finally lurched to a halt at my feet only for me to look down and notice that the spider was actually a cricket.  Go figure.

As a side note to my side note, thoughts and prayers to all of those suffering in Japan.  If at all possible, please make a donation if you can.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Here's my brain. Here's my brain on GLITTER!

Kayso one of my favorite people on the planet also has a blog which I will link here.  Some of you may already be familiar with Binky.  Most of the friends I have are also fans of the lady herself and the subject of the blog: Dude in a Onesie AKA Johnny Weir.  But for those of you who do NOT know this amazing blog and her equally amazing muse, I thought I would give a wee tutorial.

No don’t leave!  I won’t use a pie chart and I burned myself with the laser pointer so it’s right out and I swear this won’t be educational in the least!

Ok, good.  I’ll start with an example.  Because we all learn by example, right?  Right!  So here’s how my thought process goes each day.  Enjoy.

-          Ugh
-          Whazzit
-          (snooze button)
-          UGH!
-          Check phone while fumbling for alarm
-          Pray Binky has her blog up
-          Yay!
-          Read blog
-          Crawl out of bed
-          Go through the motions
-          Rinse
-          Repeat

Mixed in the bullet list is a litany of Johnny themed thoughts that revolve around his eating habits, mental health, shoe situation, I hope no one creeped him out today, oh god if he knew how much I worried this would totally creep him out, ect ect.  Because he’s a great guy!  And I do worry.  I haven’t got any children so my ovaries cry out to mother someone, anyone and apparently he’s it. So if any of you are around me for any length of time and catch me staring into space with a slight frown, biting my nails to the quick I am probably wondering if a man on the other side of the globe got enough sleep last night.

We all need a hobby. 

I learned about Johnny through the lovely Miss Binky and her informative, amusing, heart breaking blog.  Two of my personal favorites were written in March last year:   HERE! and HERE some more!  These entries are what got me hooked on him and her.  Binky and I have since become pretty tight and I will forever be grateful to Johnny for the friendships his fandom has given me.

Oh crap that sounded educational!  Quick!  Think of something stupid!  The Twilight series being a success!  Ah… Ok that’s better.  Thought I lost you there for a moment.

From time to time I’ll probably lapse into Johnny related posts uncomfortably disconnected from reality and far too emotionally invested in a man I don’t actually know so don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Squirm, squint, shake your head in wonder and feel free to join me in the addiction.  It’s pretty fun!  Also, he induces instant euphoria when standing next to him.  I have photographic evidence of touching him.  Life.  Complete. 

Best day of my LIFE

It's pronounced Eye-gore!

Today’s theme was CLEANING! Which is less than entertaining.  Though I did attempt to do most of my womanly chores in heels.  Not as an homage to Mrs. Beaver Cleaver (or whatever the hell her name was), but to retrain my soft pansy feet for the S&M treatment New York delivers to unwary footsies.  That experiment lasted all of about 30 minutes.  Among the many things agitating my many many ulcers, my feet being destroyed actually is worrying me.  Last trip I returned wearing more bandages than King Tut.  It looked like my feet had been run through a meat grinder.  I think it’s the NYC brand of trial by fire.  Rural America doesn’t walk.  Ever.  I think they know this and can identify hicks by our foot dragging Igor club foot impressions.  Our bloodied bandages fluttering behind us from our Walmart’s best three inch heels.  And driving in Manhattan is something taken up by the insane and foreign and more power to them.  I refuse to drive myself through that city unless held by gunpoint which could actually happen you never know.

While on the subject of my move which I am going to beat to death with a club so you might as well get use to it, I would like to talk about my wardrobe.  It doesn’t exist.  This frightens me.  One of the things I found so incredibly fascinating about New York was the ease with which everyone carried themselves in deceptively simple and painfully chic clothes.  The accessories alone were dazzling and also intimidating.  I wear a single bracelet and I feel like a tramped up floozie.  It isn’t that I’m a prude, it’s that I appreciate fashion.  On others.  Not on myself.  None the less, to survive and avoid the hick/Igor tag, I’m going to have to learn to embrace my inner diva and put on… dare I say it… two bracelets.  Good lord!  I just widdled a bit.  Terrifying.

Seriously though I haven’t got a damn thing to wear and I am so fucked.  I could be lucky in that the one friend I have to stay with is a fashion student at one of the most renowned schools in America, FIT.  On the other hand, I live in a mild state of panic that at some point he will realize exactly how uncool I am and abandon me to the wolves that would devour my soft white flesh very very quickly.  If that doesn’t occur (plz Jeebus) then I’ll have a genius at my back.  In the long run, having him in my corner will be amazing.  Until that “long term” thing happens, I’m in a sad state.  April will be here very soon.  I hope they’re ready for the swagger I’m going to bring.  Stumble, Igor.  Stumble.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Welcome!

I have a blog!  Well, obviously.  Like so many before me (even myself at one time which we won’t talk about) I’m flailing about a bit and have decided that writing my thoughts out and presenting them to the universe might be therapeutic.  My life is about to go through some major upheavals and it would be interesting to track those changes through the before, during, and continuing during.

Before long, a few months in fact, I will be moving my small town self to “The City” to start a new chapter of my life.  For good or ill, I have to go.  Mostly because I’ve blabbed so damn much about going that the shame of facing everyone with my little sack on a stick slung over my defeated shoulders on the return walk home is unimaginable.  I can’t give them the satisfaction!  I also feel that a move is needed because my life is at a standstill at the moment.  The reasons are my own fault.  I’m sure I could venture forth, find a mate, do a ritual or two, mate, and be content.  That seems really revolting though, honestly. Have you seen my mating dance?  Good lord.  Also I can’t stand children. 

Throughout this transition, I will post my thoughts, fears, videos (not of myself… though if I get frisky that mating dance may very well happen), images, links to more creative writers who will shame me with their clever, and anything else that pops into my head.  Also beware of fiction.  Sometimes the real world is too drab and a nice sticky story makes all that void a little brighter.

For all we know, this could be my one and only post.  Thank goodness the only people who will read this are my mother and friends.