Although you can’t tell from looking at the mug shot above this column, “Running Wild and Looking Pretty” has a new face.
In a Britney Spears moment of clarity that comes only through heavy substance abuse and no sleep, I decided to take a pair of clippers to my moderately long, bleached-blond hair.
Hair is the ultimate statement of self. For people like me, who judge others solely on first impressions, hair is a significant source of information. One’s hair communicates one’s personality, upbringing, social status, political views, musical interest, self-esteem and sexual kinks.
When I first selected the dye from the drug store shelves, I envisioned that that box of Clairol 100% Color would purport: “This individual is an open, warm, street-smart 20-something who has overcome adversity yet remains optimistic about the world and the people who occupy it. He’s an intelligent and worldly democrat who listens to an eclectic offering of music; he’s humble, yet proud of his accomplishments. He’s a freak in the bed. He runs wild and looks pretty to the fullest extent.”
After two months of fading, humidity and quickly protruding roots, my hair clearly stated, “Justin Templet is straight-up white trash who somehow managed to find his way here from his home in Myrtle Grove Trailer Park. He’s snappy, cold and illiterate. From the look and smell of him, he also probably has rabies or some other communicable disease that decent people can catch simply by being close to him. Chances are he’s not coitally skilled because no one would come within 10 feet of him, let alone sleep with him. They run wild and look pretty as quickly as possible in the opposite direction.”
I was brooding over this very serious miscommunication late one night while sitting on the bench in front of Biever. As I sat fussing over my greasy mane, my friend Garret approached. In his hand were two items with which I was quite familiar: a cigarette and a pair of clippers.
Garret is one of those people with a slight advantage over the rest of society. He buzzes his own hair, and therefore he has an additional $13.50 that would be spent at Fantastic Sam’s to use for more practical luxuries, like cigarette smoking.
I was hesitant in asking him if he would shave my head, but at 4 a.m., my judgment was slightly impaired.
Within minutes, my trailer-park-tragic locks fell to the floor under Garret’s deft hands. I ran my hands through my hair, looked at my reflection in the window and instantly concluded that I looked hot. No – smoking, piping hot. Sexy as hell.
I stopped making sex kitten faces in the window long enough to consider changing the mug shot for this column but decided against it. I was such a diva when taking the current picture that I couldn’t possibly subject the photo editor to that again.
