So my band (Secondhand Thong) had a couple gigs recently.  It’s always an adventure.  Sometimes we end up playing somewhat inappropriate venues.  Last Saturday we got heckled pretty bad by a few drunks and an old lady.  Whatever.  Nobody threw anything, and we got paid in beer.  Somebody (not one of the other grrrrls in the band) stuck a hairbrush in my gig case though.  It was full of dishwater blonde dirty hairs and Aquanet stickiness.  Gross.  I threw that…away. 

 

Unfortunately, we’re kind of “on hiatus” now due to Candy (guitar babe) wanting a little more time to herself.  Supposedly we’re going to magically get back together in November, but I don’t see it happening, so I’m kind of on the scam for other musical opportunities.

Yesterday I got my hair cut.  Since I usually I cut my own hair, it is a rare occurrance to have someone else do it.   Other people always screw it up, whether it is a cheap chain place or an expensive place.  I can screw it up, pay nobody, and have only myself to blame.   So I  just drink a beer and get down to business with a scissors and a mirror.  But I was getting my hair colored anyway (I am less afraid of using a scissors than toxic chemicals) and I figured, what the heck. 

 

She screwed it up (using that crazy thinner tool).  WTF!!  With my glasses sitting on the counter, I couldn’t see- after several snips I realized that it sounded WRONG.  I will cut it myself from now on as usual.

 

I had told Jack when I left to go get his hair cut too.  When I got back, he knows he is supposed to say “nice hair” or some Jack variant of that, but he never does.  He said, “Cut my hair.”  So I did, as usual.  Nothing has changed.  As usual.  It’s like Gilligan’s Island around here: I plot to get off the island, something screws it up, and it’s banana cream pie forever after.

I try to do business at local places, “mom and pop” places as they used to be called.  So, I was at one- the kind you have to wait at for awhile- and I was chatting with the lady (this one really actually is run by a husband-and-wife team).  Flipping through a magazine, I ran into an article about Locks of Love (they give wigs to kids with alopecia- permanent hair loss) and I started going off about how girls feel so great about donating their hair, and the organization can’t even use half of the donated hair, and how it takes ten ponytails to make one wig and they probably have warehouses full of ponytails waiting for the other nine “matches.”

 

Then I remembered that her husband has alopecia.  The guy doesn’t even have eyelashes.   *facepalm*

 

They still seem to like me and Jack, though.  Believe me, they have some opinions even weirder than ours.  How reassuring!  No matter how weird you are…there is someone even weirder than you out there, doing a great job at whatever it is they do.

So last week I mentioned the trichotillomania (TTM) study for which I realized I didn’t qualify.  Two weeks had gone by with nary a call.  Then two hours after I posted about it, ready to stop “looking forward to the call,” who calls?  The study lead said that based on severity, I don’t meet the criteria for being in the study, but I am welcome to some free psychotherapy at the university if I want: ten sessions over twelve weeks (I wouldn’t get the stipend, which was only $200 anyway).  It’s on campus in a beautiful old building.  Normally I make any excuse whatsoever to go on campus.  I just love being there. 

I told him I had to think ab0ut it and would let him know Monday, which is today.  I don’t think I am going to do it.  I already opened that vein.

I signed up for a psychiatric study for which I met all the criteria in the little ad.  It was in one of the free papers, so probably a lot of people auditioned for it.  I apparently didn’t make the cut, since after a brutally honest and grueling three-hour evaluation two weeks ago, the guy still hasn’t called me back.  I suppose a lot of crazy people read those free rags.  Maybe it’s all relative.

Somehow after admitting to another human being on this planet all of my longstanding phobias and delusions, stuff that Jack doesn’t even know about, I feel lighter and more free.  The world didn’t end.  I didn’t even cry.  Plus, it was prorated, so I should be getting a few dollars in the mail too.