Before I went to Seattle, Jen and I dyed my hair a brilliant red. We dyed my goatee red and my side burns red too.
It was fun to see the double take stranger took wherever I went, because...
I looked like a really tall Bozo the Clown.
It was great.
I did it because I could.
I did it because I wanted to.
I did it because I never had before.
I did it because my slam team was younger than I, hip-er than I, and to an extent freakier than I and I wanted to fit in - cut loose - get noticed... and have something to distract the people I haven�t seen since last summer from what I've been doing poetically this past year - which would be nothing.
(The trip to Seattle happens, read back a few entries if you don't already know how to sing along to that song...)
Then when we were both home we were going to dye it back to brown, but since Jen was sleeping off the plane flight and our shared Seattle Flu, I went to the grocery store by myself
where I found an entire aisle of hair dye products.
I did my best to find a color I thought matched my natural color and went home, shaved off my goatee and side burns and tried to dye my hair back.
It didn't work.
All I managed to do was dull the brilliance of my bozo-ness, and since it was 10 PM at night by this point, I had to go to work looking a little different the next day.
Luckily most people either ignored the color or were so shocked that I look like a giant ten year old without the goatee that I made it through the day without having to kill anyone for being an ignorant dumbass when they teased me.
The next day (yesterday) I made an appointment with a hair dresser and had him, fix me.
He buzzed the sides of my head, cut the top short, and dyed my hair black. Jet black. Ninja black. Black as the blackest starless region of space black after all the minut traces of light were sucked into a black hole black.
My hair�s kinda black.
So now I look like a 10 year old Elvis impersonator without sideburns - which would be a real young Tony Curtis impersonator after he visited my hair dresser.
Ahh, the things I do for art...
or the lack of it.
