First and foremost you (you as in vous, because I know I have seven readers) should know that this fun little romp into blogging will probably end soon. I've pretty much fallen off for most of 2013, and I know that, but that's only because I started doing things like working and playing with my friends. I've also realized that in the age of certain tell-all-we're-all-in-this-together kind of websites, I think you all just want to read lists of shit you're supposed to do in your 20s. (ALWAYS FORGIVE BUT NOT AT THE PRICE OF WHO YOU ARE.) I also realize I'm truly not candid enough to keep a successful blog nor do I understand the internet box well enough to make this even remotely aesthetically interesting. I mean, come on. I screen shot that picture of the flowers and let out a "yippee!" afterwards because I was so pleased with myself. With that in mind, I think it would behoove me to begin working towards katiemarkovich.com or some variance of my name within a professional-looking domain. So I mean, I'll still exist on the internet and stuff! Just not here. Well, that's not technically true, because the internet archives stuff forever, doesn't it? The point is that I should really start putting writing things all in one place, and I don't mean the green trapper that I've been keeping hacky teen-romance scripts and poems about Shane West in since I was 12.
But for now, I'll tell a story!
There are two things on which I refuse to spend what I consider to be "a lot" of money. Those things are everyday-wear shoes and haircuts. I beat the shit out of my shoes and my hair does whatever it wants, so spending an exorbitant amount of money on either of those things is, frankly, stupid. But Katie, you're saying, you need to invest in these items and luxuries in order to be satisfied with your experience. Fair. A few years ago, I budgeted my summer earnings so I could afford my very own salon treatment, where I would get my hair done instead of just cut. My Done Hair lasted for a few weeks before humidity had its way with it; before my cool new side-sweeping bangs were drenched with forehead grease before lunchtime; before I realized that my hair looked basically the same way it had before the stylist touched it. My history with my hair is that scene from Boy Meets World, "Hair Today, Goon Tomorrow" (season 4, episode 2) when Topanga cuts her hair and gets hotter and then, in an attempt to make a point about superficiality, Cory also visits Mr. Cillini's salon. When Mr. Cillini reveals Cory after a very long-winded (kind of like this example!) and passionate synopsis of his most important cosmetic work to date, we see that NOTHING has changed about the way Cory looks. That's me after every haircut.
Cory's joyful face before realizing nothing changed. Sorry, buddy.
(If you get a chance to watch the full episode, though, you should, especially if you just graduated from college. Eric's storyline is too real if your life right now is anything like mine was last summer at this time. The whole thing's on YouTube!)
A few months back, I desperately needed a trim. It was a few days before I was going home for Easter and I thought, Yes! How I will impress my family and friends with new Done Hair! This will be a signal to them that I am surviving the city! I decided that I wanted a substantial amount of length to go away, nothing tricky, but enough to relieve me of my then mid-to-long-ness. But, since I don't like to spend money on haircuts, I needed to find some kind of Best Hair/Classic Bangs/fast food style hair cutting institution. I found one...and then proceeded to have a really fucking weird experience. Basically, the woman refused to cut my hair because it's too pretty. That's right. She didn't believe or accept my request to please cut off six inches. I sat in her chair for nearly an hour while she hacked away at my hair, half inch by half inch, cringing as she did so, and saying repeatedly, "It's just too pretty...you're going to regret this...you're going to regret this." Now, look. If you've seen my hair, you know it's an extremely standard shade of brown. It's thick, there's a lot of it, it's very shiny and healthy looking, yes, but that's just because of the excess scalp grease. But it's nothing to advocate for, especially by someone who's not me, and this woman truly believed she was saving me from the horrible fate of not being long-haired anymore. I kept pointing to my chin, because that's where I wanted my longest layer to hit, and then her eyes would grow wide with horror and she'd shake her head and keep trimming off insignificant amounts of hair. I finally just stopped her because my hair looked fine (if not the exact same as before) and I wanted to get the hell out of there. And then she rang me up and it was double what I thought I would be paying, but I hated her on a personal level at that point, and if paying more meant getting the hell out of dodge, I was okay with that.
So naturally, when I went to get a hair cut yesterday, I went back to the same place.
Why? Because I don't spend a lot of money on haircuts, I already told you that! I also planned on pointing and shouting "Not that one!" at the woman if I saw her. Instead, I was greeted by the angel I now know to be Elyse, the most perfect beauty specialist in all of Chicago. I saw her and I instantly knew, my hair has been waiting for you for so long. You wanna know why? Because Elyse's haircut is exactly what I've been wanting but I've either a) not described it correctly or b) been denied! Elyse asked, "What are we doing today?" And I said, "I know this might sound creepy...and I swear I wanted this before I got here...but I want your haircut. Exactly." And that's exactly what she gave me! ELYSE, YEEEAH!!! I was starry-eyed through the whole process as I watched my hair change shape into something other than its old descriptors: "plain"; "sad"; "big." And then Elyse charged me the correct amount for my cut...and it was so cheap....like, Akron cheap...and I skipped all the way home, clutching Elyse's business card to my heart. It was the most divine haircut the world has ever known and I can't believe it happened to me.
And that's the story of why my hair is short now. Oh, also because it's been 90 degrees in Chicago for like, a week, and I just can't.
Oh, right, the flowers. If you see them at the reunion, that means I bought them. I hope that provides you with the closure you were hoping for.
ALSO (so many post scripts, I know, I'm sorry) thank you for the "Rachel Writes Erotica" love. I'm not sure when the next installment will be complete but I think it will be called "Rachel Roots for the Home Team" and YES there will be pink Browns jerseys and lots of buffalo chicken dip made in the crock-pot. Because ladies.
