I'm a Hustler, Baby: The proof

A while ago I was prompted by Scarbiedoll to write this post about my short-lived acquaintance with Ron Jeremy. I claimed to have photographic evidence at the time and I do, damn it, I do.

So here it is, just because I don't want anyone to think that I was just using my hyper-active imagination and making up fun stories about short, hairy little porn stars. Other participant in this particular picture has been blurred for anonymity. And for those of you who read that post so long ago, this is from the House of Blues night, not the Hustler party night. Those photos are never, ever ending up on the internet.

Actually, they probably already are. Crap. Ah well, it's all part of growing up right? Right? Anyone...?


PS - this picture kind of makes me yearn for my short hair. Granted, I'm considerably older in the face and chunkier in the, well, everywhere these days. And I guess any hair cut would look pretty awesome next to Ron's. Still... a summer chop? Thoughts?

Hair

Because I always keep my word, and better late than never.

Here it is pre-cut. Wet, long, kinda nappy:



Here is is post cut. Also wet. Not sure why I prefer to take pictures while fresh from the shower? Perhaps that's a topic for another post:



From the back:



And, amazingly dry, but up to it's old familiar frizzy tricks:

Smells Like Teen Spirit

I know I've promised a few people before and after shots of the hair. Chill. They are coming. Fact is, I'm a lazy bitch. 'Nuff said?

If not, then here's a hint. Hair definitely does not look like this:



Come to think of it, neither do legs.

And before all you eagle-eyed fashion police call me on the beer wear. YES. It's an oversized Molson Dry t-shirt, tucked into teal short-shorts and, YES, it was in my first string outfit rotation at the time.

And yes, I was cool.

But really the point of this post (aside from proving to everyone what a hot teen I was) is to give mad props and shout-outs to my lovely (and also not so hairy anymore) friend Bendy Girl for reaching her 30th birthday.

Jesus H. Christ. We actually made it? We?! Made it to THIRTY YEARS? We survived through all that HAIR? Incredible.

Happy Birthday Bendy. Seriously looking forward to the next thirty. Much love.

The First Cut is the Deepest

In the summer before my final year of university I cut off all my hair. I don't mean that I trimmed it up, or styled it differently, or went for a cute little bob. I mean I cut it ALL off.

Boys hair. Almost buzz. Very, very short.

I wore it this way for about six years after that and I absolutely loved it. It was very liberating, especially for me, because I had always been somewhat defined by my long, blonde, frizzy, curly head. To cut it all off in one sitting was like snapping my fingers and changing how everyone identified me. I was "the girl with the hair."

Sure enough, when I went back to school in the fall, many people had no idea who I was until I re-introduced myself. It felt great, like starting fresh.

My hair stylist, not the one responsible for the original cut, but the one who cut and coloured my hair for close to five years afterwards, passed away suddenly from complications due to Hepititas C in 2002. It was a tragedy and I still miss my quartery hair cut appointments with her. She was a wild spirit, kind, creative and lovely. She was a friend.

My short hair never looked or felt the same once she was gone and so, after a few months, I decided it was time to grow "the hair" back again. It was somewhat of a tribute to her, but also time to do it for myself.

Anyone who has chopped the way I did knows that the grow out stage is a nightmare. Mine was no exception. Luckily, it went quickly and now, just a few years later, my big old mane is back. You can guess where this is going, can't you?

That's right. I'm itching to chop it again. Dont' freak, I'm not going "boy cut" again. Oh no, that ship sailed away with my twenties. But I am considering an above the shoulders, but just long enough to still pull back, spring time bob. Something fun and fresh and different. I need a change.

I don't have any good example photos of myself to post, so instead I turn to my celebrity hair lookalike, Sarah Jessica Parker. She's the only one who has hair that even comes close to my own, and I've always loved to watch what she does with it, how she styles it, what works, what doesn't.

So here's Carrie Bradshaw, circa season 1, sporting hair that's close to how mine is today. Keeping in mind, of course, that she has a 24-hour stylist on board and I have, well, nothing of the sort.

And here's what I'm thinking of doing to my hair for spring. The Carrie Bradshaw, circa season 5. Focus on the curly versions (#5, 7, 8), I'm not much of a straightener. And again, remember, I'll have no stylist, so realistically will it look this cute? Hell no.

I've only got until Saturday to decide. I'm leaning towards cut, because I'm craving something different, I'm longing to get out from under all this weight and now that I've reached my long hair goal, I feel like, what's next?

SO? To cut or not to cut? That is the question.

Blonde Ambition

I am nothing if not loyal. It's a Virgo thing, I think.

Those of you who know me well, in fact those of you who know me at all, will already know that I have a healthy (and I'll explain why it is in a moment) obsession with blonde, female pop stars. This obsession is nothing new, in fact, I can trace it's humble beginnings way, way back to a school yard rumble when I was only 8-years-old.

There were two tire swings in my school yard. One that the girls played on, the other for the boys. The gender division was self-imposed and many of my first stumbling, feminist arguments began right there on those squeaky rubber swings. Who could swing the highest? Who could jump the farthest? How many girls could fit on one swing versus how many boys?

My favourite yelling match by far, still remains imprinted in my mind and in my ears. I can hear the high pitched kiddie voices yelling, feel the hot autumn sun on my face and remember the rush of frustration when the boys could yell louder and wouldn't back down no matter how hard I tried. The topic? Who was cooler: Michael Jackson or Madonna.

We fought all recess long. We yelled and sang, the whole while floating back and forth on those big rubber swings. The bell rang and we were forced to give up, although the debate was far from over. It didn't matter to me because in my mind, there was no question. Madonna ruled. I loved her. The boys were wrong.

It's not that I didn't like MJ. I really did. Lord knows it was his year to shine. There was just something about Madonna. Something about "Borderline" and "Lucky Star" and "Holiday," yes, I loved her music passionately from the start. But more that that, there was something about her. She was bold, she was brave, she was beautiful. And she was blond. I didn't realize it at that early age, but she would become a strong role model and a powerful influence for me as I morphed from child to teen to woman.

It could be that she arrived on the scene, and into my tiny world, at the exact same time that I was a) realizing what a powerful force music could be and b) creating an identity for myself other than just the quiet, shy kid who loved school, animals and my mom. I remember listening to music and absorbing it voraciously. Prince, Willie Nelson, Toto, Duran Duran and of course, Michael. A lot of Michael.

My mom, my sister and I would put on records and dance for hours in the living room. It was a feeling of freedom, of excitement and of pure joy.

There were other female artists that I fell in love with that year. Tina Turner, Pat Benetar, Chaka Khan and who could forget Cindi Lauper? I can't pin point why I didn't latch on to one of those artists, it's probably a good thing since none has had the staying power that Madonna has had, but in all honesty, to this day,
I believe it's because she was blonde. And I was blonde. And I was eight. And at that age, simply having the same coloured hair was reason enough.

But, hair colour aside, Madonna was always different. Right from the start I didn't just want to listen to her, I wanted to be her. There are many people who will argue that she was not the best role model for a young girl to adopt. I see why. I'm not blind to those arguments. But I do disagree. Long before I understood what it meant to be independent, strong, powerful and confident, I saw those traits in Madonna. As I grew older and heard people talk badly about her (she can't sing, she's too provocative, she's a whore, she's just using her body to get famous, she only cares about material things, she's too sexy, she's not sexy enough, she's blasphemous, she's the devil, she's a joke) I was always quick to defend. To me then, and to me now, she was and is brilliant.

There have been many blonde pop stars that I've supported and followed through out the years. All of which I feel a fondness for and all of which I've routed for and defended, even when I know the majority of popular criticisms against them are in many ways true. Dolly Parton, Britney Spears, Gwen Stefani, Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson are a small sample of the blondes I love to love. Not always because of their talent, or their brains or their contributions to society. I am fully aware that they are not all contributing a whole heap to the women's movement, or to music, or in some cases to anything at all. None of them compare to Madonna. But all of them, in their own way, are using what they've got to achieve success. To reach the top of whatever game they happen to have chosen. And so, I route for them, quietly or loudly depending on the moment.

Tomorrow marks the release of what I think is Madonna's 17th full album. I have each one and still listen to them today. I will, of course, pick up the latest, Confessions on a Dance Floor, and I suspect that I'll love it just as much as all the rest. Even though she's become a little freaky with the Kabbalah-talk and the British accent, she brings me joy, plain and simple.

Because of her I won't go for second best, I know that beauty is where you find it, I express myself and take some time to celebrate. Madonna allows me to turn it up, let loose and celebrate my blondeness.

What more can I say? I'm hung up.