I didn’t take a shower this morning.
When I don’t take a shower in the morning, my hair rebels.
Usually I’m pretty principled about taking a shower in the morning, except for, well, when I’m not.
Wake up-take glug of water-check email on phone-dither on the computer a bit-go into bathroom-put on Feitelogram Pandora station on speakerphone-shower-boxers-deodorant-brush teeth-apply various skin products onetwothree-shirt-leave bathroom-pants-socks-refill water bottles-make bed-more dithering-put on sweater-put on fleece-put on jacket-put on shoes (finally)-leave
But really, anything can knock me off track. Any excuse to just lay in bed, leave my sheets, roll out with a sigh and face the world.
Last night, it was because I went out with a friend to let off steam.
We had both been furiously working on our films and I just needed for me someone I could go get a low-pressure beer with. He came over and we drank the residual beers of my apartment: a Dos Equis and a can of Coors Light left over from previous beer drinking excursion. Then we headed out at Milady’s, the bar my dad went to when I was probably just a drunken star in my mom’s eye. The bar was divey without having grafitti and had good greasy bar food, suitable to the crapster Heineken they had on tap. Still, it was just a block or two away and it felt good to have the beer without the pressure, in a place not so full.
But drinking leads to drinking and soon we were off to Thunder Jackson’s, a terrible chain-bar of a place over on Bleecker. Here the night went sour as I was promotionally bought two drinks along with the $12 dollar pitcher I shared with my friend. One was an unrecognizable combination described as “vodkavodka” to me, which was literally squirted into my mouth using a medium-sized vat and a hose protruding from the bar. The other drink was a “grape-bomb”, a combination of Grey Goose Grape and Red Bull which tasted to me almost exactly like a Welch’s Grape Soda (the best soda for bad chinese food, bt-dubs).
That, of course led to more drunkenness, which led to more bars, which led to unfortunate not-misfires with girls, a slice of over-priced Buffalo Chicken Pizza at 1am and sleep finally.
But when I awoke, my hair had rebelled.
My hair is mutable in the way it behaves. When it’s short after a cut, or long, like when I had a ponytail, it looks straight. When it gets to about mid-size though, where it is now, it changes as the day goes on.
Out of the shower, it’s curly and flat against my head, wet as if gelled.
When I go outside for awhile, I’d say it’s at its optimal: curly, close, but bouncy and good for twirling around a finger during a long lecture or film.
Then, when it’s windy, or when I tease it with my hand self-consciously, it expands, growing to more “jew-fro” (kind) or “Ronald McDonald” (unkind) proportions.
Finally, when I’ve had a long night of drinking, going out, playing with my hair and I wake up in the morning, my hair rebels.
It loses all definition of its curls, emerging into a static, strung-out jumbly mess, like a jumbo-auburn bird’s nest or Lucifer’s discarded halo.
It is what it is, but it seems to affect me if I keep it that way.
For instance, at the particularly early morning therapy, I felt jumbled with my hair that way, apologizing for talking too much about girls, then not enough about girls and then apologzing for apologizing.
“You don’t have to apologize.” My therapist interrupted me.
“I know, but it feels comforting.” I told her.
“Sorry.” I added.
Or when I felt thorny at the emergency insurance meeting held by my school and roasted the crap out of them to two rounds of applause from the crowd (thankyouverymuch), ending by asking the department that perhaps, if they didn’t want any more rigs falling into THE OCEAN (2 so far), then maybe they shouldn’t approve any scripts that take fucking place there.
Or when I felt all jumbled up, talking to my former professor/mentor, the great, mustached Nick Tanis at Caffe Dante. I drank 2 Caffe Mokas and talked about subjects ranging from actors to classmates to iPhones to writer’s block to beer-coffee-combos (hint: bad idea) to an ex-not-girlfriend’s film script which I thought might have a character inspired by me considering that he’s described as:
a. Having a “jew-fro”
b. Unsuccessfully trying to hook up with her.
It even plagued me when I went to bust-a-move playing DDR in Chinatown with my best friend Frank. DDR, usually my virtuosic medium of ridiculosity and occasional only source of physical exercise, this time failed me as I managed with my hop-skip-jump antics only to beat Frank mildly as opposed to viciously dance-thrashing him, considering he had just eaten three-four meals, the result of an exercise-a-holic lifestyle.
I felt as if I wore a crown of sorrow (also of hair) as I trudged home from my day-full of frazzledness.
There were still emails to be sent, filmmaking to be filmmade, so much to do.
But with a hairy disposition, what’s to be done.
I did the only thing I could. I hopped into the shower. I stayed for a while. Kimya Dawson, TV on the Radio and the Johnny Cash cover of Heart of Gold from my Pandora-iPhone. I soaked down and my hair collapsed, falling into my eyes, already half-blind from the lack of glasses.
I finished up, no technique, no routine this time–a relaxation shower.
I sat down, gathered myself and prepared for something I couldn’t be hairy for–writing this.
And then, well, I did.
Heineken- 6 Dollars for a chilled pint. 5 for a mug. 4 for a bottle of Dos Equis or such. Domestic drafts- less.
SW Corner of Prince and Thompson.
CE to Spring St. R to Prince St.
Pitcher of Coors Light- 12 Dollars (approx 4 or so beers worth).
NE Corner of Bleecker and Sullivan.
ACEBDFV to West 4th St.
Caffe Moka- $4.50
Macdougal St bet. Houston and Bleecker.
1 to Houston St. ACEBDFV to West 4th.