Got my bangs mangled at my inaugural bang trim. My first ever bang trim after getting bangs before Christmas and I made the mistake of thinking I could gamble with a walk in for something I thought was so simple. NOPE. I’m not even mad, or at least experiencing anger, because of how mesmerized with how fucked up they are. I have three highly differentiated layers of hair, like a fucking hair trifle, or a diagram of the layers of the earth, but in the middle, the thirdmost layer is the shortest, and on either side, the firstmost/topmost layer is the shortest. I also have a chunk carved out above my right eye, perfectly following my eyebrow, like a half Mickey Mouse. I have a Joy Division album cover on my forehead.
I watched Good Hair with my Mom, for reasons completely unrelated to my hair, and completely related to an appallingly racially insensitive, and completely work inappropriate statement made by my Mom’s former coworker. Holy fuck, this documentary. If you don’t want spoilers, skip this paragraph because I need to release.
Were you (white people) aware weave costs upwards of $1000??? Were you aware weave maintenance needs to be done monthly? That putting in a weave can take eight hours? That some women feel it is a man’s responsibility to pay for all hair related costs (I guess this is a standard-issue hetero problem, except for the cost, and the level of financial burden was portrayed as being steeper.) That most hair comes from India and not Brazil, thus killing every weave related joke I have heard? That most of this Indian hair comes from participation in SACRIFICIAL RITUAL wherein women shear their hair in a show dedication to God? That the temple where this ceremony takes places SELLS the hair to businesses by a kilo, and through doing so, sees profits second only to the Vatican? That it is a petty crime in India to STEAL. A. WOMAN’S. HAIR. while she is sleeping, or distracted by a movie at a MOVIE. THEATER? That black people are about 80% of the market for hair and black hair care products, but only a handful of these companies are black-owned?
Seriously eye opening. I was decently aware of the prejudices women with natural hair face, and how it can have implications for things a person’s hair never should, like EMPLOYMENT PROSPECTS, and that regardless of race, women favor European or Asian hair texture, or that hair is 1. time consuming 2. expensive, but I had no idea to what degree. To see the places where hair is processed, and how that hair is obtained, has made me seriously doubt whether I would ever buy a pack of clip ins ever again. And hearing men and women talk about the impact on intimacy of having a very delicate, very expensive investment sewed into your hair at all times was something I have never been in a position to consider.
Happier note, I didn’t think I could love Ice-T more, I thought I had hit the ceiling on my Ice-T love, but NOPE, he is even more perfect.
Then we went to Coastal flats which was delicious as always. The pineapple mojito is to die for. Like, magical liquid sunshine. I was tipping the glass up trying to drink it all and getting smacked in the face by a decorative sugar cane stir stick like a common trollop and not giving a fuck.
ALSO MY SPACE HEATER COULD HAVE KILLED US. So I got this Vornado space heater a couple years ago, because I have the most poorly insulated room in the house, and I haven’t had to use it much this winter because it’s been so warm. But our furnace died- oh yes, our furnace almost killed us too. So a couple months ago I’m sitting in my basement, and I hear this huge bang. We’ve got a big ass glass and metal table, and for some reason, my first instinct is the table has collapsed. Like a big solid… something falling straight down, no secondary debris tumbling around. This happened maybe half a dozen times over the next couple months, and everything was thoroughly investigated, and no one could figure out what the noise was.
So it got really cold one night, and it took a solid 12 hours for anyone to recognize the furnace wasn’t turning on. The repairmen kept referring to “blow out,” and we’re like, this is a family of Arts & Science degrees, we are not furnace scientists, so they break it down for us, and tell us the furnace is only lighting once every 10 cycles, or so, leaving gas to build up for the other 9 cycles, and when it finally lights it causes a fireball to shoot out of the furnace, and if our BACK WALL was any closer it could ignite the house.
Yeah, made a bad mistake in YouTube-ing furnace blow out to see if that matched the sound. I’m never sleeping again. I want a furnace made of positive vibes. Have you ever looked in a normally running gas furnace? That shit is terrifying anyway. It’s like, a rotating wheel of fire. I DON’T WANT THAT. I clear off a whole table and check for any objects that could potentially fall before I light a candle.
So back to the other instrument of death, my space heater, that I had to break out after the first instrument of death, the furnace went out, it’s making this weird grinding noise. So I investigate, like a proper adult that knows how many house fires are caused by space heaters (a lot. Also dangerous? Rice cookers.) The grinding is coming from the fan inside it failing to spin every once and a while. I feel proud of my investigative abilities. Weeks pass. I love my space heater, it makes me so toasty and it’s so quiet. Everything is going fine. On Sunday night, I drink an extra strength cup of Neo Citran and fall into unconsciousness where I dream of small fires spontaneously breaking out all over our house, and our struggle to determine what is the most value before it is all incinerated.
I notice it is very cold, and the space heater is not kicking in. I turn the temperature knob up a smidge hotter. Nothing. I think maybe the safety switch which disables it if it is tipped may have been tripped. So I turn it off and turn it back on.
SPARKS SHOOT 2 FEET AWAY, CLEAR UNDER MY BED. SIZZLING. HELLISH SIZZLING. TURN OFF. UNPLUG. HOLY SHIT.
I Googled today. RECALLED TWO YEARS AGO. JESUS CHRIST. I’ve been sleeping next to a death trap. How do people live. These are my questions. How do I know if one of the multitude of objects in my house will malfunction to such a spectacular degree. I once had an Apple charger explode. I thought about the MacBook, the potential for overheating, the potential for the battery to explode, but the fucking charger?
You’re vigilant about 9/10 things, and the last one will fuck you in the ass. These are the concepts I can’t cope with.