So much to blog, so little time. But even that's a big lie.
This morning, around 1am, I finished Exit to Eden (KY, anyone?). I had the mad mad itchy urge to blog, but what to my wondering eyes should appear but a fucked up ISP and nary a beer. My ISP is the biggest crap pile on the planet and it knows when I want to be online the most, and it breaks itself. Phookers.
I have a wigwam of tangled blog ideas floating around in my head, and let's start with:
I have a veritable nest of curly locks atop my head. When I was a young'un I was the whitest black child I knew. Kinky curly...all the way. As the teen years approached, I chopped my crack-length couf and chose more appropriate-to-kink hairstyles...in the short genre. Through the late teens and early 20's it was short-to-medium and usually straightened (chemically...with chemicals whose smell would scare the kink out of anyone). Now, I've returned to my roots. It's like not shaving your legs or pits. Curls, are liberating, but at the same time....a little like wearing your panties on the outside of your clothes. (And I say all this in the context of a person who isn't used to curls, so don't bitch at me because I'm dissing your curls....I'm dissing my curls).
My curls are very Dolly Parton's niece if I let them flow freely, so I harness them into a fluffy rat's nest of a ponytail for work. As I've mentioned here before, my boss is a moron; you know, the one who brought the wrath of Snowflake upon us. He also gives off a bit of a womanizer vibe. One expects, at any given opening of the mouth, to see that pimp-sleaze sparkle come off his front teeth. He's a little greasy in the hair area....super-bags under the eyes...he wears pink shirts and salmon ties. He rarely speaks, of his own free will, to the peons at the circ desk. That would just be....polite. *SQUEAL* I've not been on the receiving end of his slickness until....I straightened my hair.
It's now below-shoulder-length. Sun-kissed. When I straighten it...damn near ponyish. It makes me feel less edge and more girl, which is a big change and something I'm not entirely comfortable with, but in the meantime I'm whippin' the shit around like a golden....umm...whip. 5 minutes after I sauntered in to work I was sitting at the desk when in walks sparkle-tooth, takes his place at the Xerox machine across from me, turns, gives me the ooky up-down, eyes me like a sugar-coated Virginia ham, and breaks into animated conversation. And my breasts weren't even partially exposed.
The point of all this: Hair is power. My boss is a greasy slug.