May 26, 2007

Let the record show that I disapprove of pretend zombies. I’ll be at the SF Apple Store next month for a Workplace software demo event, and I will be greatly annoyed if there is an attack of pretend zombies. Why? Because if there were a REAL zombie infiltration I would need to carry out my Public Uprising of the Undead Contingency Plan: Apple Store Edition—which, of course, involves using those speakers that look like dongs to skull-fuck my way out of there—and the fact that these impostors are around just clouds my response time. I’ve got to waste precious nanoseconds going, hipster hoping for a cameo on the local evening news? Or legitimate infestation of the living dead? Listen up, San Francisco zombie wannabes, if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. Channel that drama-club creative energy into some other endeavor that fulfills your desire to wear stage makeup, and leave the rest of us to our eagle-eyed vigilance. The life you save may be your own.

By the way, the sole exception I have to the No Fake Zombies rule is if they’re going to publicly reenact—en masse—the Thriller dance, because that would actually be pretty awesome, and no one will experience zombie confusion, as we all know real zombies don’t have the coordination for the head-swivel/side-shuffle part of that routine.


(Oh, but can there ever really be enough?)

For the last several months I’ve been letting my highlights grow out, partially due to laziness on my part and partially as a concession to JB, who has long requested that I return to my default brunette shade. As it turns out, my dark hair is just as blah as I remembered it, except now it’s salted here and there with some charming wiry gray strands—so I decided it was by-god time to bring back the blonde.

When I told JB I was getting my hair done today, he sighed mournfully and informed me that he just really liked the natural look. I wondered out loud if he would also enjoy it if I stopped shaving my legs, plucking my eyebrows, putting makeup on my face, styling my hair, restricting what I eat, exercising when I don’t want to, and applying deodorant. Why wouldn’t he, when it would be so much more natural?

Also, I’ve noticed that the celebrities that float JB’s boat are not exactly natural beauties, unless you consider Carmen Electra a fresh-faced earth goddess.

Men. Seriously.

I’m pleased with my newly lightened hair, but it almost doesn’t matter how the actual color turned out, because the experience itself was so delicious—from the leisurely time spent in the chair reading People magazine while the stylist put in the foil, to the unbelievably wonderful scalp massage she gave me during the shampoo (I swear one of my legs started jimmying up and down like a dog’s, it felt so good).

Maybe one of you can tell me, why does hair feel so great after it’s been colored? Or bleached, or however highlighting works. You’d think it would feel all dry and damaged, but no: it’s soft, manageable, and shiny. At least until you wash it with your cheap-ass shampoo and wreck the magic.

Every single stylist I ever see gives me different product advice about my hair. This girl was refreshingly quiet, but did suggest that I use a clarifying shampoo to get rid of build-up. I’ve heard you can use vinegar for this purpose, but I can’t help thinking that would leave a lingering, Easter-egglike smell on your head. “Gee, your hair smells . . . douchey.”

The appointment was a total last-minute thing and I feel it’s been a very nice addition to the very nice weekend I’ve been having so far, which has prominently featured many hours of hanging out in the backyard with Riley. Watching him run around and play is definitely one of those parenthood experiences that probably sound boring to the outside observer but are in actuality so simply joyous and fulfilling I can hardly stand it; JB and I sometimes just look at each other and say, “Can you believe that kid is ours?” Never mind the later hours that include ear-shattering pre-bedtime howlfests, the backyard is where it’s at these days.