If God Had Intended For Us To Cut Our Hair, We'd Be Born Bald And Crying.
I'd just like to say that I don't have particularly picky standards when it comes to most things, my hair included. I don't send food back in restaurants, I don't itemize receipts for accuracy. I'm a "goes along, gets alonger". Being a fundamentally lazy person, and also being fairly objective (objectivity requires less effort than the other kinds of -tivities), I don't feel comfortable holding people to a standard that I myself probably couldn't (or wouldn't) meet. So I get a lot of ranch when I asked for balsamic, I probably get blindly overcharged at the grocery store, and occasionally I get a little too much taken off the length of my hair.
But
this.
THIS does not fall into my gray standards area. And I ask you to bear in mind here that my gray standards area was able to justify quitting my job with no prospect of other employment in sight. My gray standards area would kick your gray standards area's ass right now if it wasn't so busy trying to find a "petty larceny" workaround.
Okay, let's go ahead and get the obvious out of the way:
Emily titled this, "I felt bad for Estella until I found out that she was going to Costa Rica". Yeah, touche. I admit that complaining about a haircut and then announcing a ten-day tropical paradise vacation pretty much in the same sentence is tantamount to bitching about a wrist cramp while signing the lottery paperwork. But I ask you to imagine for a second that your wrist is cramping because someone is sawing on it with a rusty hacksaw.
That didn't work, did it? Fair enough. Okay, Emily worked off of Haircut Phase 1, the haircut that resembled this fetching Carol Brady do. My standard off-the-cuff rationale for the re-cut went something like, "People
like Carol Brady, but nobody's fighting to take her home." Well, shit, I guess I win! Not only does no one want to take me home, but no one likes me now, either. I love the pop-off mannequin arms, Emily. And anything with a sea creature in it gets an automatic bonus.
Styro knows me well, and so her unabashedly
furious interpretation here is completely accurate. Flinging the fingler? Check. Volcanic glass ground down to sand between my shaking, clenched jaws? Check. Madness in the eyes worthy of my great-aunt who was happily committed after sneaking out of the house to hunt cougars downtown and who tried to poison the entire family with Comet cleanser because she swore it cured cancer? CHECK! She's even got my personal mantra imprinted on the shirt (some people claim that it's really not an "appropriate" mantra for all occasions, forcing me to reiterate that I never
asked to be invited to the goddamned christening in the
first place). You do realize, of course, that any justifiable lack of empathy that you tried to impart here is completely negated by the fact that you fucking misspelled "Costa Rica". I love you, too.
Chris, you would think that a picture like this would make me feel
better: a giant afro with a mangy mullet in the back. It doesn't get much worse than that, right? The problem is that I spent two hours yesterday furiously making iron-on NASCAR mock-turtlenecks against my will. It's like a mullet compulsion. I'm genuinely worried that tomorrow I might wake up with an urge to put the Howard Stern Show on speed-dial and grill cheap meat at someone's apartment complex pool. If I had to guess, I'd say there's probably a pretty solid line of
Maybelline demarcation along that jawline. Mental note: Buy more Keystone Ice. Mental Note 2: And more lip plumper.
Oh,
AP. I love you and I love Gmail chat. There's so much here that no one else is going to understand, and frankly my mood is dictating that we keep it that way. LONG LIVE THE
INSIDE JOKE! When I first saw that #1 Grandpa had succumbed to the lava, I laughed an evil snarly laugh. but then I noticed his very softly closed eyes and his serene, peaceful smile and I stopped laughing. And when I spied his little soft tufts of grandpa hair? That he probably lovingly combed every morning with his dead wife's silver-handled brush that still smells faintly of White Shoulders? I'm not ashamed to tell you that I cried for Grandpa then, and I cursed the evil lava. CURSE YOU, LAVA. That park ranger's hair is fucking hot, but I assure you that if I had any "latent goth tendencies" I would quickly throw them in the dusty emotional sack with all of my other repressed latent tendencies. You know. Like
working. I understand why you were concerned that I might not think the "herpes" comment was funny; apparently there are people out there who don't find incurable sexually transmitted diseases to be the golden jackpot of comedy that
I do. Particularly those who are thinking about starting up a romantic relationship with me. When R and I started dating, I remember one particular romantic dinner wherein he presented me with a dozen red roses, and
I in turn presented
him with a legal waver. "Press hard, Baby," I murmured, my face close to his. "It's in triplicate."
This is one of the several pictures we have that involves the butcher stylist's cheap-ass vehicle.
Cindy, how did you make me look so badass despite having a weird hair pompom on my head? That between-the-eyes furrow tells the whole story. You have an old Paint soul, Cindy. The fact that I very clearly just slammed the bat intimidatingly and threateningly into the palm of my
other hand means that the carnage is obviously impending. I can't wait. I'm going to pretend that the smudges on the truck are dried stylist blood. Oooh! Or maybe I forced her to dye her hair "Muskrat Dead Leaf Brown #23" at bat-point! One thing, though: Cheap Truck Chick totally couldn't afford the awesome Backwoods Hunter's Light Kit. Somebody should explain that to her, preferrably with some lead pipes and a tow truck.
Scott, I think you've participated in every Paint contest that I've hosted thus far. And so it's with sincere genuineness and genuine sincerity that I tell you that your wife has schooled your Paint ass every single fucking time. I do love that I have a Bottomless Pit of Despair for a maw. I don't necessarily love that I have my aunt's pre-op titties, but the Mutant Steroid Fist Of Fingerless Cement Death makes up for it. Dude, Scott,
that is not a cheap truck. Check out that lift kit! I do love the confederate flag, though. It's fitting, too; I don't think I mentioned it, but she's originally from Olympia. Racist whore.
Grampa very kindly offered to scalp Cheap Truck Bitch and torch her cheap-ass ride for me, although you probably already knew that thanks to his not-at-all-on-the-downlow comments. Oh, and his tee shirt. Is that a "V" for peace or are you throwing the bird? You did the whole fucking thing in Paint PENCIL so it's like trying to interpret an Etch-A-Sketch drawing. Dude, did you cut her head off with a pair of
scissors?? I bet that took a really, really long time; thanks for seeing that shit through and not giving up in that tedious fourth or fifth tendony hour. I was actually on the verge of taking you up on your offer of destruction until you happened to comment that you're currently going through chemo. That sort of sobered me out of my petty revenge bullshit agenda, and as my priorities shifted back into focus and the universe became relative again I stopped and went down to one of those organizations that collects hair... where I was told that there weren't any tow truck driving Statler Brothers fans from 1979 who needed anything right now, thanks though. So Grampa? WE'RE BACK ON.
Michelle, I know you're in a cool ass band and all, but I think you may have missed your calling. This is incredible. I think my favorite part (aside from the
deer-- it goes without saying that
deer are always my favorite part, especially just the front ends) is that I have the shoulder span of an NFL lineman. Okay, let's just stop a minute and take a look at quadrant B. Cheap Truck Chick's hand? Has knuckles. And KNUCKLE. WRINKLES. I was merely going to point out how she has the thumb of an Audi mechanic on a first date, but then I noticed the knuckles and I'm stunned, I'm just stunned into Paint awe. I want you to know that I would wear any one of those wigs, ANY GODDAMNED ONE OF THEM. I guess this isn't very mean, but you caught me off guard. You had me at 426 x 500.
Okay!
This one was sent to me almost immediately after the call for submissions. (I'm like 98% sure it's just someone fucking with me, but what if it's not? I can't ignore
Romania!) Hi, Lucaci! This is awesome! Hey, I accidentally let my UN security clearance lapse last year, just FYI. What is this, like a light rail system or something? Fantastic! Okay, thanks for playing!
Moving on! Okay, there's so much cuteness here I can't hardly stand it. The almost completely accurate The Jake, the eyes brimming over with adorable little aquamarine tears, the Dolly Parton physique... I love that my arm is really a probing alien suction device. And that it's NOT. FUCKING. WORKING. My eyelashes are longer than my hair, which is pretty accurate. It's so cute that you've got me packed up in a suitcase that doesn't require an extra $50 and a crane. Okay, for the third time... that truck. NOT CHEAP. What is that? A '65, '66 Chevy? Jesus. We need a class on defining "expensive" for you people. (I showed this to The Jake. "'Holy moly?'" he repeated. "The fuck's
that mean?")
Ceece decided to point out some people who actually have
better hair than I do currently, which I think was thoughtful. And eye opening. Who is that guy on the left? Is he on trial for something? Off topic? Sorry. I'm a little concerned that I don't have any legs, but not overly so. I'm more concerned actually that my eyes are so poorly aligned. Do they really look like that? At least my roots are done. I'll take my small victory solace where I can drink it. I mean
find it.
Oh god,
Proud Mary, you know how to use Photoshop, don't you? DON'T YOU??? I can sense the layers. I'm going to be very still and calm, now; Photoshop layers can smell fear. And crippling inadequacy. Wow! Mouth! Damn! And that hair is... pissing me off, frankly, because you're not far off. Would you believe that when I initially went to Cheap Truck Chick we had a whole conversation in which I pooh-poohed Farah? Oh, we laughed and laughed. "Yes," we agreed, "That would look stupid." Not like
this. Oh no.
Volcano Girl got a couple of things completely right: I
was thinking "Butcher" even while I was "under the knife", so to speak, and I
do actually look like a 47-year-old with a three-pack-a-day ( fuck those pussy
lights) habit. As perhaps the most pro-smoking ex-smoker around, I mean that in the most complimentary sense. Which.. still isn't that complimentary. I mean, check out that eye shadow. I think that color comes free in the three-carton Winston special offer pack. This mouth can only belong to someone who's got at least one 12-year-old living in a trailer in another park. That makes me sad for her. I mean
me. I mean, where's my drink? Did I even
mention my hair in this one? No? Okay, I'm serious about my drink. Give it.
I admit: I thought I got this. And then I decided I was wrong. But then? I thought I got it again. But alas no. I didn't. Not really. Although on some level,
Spirophita, this is really very empowering. Let me just say that if I got a bad haircut and I was Kristy Turlington? I'D BE PISSED. Just SO MUCH MORE pissed than I am right now. That may not seem possible, but it's only because the way my hair looks doesn't dictate how much money I make. I mean, a) I don't have a job, and b) I'm not a supermodel. Okay, wow. 60 to zero. Almost immediately. Thank you. Could you at least send me this top?
I love Microsoft Paint (I still hate Photoshop, motherfucking layering Adobe enigma
bastards) and I love you. Even though I don't feel significantly better or stronger or more confident, we here at the
Loggins and Messina Mullet Base Camp would like to extend our warmest thanks and appreciation. Mullets $3 off. Rat tails half price.
Okay, let's go ahead and get the obvious out of the way: Emily titled this, "I felt bad for Estella until I found out that she was going to Costa Rica". Yeah, touche. I admit that complaining about a haircut and then announcing a ten-day tropical paradise vacation pretty much in the same sentence is tantamount to bitching about a wrist cramp while signing the lottery paperwork. But I ask you to imagine for a second that your wrist is cramping because someone is sawing on it with a rusty hacksaw.
Styro knows me well, and so her unabashedly furious interpretation here is completely accurate. Flinging the fingler? Check. Volcanic glass ground down to sand between my shaking, clenched jaws? Check. Madness in the eyes worthy of my great-aunt who was happily committed after sneaking out of the house to hunt cougars downtown and who tried to poison the entire family with Comet cleanser because she swore it cured cancer? CHECK! She's even got my personal mantra imprinted on the shirt (some people claim that it's really not an "appropriate" mantra for all occasions, forcing me to reiterate that I never asked to be invited to the goddamned christening in the first place). You do realize, of course, that any justifiable lack of empathy that you tried to impart here is completely negated by the fact that you fucking misspelled "Costa Rica". I love you, too.
Oh, AP. I love you and I love Gmail chat. There's so much here that no one else is going to understand, and frankly my mood is dictating that we keep it that way. LONG LIVE THE INSIDE JOKE! When I first saw that #1 Grandpa had succumbed to the lava, I laughed an evil snarly laugh. but then I noticed his very softly closed eyes and his serene, peaceful smile and I stopped laughing. And when I spied his little soft tufts of grandpa hair? That he probably lovingly combed every morning with his dead wife's silver-handled brush that still smells faintly of White Shoulders? I'm not ashamed to tell you that I cried for Grandpa then, and I cursed the evil lava. CURSE YOU, LAVA. That park ranger's hair is fucking hot, but I assure you that if I had any "latent goth tendencies" I would quickly throw them in the dusty emotional sack with all of my other repressed latent tendencies. You know. Like working. I understand why you were concerned that I might not think the "herpes" comment was funny; apparently there are people out there who don't find incurable sexually transmitted diseases to be the golden jackpot of comedy that I do. Particularly those who are thinking about starting up a romantic relationship with me. When R and I started dating, I remember one particular romantic dinner wherein he presented me with a dozen red roses, and I in turn presented him with a legal waver. "Press hard, Baby," I murmured, my face close to his. "It's in triplicate."
Grampa very kindly offered to scalp Cheap Truck Bitch and torch her cheap-ass ride for me, although you probably already knew that thanks to his not-at-all-on-the-downlow comments. Oh, and his tee shirt. Is that a "V" for peace or are you throwing the bird? You did the whole fucking thing in Paint PENCIL so it's like trying to interpret an Etch-A-Sketch drawing. Dude, did you cut her head off with a pair of scissors?? I bet that took a really, really long time; thanks for seeing that shit through and not giving up in that tedious fourth or fifth tendony hour. I was actually on the verge of taking you up on your offer of destruction until you happened to comment that you're currently going through chemo. That sort of sobered me out of my petty revenge bullshit agenda, and as my priorities shifted back into focus and the universe became relative again I stopped and went down to one of those organizations that collects hair... where I was told that there weren't any tow truck driving Statler Brothers fans from 1979 who needed anything right now, thanks though. So Grampa? WE'RE BACK ON.
Moving on! Okay, there's so much cuteness here I can't hardly stand it. The almost completely accurate The Jake, the eyes brimming over with adorable little aquamarine tears, the Dolly Parton physique... I love that my arm is really a probing alien suction device. And that it's NOT. FUCKING. WORKING. My eyelashes are longer than my hair, which is pretty accurate. It's so cute that you've got me packed up in a suitcase that doesn't require an extra $50 and a crane. Okay, for the third time... that truck. NOT CHEAP. What is that? A '65, '66 Chevy? Jesus. We need a class on defining "expensive" for you people. (I showed this to The Jake. "'Holy moly?'" he repeated. "The fuck's that mean?")
Ceece decided to point out some people who actually have better hair than I do currently, which I think was thoughtful. And eye opening. Who is that guy on the left? Is he on trial for something? Off topic? Sorry. I'm a little concerned that I don't have any legs, but not overly so. I'm more concerned actually that my eyes are so poorly aligned. Do they really look like that? At least my roots are done. I'll take my small victory solace where I can drink it. I mean find it.
Oh god, Proud Mary, you know how to use Photoshop, don't you? DON'T YOU??? I can sense the layers. I'm going to be very still and calm, now; Photoshop layers can smell fear. And crippling inadequacy. Wow! Mouth! Damn! And that hair is... pissing me off, frankly, because you're not far off. Would you believe that when I initially went to Cheap Truck Chick we had a whole conversation in which I pooh-poohed Farah? Oh, we laughed and laughed. "Yes," we agreed, "That would look stupid." Not like this. Oh no.
