I’m starting today’s post with an excerpt of a conversation I had on Tuesday with a colleague.
Editor: “Did you get your hair cut?”
Me: “Yeah, I did. I actually got bangs too. My cousin did them for me. They were supposed to be straight-across bangs, but they didn’t turn out quite the way I wanted them too, but it’s fine, I pulled them to the side. They’ll grow out.”
Editor: “Is your cousin a hair stylist?”
Me: “No, but she cuts her own, and she has great bangs.”
Editor: ” Well that’s cute and indie and all, but you’re an adult now, and that’s what your hair stylist is for.”
I have a rather brilliant idea. How about you, Ms. Executive Editor, use your magic powers and procure me a job, and then I’ll have half a shot of getting my hair cut nicely for you in between paying New York rent on a midwest salary, paying my parents back for student loans, and (possibly) eating. The disdain for my life and situation is maddening.
On a different note, I’m going to Ithaca this weekend to visit le boyfriend and go to his little brother’s birthday party (it’s at a bowling alley, where my skills are most certainly wanting). It’s basically the only thing that’s getting me through the week right now. That, and racks on racks of cabernet. I wonder if all fashion closet interns, assistants etc. have secret drinking problems. Or maybe they just subside on a diet of raw foods, electrolyte-infused mineral/coconut water from Acapulco, and Xanax (they’re thin enough where it would make sense).
I don’t have a lot to share today, other than the fact that despite having to give up a lot of favorite foods, I really enjoy being vegan (is it just me, or do I talk about food way too much?) I clearly don’t belong at any of these magazines with my vegan ass and indie-fuck hair.
I’m trying to remember how and why I wanted to be here, again.
Love and veganism,