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The importance of punk hair for writers

I am much less stressed now than I was last week. This is partially due to the fact that I took off Friday and have tomorrow off as well. The stress reduction I’m sure is also due in no small part that on Friday morning, I took five of my ten grad school applications to the post office. I still haven’t heard from my adviser and tomorrow will leave another frantic message with her office, but I have decided that it is all out of my hands. I have done the best that I can and if one missing letter of recommendation is going to keep me out of a program, then really, I must not have been that strong of a candidate in the first place. Also, my class is done so I must just wait for my grade to appear on the school’s electronic system.

I suspect that my professor had a crush on me by the end (but then, who doesn’t?), which is fine because there is just something about brilliant artistic men that always makes me tingle, absolutely tingle. Especially when they write words like “dazzling” on my work. He walked into class last week, which was already mostly full of students, singled me out and said ‘Well, hello!’ and then said ‘You changed your hair.’ I nodded and said rather matter-of-factly ‘Yes, every two months I get sick of it and change it. It’s not hair, it’s performance art.’ Which made him laugh and laugh, except that I wasn’t kidding.

In case you’re curious, the old hair was a rich brown with toffee and firecracker red streaks. The new hair is a deep espresso with deep reddish burgundy and champagne (read: bleached) streaks. It’s much more out there than the last one, sort of like a goth in the process of molting but it has the added bonus of being darker than my eyebrows, making my already pale winter skin seem absolutely alabaster. I usually go pretty Republican during the Christmas months, since we see so many older relatives. It’s the good little girl side of me that prevents me from piercing my nose or eyebrow.

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