6.16.98

I am dumb.

It seems as though I never learn. Even though I have failed at adventure many times before, I keep trying to do thrilling things (or at the very least, things which are somewhat spontaneous). Yesterday was a double whammy. Wham, wham!

I am not a big fan of my hairstyle. It's a slightly auburn mop of fine hair, and lots of it. Too scared to cut it short, I keep it about chin-length. Well, I'd been thinking about coloring it for quite some time. Back in my more carefree days, I had colored it many times: blonde, pink, orange, black (which turned green), RED, and then red. Finally, I decided to stop that nonsense. Still, I wanted to have highlights done: something that would liven up the boredom that is my haircolor.

Being the frugal girl that I am, I decided to buy a Clairol highlighting kit. It would be cheaper, I reasoned, and my hands were certainly as steady as those of a stylist. So I bought the goods at Meijer. While I was at Meijer, I decided to pick up a surprise for Evan, who was taking his LSAT. What better post-test gift than a goldfish, I thought. So I waddled around the pet supply section and bought all the things a fish would need. Lastly, I bought the fish. I had wanted to buy it at a pet store, but I hadn't the time; I wanted to sneak into Evan's apartment and leave Fishy as a surprise. So I had to buy the fish at Meijer before taking the bus back to town.

On the bus, a woman kept trying to talk with me. But she had a thick accent and spoke broken English. Through careful observation of her arm gestures, I realized that she was trying to say that my fish was cute and that the old man a few seats away smelled bad. What an interpreter I am.

Half an hour later, I opened Evan's apartment, giddy with my cunning plan. He'd clomp up the stairs, I envisioned, and see his surprise new friend! Oh, how smoove I was to think of this one. So I started to talk with Fishy, telling him all about how much fun he was going to have in his big fish bowl. I arranged the decorative rocks and plastic sea plants before filling the bowl with water. Then, plunk! plop! into the bowl went Fishy. He swam around a bit, and I left smiling.

The walk home was hot, and I felt self-conscious because I was wearing my wicked silver-blue pants. They are stylish, but rather tailored, so I was certain that everybody who passed me in a car was calling me Ghetto Booty or something else like that. Less than a block from home, I greeted a mail carrier. I halfway wished that I hadn't done so, because he then took a few steps toward me and asked me to talk some more. "You have such a nice voice," he said. I stammered a few stupid words and made it to my house.

The trash hadn't been taken out (again), there were dishes strewn about (still), and the air smelled of rancid food (yum). I managed to make it into my room to unload the groceries, and then it was time to begin the joy of haircolor. I read the instructions carefully, excited that I would soon have "natural-looking, subtle highlights." I greedily stole into the bathroom, hands clad in plastic gloves and ready to color. I dabbed the smelly mixture on my hair, watching the clock and using multiple mirrors. Twenty minutes later, I rinsed my hair and took a shower.

Taking a shower in my house is more trouble than you'd think. I live in a rooming house, which means that I share a kitchen and bathroom with other women. It's not bad, save for the dirty kitchen and a girl I've code-named Lurch. Like half of the women in the house, Lurch is pre-law. She's from the west coast, and looks upon the midwest with disdain. She is also a slob: leaves crumbs all over, doesn't flush, leaves the oven on, grows odd flavors of Jell-o in the refrigerator. Anyway, Lurch is the only other one who uses the third floor bathroom besides me. I've found both my nice Herbal Essences body wash and my razor misplaced - either on the floor or in the shower where I hadn't left them. So I have to safeguard my things well. The consequences of doing otherwise are too grim to imagine. Actually, I have imagined them. I have imagined Lurch shaving her armpits with MY razor, using MY body wash to gleefully scrub her belly. It disturbs me, and that's why I keep most of my things hidden in my closet now.

Clean and smelling like a damn flower from le bain, I pranced around my room deciding what to wear to go out to dinner. I decided on my nice black tank dress. What a fox I would be with my pretty new hair and my lovely little dress. But when I looked into the mirror, I did not see subtle highlights. I saw brassy chunks of blonde mixed in with strips of my own color. What a disaster! I looked like a groupie for Winger. I was mortified. I'd never grow to look like Audrey Hepburn. Closer to her calico cat.

So then Evan called, thanking me for Fishy. Jokingly, I asked, "So is Fishy dead yet?"

Evan laughed a nervous laugh. You can guess the rest.