Gender is Playdough : 05.15.03 @ 11:13 pm

I stand nervously in the lobby of the immigrant-run ghetto-ed out-all-I-can-afford hair dressers. I've been here before and the receptionist calls the lady who I like out to the lobby, while I stand in front of the monitor to sign in, fidgeting slightly as I try to gather my proverbial balls.
Maria waddles out, her Italian roots showing through with the excess pasta hanging around her hips and the bright, warm smile.
She's from Tuscany, she told me a few months ago, the first time I sat in her chair.
I take a breath.
"How do you think I'd look with shorter, spiked hair and high-lighted blonde?" I ask in a woosh of breath.
A slow smile spread across her face and she nodded and murmured � "Good, good".

The cynic in my couldn't help but think that she just wanted the big tip that would come along with one of the more expensive styles that I was asking for.
The 15% tip alone would equate to an hour's worth of pay and tips for me.

Things are much more expensive down here, yet even the immigrant fresh from Mexico can some how afford to come to Starbucks every day and order the most expensive drink on the menu, carefully counting out crumpled dollars and dirty coins that are unbroken and complete, unlike his English.
Starbucks. Yet another corporate whore, flashing a little leg to those who desire The American Dream.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror as one of Maria's bands of breadsticks disguised as skin pressed against my arm, jiggling slightly as she took the first, symbolic snip of hair.
I closed my eyes to the reflection and relaxed, resigning myself to Maria's scissors.

The drier shut off, my hair was rinsed and then gruffly tugged out of the ridiculous plastic cap. I hear her exclaim � she likes it, she says. It looks good.
I look at myself in the mirror, and it is highlighted a bright, punk blonde.

Not quite the look I was going for, I think wryly to myself.

Later at the lunch table, Sean comments on how, like most blatantly homosexual styles, it tends to bring up the question of gender.

Monday, I will wear a femmey brown peasant skirt with the blouse that was altered so the world wouldn't see rosy pink circles poking through. It will contrast nicely with my inch-long punk blonde colored hair.
Gender is a brand of playdough that doesn't fit in its nice plastic container anymore.

There's this girl that has been intriguing me for awhile now.
I keep on seeing her places, hell, I've seen her everywhere lately. We've even had small, short conversations in the hallway after third period.
Due to people from my new school knowing her and knowing about this diary, I will not name her, nor will I go into any further detail.
Let's just say I'd like to get to know her a little bit better then I do.

Today I asked Mrs. O if our school had a book club, with every intention of asking her to help me start one if we didn't.
So we're starting a book club for next year, and somehow it morphed into a Women's Book club with both Mrs. O and the teacher who shares her room on board, as well has half of the class.
I do think that will be fun. And starting up a book club at my school might help my pitiful college application limp into the acceptance pile. That and whatever volunteering job I can find over this summer...

/A

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