Sunday morning after having breakfast with my best bud, I went
home and did something I never did before.
I gave myself a haircut. I didn’t
see the back of my hair. I did it by
feeling it. I’m still not sure how it
looks in the back. I have my
doubts. My hair was at my shoulders, so
I cut a lot off. I might dye it. My short hair was so easy to wash. What a load off. I am still not sure if I like how I
look though. I managed to take a pic with my
flip phone. But now I forgot how to get
it on the computer. Oy.
On Monday, I wrapped a colorful scarf around my head and went
to work
like that. I still haven’t dyed
my hair. When I got home, I
took the scarf off and began to like my hair better than the day before. I snipped some more that I could see needed
it. But as far as the back goes, I’m concerned
I gave myself a patch shorter than all the rest. I think I will not cover my hair when I go to
work on Tuesday. No guarantees though. I could change my mind.
This evening, May 22nd, I’m going to see Bronx
Tales – the storytelling
event produced by Lehman Stages, directed by Dante
Albertie. It is free and at 7pm at the
Studio Theatre on the campus of Lehman College on Bedford Park Blvd. in the
Bronx. This time, I’m not in it. I’m going to watch it. No anxiety.
I’m going to sit back and be audience.
Saturday, May 26th at 6:30 is the Funny Underground Comedy Show at
Broadway Comedy Club. I’m on the
line-up. I would love to see you and hear
you laughing.
Cheaper to get tickets on line than at the door.
Update: I didn't cover my hair today. My students said I look younger with the short hair. One told me I look like 16 (which is a great exaggeration) and that I will be married again. I yelled, "God forbid!"
hair is always good to write about. Love your hairpiece. Are you getting to workshop tomorrow? This is my poem. Suggestions?
Crossing Harlem
Clamp on those rich headphones
Don’t give a shit
Yo I strut across 125 street
A 80 year old white dyke tomcat
But it’s a land of decrepitude
I sidestep the wheelchairs, walkers, canes,
Mount the steps for my Scarsdale train
Then tears flow,
It’s my Schubert Sonata does me in
on those headphones.
He sets me on a river of regret and continuance
and gratitude, that I have not been reduced
like her or him
like this or that sad cat.
When I give the kid a dollar,
I miss my train.
Jessica! I do hope to get to the workshop. I like your poem a lot. There's a moment where I get lost, but that's what workshop is for. :-)
Jessica, I was needed at the job to help find rooms for the evening classes. Then I was tired, didn't have a poem to present, and stayed home. :-( Sorry to disappoint.