Posts Tagged ‘hair model’

You Have My Thoughts

January 25, 2021

An old friend reached out to me yesterday.

We talked for a long time.

We have been friends for a bit over fifteen years.

He was so effusive about how my life has turned out and all of the challenges I have faced to get to where I am.

“I know what you did, it’s amazing, you pulled yourself up from literally nothing and worked harder with constraints that few people I know would have been able to get through,” he said.

He witnessed me in my first year of sobriety when I literally had nothing, could barely make the rent, even cheap, rent controlled rent, barely had money for food, let alone a bus pass or taxi cab.

He took me everywhere.

He had a scooter and a convertible Mercedes Benz.

I was either on the back of that scooter or I was in the passenger seat of that Benz all the time.

We were joined at the hip.

Everyone.

EVERYONE.

Thought we were dating.

But nope.

Nary a kiss, never a date, nothing.

Although we would do things that if I was witnessing others do, especially a man and a woman, I would think, oh yeah, they’re totally together.

He took me out to lunch and dinner all the time.

He bought me clothes.

I was so broke in my first couple of years of sobriety, so broke.

He took me out dancing.

We both loved to dance.

We saw djs all over the city.

Sometimes we would just drive around in his convertible with the top down and blast music and find spots to dance–Twin Peaks, the little cove down by the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, random parking lots in the SOMA, Treasure Island.

It was a night out at Treasure Island, with no fog and a warmer than usual temperature, the city across the bay sparkling and magic, that I asked him after we had been dancing in the headlights to music and had collapsed back into the car to drink water and catch our breaths.

“Why aren’t we dating?” I asked.

He paused.

He was quiet for a long time.

He said, “well, I mean, I guess I could see you giving me a blow job, but where would it go after that and we’re such good friends, I mean, it just doesn’t seem worth going there.”

I punched him in the arm, “you could see me giving you a blowjob?!”

“Well, yeah, I mean, you know, you’ve got a great mouth,” he replied and grinned at me.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I said and looked back out over the water.

I never gave him a blow job.

We stayed friends.

Thick as thieves.

And life happened.

Life happens.

My best friend died, he know I had a crush of sorts on my friend, and would tease me once in a while about that, but also in a way that didn’t really razz me up.

When Shadrach died in General Hospital someone reached out to my friend and said, “come and get Carmen and take her out and feed her.”

I was shellacked.

I had been in that ICU by Shadrach’s side or with his family for seven days in a row, eight maybe. My friend had not been able to make it in to say good bye to Shadrach.

But.

He showed up that night in his Mercedes and took me to Chow on Church and Market and he told me to order a steak and eat it.

I did.

Then he took me out to Treasure Island and told me, “talk about it.”

I did.

I told him all the stories and the sadness and the horror of watching Shadrach die and he just held my hand and let me cry on his shoulder.

He was a good friend.

He always was.

Sometimes a bit intense, sometimes suddenly unavailable, but someone I could talk to for hours, someone who made me laugh, someone who always was up for having and adventure.

The time we went to see Gary Neuman at the Fillmore and then got out of the show with enough time to whip over to the Castro Theater and see Tron.

Or Goldfrapp at the Fillmore.

Or Sunshine Jones in so many different clubs.

Or Eric Sharp at some underground deep in the SOMA in a warehouse.

Or when he got a projector and we found a deserted parking lot in the SOMA next to a huge white painted wall and watched the Daft Punk Movie Interstella 5555.

Or sitting in front of Ritual in the Mission, before they had outside seating, on the sidewalk drinking lattes, with a boombox blasting Michael Jackson.

He taught me how to play dominoes, “bones,” and then would brutally beat me at it all the time.

I could name a lot more.

There were many, many, many adventures.

The weekend in Vegas.

And there were many, many, many girlfriends.

Some who liked me.

Some who absolutely couldn’t stand me.

My friend dated women I worked with, mutual friends, women I sponsored, (Shadrach joked once, “why doesn’t he just go right to the source,” meaning me), friends of other friends.

All sorts of ladies.

He got serious with one of them and I really liked her, hell I even lived with them for a couple of months when I had lost a job and my apartment in Nob Hill with seven years sober and ended up taking a huge pay cut and going to work at Mission Bicycle Company as a shop girl, she was sweet.

They opened a hair salon together.

One or the other of them was always doing my hair.

I was my friend’s hair model for a long time.

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I got to rock some ridiculously fabulous hair.

Most of the time.

Every once in a while he did something that I was like, “dude, no, cut it off.”

The time he gave me a tail.

That only lasted two days.

Maybe only half a day, now that I think about it.

He also went to school to learn make up and to this day I credit him with teaching me how to do makeup.

And to love glitter.

When he reached out to me recently I told him I had stopped dying my hair crazy colors, after he and his girlfriend moved away, I went to a mutual friend who took me blonde and then hot pink, to be a therapist and have a professional look.

I even toned down the make up for a bit.

But it snuck right back in.

I couldn’t give up the glitter.

He texted me, “NEVER give up the glitter.”

A lady likes a man who isn’t opposed to glitter.

He got engaged.

He bought a house.

They broke up.

He moved to L.A.

That’s where he’s at now, muddling through the pandemic as an essential worker.

I can’t even imagine, although a number of my therapy clients have indicated that they consider me an essential worker, I just can’t imagine being out in the public as much as my friend is.

We reconnected back around July or August, played a lot of phone tag, and didn’t actually get to talk until after Thanksgiving.

And it was like riding a bike.

We talked for hours.

Every week or so we’d text a little.

And we caught up after the holidays and.

And.

Well.

Ha.

He’s interested, all these years later, in dating.

I was surprised as hell.

Although, when I have had some time to think about it I realized he’d asked a few times what my dating situation was.

“Non-traditional,” I replied once.

And.

He sent me a song one day on Spotify, “I Adore You,” by Goldie.

I loved the song.

I looked up the lyric’s, well, huh, those are some interesting lyric’s.

This seems like a love song.

Is my friend sending me a love song?

Maybe.

When all is said is done
After the run we’ve had
Let me be the one
I’ll be there for you
Better to let, better to let you know I was a fool in love
Just enough to want you more I adore you
And I’ll never let you go I adore you When all is settled dust
After the storm has passed
Let me be the one to shine on you
Better to let, better to let you know I am a fool in love
Just enough to want you more I adore you
And I’ll never let you go After the run we’ve had
After the tears we’ve cried
On all those lonely nights
I still want you in my life I see you in my mind
And now the sun don’t shine
And I’m just getting by
So why can’t you be mine?

It sounds like a love song!

And then.

One night, it came out, he was texting me and he said, “would it be crazy if we went on a date?”

What?!

We texted back and forth for a while and decided, maybe it would not be.

We went a few weeks without talking about it and he did his thing and I did my thing.

But.

It’s come up again and we talked yesterday, for a long time, and we’re going to give it a shot.

Holy shit.

I mean.

I still can’t quite believe it.

He’s going to take some time off from work and come up over a weekend and stay at an old friends house and we’re just going to see what it feels like.

HOLY SHIT.

I’m excited, nervous, think I need to lose five pounds, happy, curious, all the things.

We both agreed that whatever happens, we’re just investigating and we won’t stop being friends.

It could be a hilarious wrong turn.

Or it could be a dance party.

I don’t know.

He doesn’t have a Mercedes anymore.

But he does have a Cadillac.

So I expect we will cruise around the city and revisit old haunts.

And maybe.

Make out?

We shall see.

More will be revealed.

Pampered

May 19, 2014

Spoiled.

Taken care of.

Two cappuccino’s later.

New highlights.

New color.

Love.

Not going to show the world yet though, there are still two more sessions of hair goodness coming down the pike from Solid Gold Salon.

Today, subtle and not so subtle.

The subtle?

The lowlights in my roots that completely masked the few grey hairs I have.  Blessed with some awesome genetic markers on my genome, at the age of 41 years, I have perhaps five grey hairs on my head.  But, I don’t need to see them and they got covered up today.

The not so subtle?

More blonde.

Lots of blonde.

In fact, the colorist and I discussed pulling it up even further the next time we meet.  It’s not a traditional ombre, it’s what is called a bilayage, which is a much more subtle, “natural” if you will, way to color the hair so that I won’t have weirdo roots when it grows out.

That’s the thing for me.

I love going to the salon, but I don’t care to spend a lot of time on my own hair in the mornings.

I have more important things to do, eat, pray, make bed, write.

Then muss about with my hair, aside from throwing a flower dipped in glitter into it, I have no desire to spend time styling it.

So, going into the salon is a super huge treat and I have not had this much goodness in my hair in a long time.

It’s not a splurge per se, as the new colorist is getting her chops on my head, but I happily accept.

I know my friend is not hiring hacks at his business, I am grateful to allow them practice on my hair, and if it doesn’t turn out, they will fix it.

But man, it turned out.

No photos yet though.

We have decided to wait to do the big reveal.

I still have two more services to go.

Another round of color–pink and violet in a pastel tones–and more blonde.

Then the Brazilian Blow out.

After that photos.

I was relaxing this afternoon in the back yard with a book after having made up my food for the week–homemade pinto beans with olive oil and diced carrots, onions, garlic, sea salt, black pepper, brown rice, chicken with roasted white corn and garlic sautéed kale–just relaxing in the sun, reading my library book, drinking some tea, listening to the smash of the waves on the shore and realizing, for the umpteenth time, how lucky I am.

I was also grateful to not be in the wild crush of Bay to Breakers, which I had a small taste of taking the N-Judah down town at 2:30p.m. this afternoon.

I had thought that it would be done and over, but even heading back this evening at 7:45p.m. I see a gaggle of girls crossing the street, tipsy, in knee-high red athletic socks and red panties.

It’s like Burning Man.

Except obnoxious.

And with no art.

And running shoes.

Girls, please, put some pants on, the event is long done.

Go home.

Tomorrow, it’s Monday, that hang over’s gonna suck a bag bad.

Oh well.

I stayed out of the fray.

I heard a lot of it, garbled shouts and noise and ruckus, but didn’t see much of it, I stayed at home, cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, then reading in the back.

Perfect Sunday for me.

Add to that going to the hair salon and I feel like a god damn princess.

I forget that I am allowed to do things like this.

There is still a large part of me that thinks I need to suffer to get ahead or I won’t get ahead.

Note to self.

There is nowhere to go.

Here is just fine.

In fact, it’s pretty god damn sweet.

Why wait until I am retired to sit in the sun and read a book?

Why not let myself get pampered and have my hair done and revel in a scalp massage.

Note to any future boyfriend out there, want my number, give me a cranial massage.

I swear, it’s the best, a washing of the hair and a face and scalp massage.

Sigh.

It’s near sexual.

It’s over the top sensual.

One of the loveliest things.

I need to allow myself lovely things.

I saw a pretty dress in a shop today and I thought, I should go back and get that.

And I actually believe I will.

Not this month though.

My spending plan allotment for clothes got eaten up by my hair.

I hadn’t even thought about doing all this stuff with my hair, but then when it all happened the way it did, I was all in and booked the time.

Plus, well, you know, Burning Man is like in less than 100 days and I, uh, like to have some fun hair for the event.

Shit.

I like fun hair any old-time.

My friend who owns the salon was telling one of his clients about a hair style he had done for me, hot pink, faux hawk, shaved up the back, like shaved to the skin, and the client could not picture it.

Sometimes I can’t either.

But I remember well sitting in the kitchen of his place while he mixed his dyes and compared notes and directions.

He’s come a damn long way and it’s been really fun to see that too.

From sitting in his kitchen to sitting in his salon.

Grateful for that perspective too.

He’s seen me through some rough transitions.

From taking me out to a steak dinner the night I said good-bye to Shadrach at the hospital and then driving me over the bridge to Treasure Island to see the city sparkle and shine in the black water of the bar and letting me cry on his shoulder with the loss.

To letting me crash on his couch for two months when I lost my place in Nob Hill and transitioned to working at the bike shop.

To now, 9 years later, still close friends, giving each other shit, talking smack, coloring my hair, teaching me how to ride a vintage Vespa scooter, and being my friend, through it all.

Pink hair to purple to magenta to blue and back again.

I have amazing friends.

You.

My friends.

Are AMAZING.

Just know that.

I love you.

I do.

All The Old Familiar Places

September 8, 2013

The streets of San Francisco were all a bustle today.

No fog.

No chill.

Just sunshine and ice cream cones.

And lines at the ice cream shops.

Bi-Rite, it still amazes me that anyone will wait that long for an ice cream cone.

The last time I was there, years ago, was on my birthday.

As my birthday is in December, there was no line.

I rode the 33 bus to the Mission today after a very slow start to my day.

I am staying at the family’s home for the weekend.  The thought of getting myself to East Oakland brought tears to my eyes this afternoon when I was trying to figure out what and where I was going to go and when I was going to do it.

I decided to take the family up on their invitation to let me stay as long as I need.

I need until tomorrow night.

I spoke with my friend on the phone earlier and the in-law is looking great, but it is not quite done.  A few more touches here and there, another coat of primer on the cabinets in the kitchen and another of paint.

Unless I want to sleep in some fumes, she recommended that I wait to move in until Monday.  I can do that.  I don’t want to huff paint fumes my first night in the new place.

She’s going to loan me some furniture until I get myself set up, so I won’t be moving into a barren room.  And she is, schedule depending, probably going to help me move my stuff from East Oakland out to the in-law on Monday as well.

This will be great as I can also catch up with her.

I missed my friends.

That was very evident to me as I made some phone calls and caught up with some fellows and made plans to meet up with some ladies in Noe Valley today.

Thus the being on the 33 bus and the sight line on Bi-Rite ice creamery.

I decided after a bit of out and about–one trip to the phone place to fix the phone–$50 later, but so much better than buying a new one completely–and one trip to Whole Foods to get a few groceries for the next couple of days, that I did not have it in me to navigate the city on my bicycle.  I wanted to take it slow.

I had breakfast at Crepes on Cole while the phone was getting repaired and wrote my morning pages in the middle of their bustling brunch crowd.

It was not as surreal as I thought to be returning, but my brain does not yet seem to be firing on all pistons.

And I found myself getting mad at a hippie caravan of dust bowl campers.

“Motherfuckers, you’ve been back over a week, clean that shit up, you asshats,” I thought to myself as I walked into the parking lot of Whole Foods at the end of Haight Street.

I mean, I got in two loads of laundry last night and another two this morning–one more of mine mixed with some of the baby’s things–I wanted to make sure that he got his little Pedro Bunny clean and his Kitty Cat for nap times.

Plus, I, oh there I am getting all indignant and I know better than you how to burn.

I don’t, but the hippies did rub my fur the wrong way or maybe it was the tourists who were taking photos of the dusty hippie camper.

“What’s the difference between a burner and a hippie?”

“A ticket.”

There, all out of my system.

Part of it is just being in the Haight neighborhood, the little Hippie Hill in Golden Gate park, the number of dirty trustafarians hustling “dank nugs” on the street, and “sweet smoke” and the grime of it all.

Trust me, I am not into grime, dirt, or dust right now.

I was more than happy to wash the playa out of my clothes, and hair.

Speaking of hair, say bye-bye to it.

I am going short again.

And I am going crazy color again.

I was asked to be the hair model for my friend’s salon who is being featured in a 7×7 shoot on upcoming fall hair trends.

What?!

I got the message and of course my response was that I would happily be their model.

Are you kidding me?

I know the cut is going to be edgy and modern and forward and their will be bright colors and probably weird crazy makeup.

Come on, I just got back from Burning Man, bring on the funky crazy cool cut.

I am down.

Plus I get to be in a photo shoot.

Hello.

My ego got all puffed up and excited.

Yes please.

Now I can say that I have been published in Paris–The Bastille, I have the song writing credits as well as lyrics for an album–Belle Ame Electronique, I am in a movie–Spark, A Burning Man story, and I get to be featured as a hair model in 7×7 magazine.

Awesome.

I am sort of famous you know, mostly in my own mind, but maybe just a tiny bit out there too.

I am excited.

Although, I have to say, the long hair has been lovely and it feels pretty right now and I talked with the Mister today, he who left me a message, and we are going to see each other next week, and I like being pretty and feminine, I do.

But, come September 18th, the hair will be radical.

That’s ok though, if I recall, he’s seen me with some far out there hair.

I mean when we were dating before I moved to Paris, it was blue.

I think he can handle it.

It was good to talk to him and I stated pretty much up front that I wanted to see more of him.  This getting together every other month or so is nuts.

As it turns out he just moved to the Richmond and I being on my way to the Sunset, will be putting us in much closer approximation.  I foresee more of him in my future.

Foreseeing some beach walking action I am.

Oh gush.

Hand holding on the beach?

Really?

Sure, I might have a mohawk for it though.

Inside, however, will still beat the drum of an old school romantic.

You can tattoo the girl, you can dye her hair magenta, but you can’t scrub that heart off her sleeve.

You can even cover it up with a fine layer of dust.

But wipe gently and you will see it, just there.

Just so.

Just so ready to love.

And be loved.

I left my heart in San Francisco.

And I am here to pick it back up.


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