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great head

so, if you haven’t figured it out yet, i’m crazy.


but really, i should have known this since forever. ‘cause the signs were there. i mean, i was cutting my hair since about age five.

oh i’m sorry, you didn’t know about that? yeah, two of the sure signs you are crazy:

1. you talk to yourself

2. you cut your own hair

right now my hair is in a kind of “Mia Farrow” thing. which is cute. today. tomorrow i may hate it, but for now it will do. some days it’s more Sharon Stone, some days punk rocker, and some days i do the wet slicked back look. hot. of course, if you catch me in the morning, i’ll have the whole Christopher Walken thing going, but hey, he’s pretty great so that’s ok.

i love my hair. i complain about it all the time, but i’m really lucky to have hair that can be as crazy as i am. i actually dated a guy for a while (boy, i could stop that sentence right there and have people shocked. really? you dated before?) but this guy wanted to ask me out specifically because of my hair. he saw me when i was at work, and he said every day for two weeks i had a different hairdo and that was it; he had to ask me out.

i wonder if that’s how i got my first boyfriend, Alan Frasier. i started cutting my hair back in kindergarten, and i guess i didn’t yet have the finesse with my stubborn cowlick (now i just part creatively) so it’s pretty clear in my class picture who the beautician was. ooops. still, i managed to boyfriend-up the cutest, tallest, smileyest guy in my class, who also had the best hair of the bunch of boys.

so is it the whole birds-of-a-feather thing? not saying you are crazy, Alan, just that, well maybe our mutually awesome heads of hair attracted each other. J

my own brand of crazy

I keep telling someone dear to me that I am crazy. Which is funny for several reasons: 

a. It’s not like this is some big secret. He knows me. He’s seen me in a variety of situations. I’d have to wager that he already knows how bloody fucking crazy I am. It’s sort of one of those things I think people can pick up off of me. Not that I mean it’s contagious; just that it sort of resonates off of me. One girl I worked with years ago used a phrase I have since borrowed and loved: I’m touched with fire. (thanks for that Emily) 

b. It’s funny that I keep telling him, reminding him, in case he’d suddenly forgotten. In case he ran into a wall of Alzheimer’s and couldn’t wipe it all off of him, and now he’s miraculously oblivious to all my nutty antics and wacky behaviors. And just in case he isn’t completely scared off from me yet, why don’t I remind him again of what a psycho nut job case I am? ’Cause that’ll reel ’em in every time. Who doesn’t love a crazy chick? 

c. Who am I kidding? I throw this around, this phrase “I’m crazy” like it’s a special badge, or a golden ticket to a carnival that includes flying elevators and chocolate mixed with things that ought not to be mixed with chocolate and men who wear strange hats. I wear my little crazy badge like it’s something I’ve earned in the Girl Scouts (though really i never was a Girl Scout. i tried to be a Blue Bird for about one day, but the lady scared me off. still, i like their cookies) But really, anyone can earn the Crazy Girl Scout Badge. It’s not all that hard. 

d. And that’s the thing. Aren’t we ALL crazy, when it comes right down to it? We are “crazy in love”, because really how else can it go? Love makes our minds completely silly; we can’t remember what we’re supposed to be doing. We forget to eat. We can’t sleep. And then if it ends badly, we go crazy with upsetness. We want to die. We want revenge. We want to disappear into the atmosphere like the bubbles in a Coke commercial. And if it isn’t love making us crazy, it’s our goddamn relatives, because who doesn’t have some crazy nuts in their family tree? (sorry about the curse word there, whew. it just fit right in so nicely) But everyone has that dad that drinks too much, or the uncle that’s just a little too stalkery, or the kleptomaniac grandmother. Ok fine, I’m talking about my family, but it COULD be yours. Or maybe yours is the sister that sleeps with every breathing thing, or the brother that has to be better than everyone else at everything else. Whatever, when you mash us all together in a family reunion, there are fights and words and bruised egos, and they all make us crazy in the end. 

e. And that’s what happens. We are all crazy in the end. Maybe not certifiable (speak for yourself. i’m trying to get that padded room with the view, so don’t EVEN try to claim it) Maybe not all of us have to take meds (mine aren’t even very fun colored. grrrr…) Maybe some of us try to pass ourselves off as ‘normal’ (i’m completely over that stage of life, thus the Crazy Badge wearing episodes) But when we get right down to it, we all still do the some crazy things we tell ourselves not to do. Fall in love again. Open our hearts up to people. Hope in the future. Believe in the impossible. Trust in the beauty of another day. Crazy. Just like everybody else.  And that’s ok. I just have my own special brand of crazy.