Chicness is my weakness, as the great Tori Spelling says. First thing I’m going to do when I get to New York is reclaim my bike. Then I’m going to pedal out to Brooklyn and beg Nina, my beloved Lithuanian hairdresser, to fix me.
I’ve had a year and a half of two-dollar Third World haircuts. I’ve hacked at it recreationally with a blunt nail-scissors. There were several dodgy dye-jobs (“You don’t have _semi-permanente_, señorita? Oh, yeah, _permanente_, whatever.”).
And now the final indignity: a Canadian haircut. An _Ottawa_ haircut, like Jean Chrétien. It was a reckless economy measure before New York embezzles my pension, and though my sister swore that Pierre had Toni & Guy training, the bowlcut he perpetrated lacks the _je ne sais rien_ of my Cambodian ‘do.
I look like the lovechild of Wayne Gretzky and Rosie O’Donnell. Fecking Canadians.