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.
Dervala.com 
I never did have a decent haircut ever in NY. Flew to Chicago every so often to have it done by either my barber or stylist, depending on whether I felt like looking “normal” or “freakycool”. The stylist is none but Rodman’s own – you remember him? Tigerstripe crazy colors and all. Right, the very one. In the old country, my dad and I had a personal barber, so that was no problem. As you can see, the hair thing is high prio. I understand what you’re feeling. I just had a haircut last weekend. Now it’s high time to get my bike back. Yes, I left it back in Brooklyn as well. I miss it very very much.
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That’s quite an image. Hockey hair for a chick.
A mullette.
Please can we see a picture? Pleeeeease!
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Absolutely not. I’m ridiculously vain. Photos of the boiler suit with fifteen layers under it are as far as I go.
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