The New York Haircut

In a town where a decent haircut can cost you upwards of $70, it was inevitable. Cleverly called D.d.U. Model Project* (aka Dumble & Dumble University*), they make it their mission to lure you in with fancy paper cups of water and a hip meatpacking-district location. That, along with the trendy marketing, the rave reviews from acquaintances and the fact that it was free — OK, maybe just the fact that it was free — and I was hooked. They assessed my hair type, told me I was suitable for a haircut (praise Jesus!), and booked me for a Long Layers Razor Cut. Just one thing. Everyone who knows me, knows that I can't make a decision to save my life. A week before my appointment, I decided I wanted a change and switched to a Razor Bob Cut. I was under the impression that the cut would be funky and cool, not Hillary Clinton. My mistake. Have you ever heard of a cool bob? Am moron. Nonetheless, I assumed they would work with me, my hair type and my lifestyle (I have a creative job and don't wear pantsuits to work).

I was doomed from the moment I sat down. There I am, with about 19 other girls sitting in little barber stools. The students stylists shuffle in and make small talk with their victims clients. I'm alone. Palms are starting to sweat. Am feeling like the odd man out in 6th grade gym class. Finally, a petite woman wearing a giant rhinestone belt buckle walks over and introduces herself as Jody*. I have a thing for firm handshakes; hers was weak. Strike one...

Fatty, Fatty, Two By Four...

It just hit me. I haven't changed a bit. I was perusing my own blog archives (I know, I'm a dork. I get a kick out of how moronic I am, OK?) Anyway, I came across this. I pulled that "chubby or average" line less than a month ago on my friend Andy when we were at the beach! "If I was walking down the street, and you didn't know who I was, would you think I was kind of fat and chubby or just average?" WTF?! Who asks questions like that? Not only to their friends, but to their guy friends?! I always end the question with an over-explanation of, "I'm OK being average! Really! I know I'm not skinny, or even thin so much. I just want to make sure I'm not, like, really fat. Because sometimes, I don't know. We all tend to have a distorted body image  of  ourselves. So, well, it's not like you would even tell me if I was fat. You're my friend; that would be awful. So, I don't know why I asked, sorry..." By that point the poor guy is looking at me as if I have four heads, mumbles that I'm not fat and quickly changes the subject. Then I indiscreetly change the subject back to my epidermal thickness. He pretends he doesn't hear me. After a handful of unsuccessful attempts at satisfactory reassurance, I take the hint and shut up. Seriously. Is that shit even normal?

Inked (Midwest vs. NYC)

I'll be the first to admit it: I'm a bit of a closet hoodlum. I got a cute little butterfly tattooed on my stomach at 16. I got my tongue pierced at 18, then took it out two weeks later. I got my tongue pierced again at 19 and left it in for two years. I liked the fact that it shocked people. Sweet little Tina is borderline dangerous? No way. Way. I got a pink star tattooed on my foot at 24. And now, at 26, all within the past month, I've gotten my nose pierced and now—more ink. After this experience, I assure you, I am done. Finito. No more.

You see, it's like this: I'd wanted a small tattoo on my left wrist for awhile now—ever since I found out that Lindsay Lohan had the word "breathe" tattooed in faint white on her wrist, basically a personal reminder to keep going, no matter how hectic life could get. Lindsay is not my role model by any means, but I began to think of what word I would want to get. Nothing stuck. So on my recent trip home, I debated getting a tattoo anyway. They're half the price in the Midwest, as compared to New York. My friend CC back home wanted one, too. So we went to some place in the tiny town of Belton, MO, where her friend's brother worked. He was busy, so he had his co-tattoo artist, Mike, do the job. The place was nice and clean. Mike was cute. It worked for me. I suddenly got the genius idea to get outlines of two stars. Purple and teal. Mike thought it would look cool. I figured it matched the shirt I was wearing that day. He made the stencil. I asked if it could be smaller. Mike said no. I didn't believe him but didn't press the issue. I should have, considering that this was a PERMANENT decision! But I was in a "let's get this shit over with" kind of mood...

The Jersey Shore (what you won't see on MTV)

Aside from my love for Chinatown street vendors and the cheap-but-high-quality manicures, there's only one thing that keeps me loyal to the East Coast: The Jersey Shore. And it's not the fist-pumping, mesh-shirt-wearing guidos in Belmar, mind you. Quite simply? The beach. Coming from Missouri where all you have is a grassy knoll near Blue Springs Lake, this excites me. Which brings me to... last weekend. 

Friday 
I pack up and head down with my friends Andy (above, right) and Steve (above, left) to Andy's shore house in Manasquan. We arrive only to immediately drop off our stuff and go out. Fun times. But nothing really worth blogging about. Ew. The fact that I just used "blog" as a verb officially makes me a tech-y Internet loser.

Saturday

Awake moderately early and walk to the beach. The local deli we stopped at for breakfast explains the summer-shore-house phenomenon perfectly. Along with bagels, coffee and assorted breakfast sandwiches, this deli had a few necessities for sale behind the checkout counter: Ping-pong balls labeled "Beer pong balls," tampons, a few decks of playing cards and an opened box of 40 condoms, which led me to believe they were selling the salami slings individually. Nothing else. No sunscreen for forgetful beach goers. Just balls, tampons, cards and condoms. But my bagel was delish. The beach was nice, too. I love that you can find seashells, something that lake beaches just can't duplicate, no matter how great the men make it. Anyway, after the beach, we got ready to head out to the one major club in Manasquan. Which leads me to The Story of Man Whore...

New Yorkers Are Sluts

It's true. The average American woman has had roughly six sexual partners. But the average female New Yorker? Twenty. 2-0. I'm not kidding. Why the large discrepancy? It could be any number of things:

• The Bible Belt. Perhaps they're waiting until marriage to do the deed.
• Marriage. When it comes to America, New York may as well be another country. Whereas most folks marry in their 20s, NYCers tend to tie the knot (if at all) in their 30s. More single time=more sexy time with more people.
• Stress. Though wonderful, New York is a stressful place to live. With 1.7 million people living within 23 square miles, it's a giant cement melting pot of conflicting, high-strung personalities. They alleviate that stress by going to the gym and getting it on.
• The volume of potential partners. You can hook up with someone in New York, and chances are, you will never see that person again. But you hook up with someone in rural America, and it's bound to be a poorly kept secret.

As for me? I'm not telling. I'm probably more your average American woman than New Yorker. But then again, I likely won't marry until I'm in my 30s.