Blonde Widow

When I first decided to pluck the hair of my widow’s peak, I didn’t really think[1] about the consequences of my actions. I didn’t really think about the severe hardships that growing a widow’s peak back in would eventually incur in my life. And, I didn’t really think about the fact that growing a widow’s peak back in would require me at some point to dye my hair BROWN.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with what exactly a widow’s peak is, I would like to take this opportunity to educate you. A widow’s peak, as described from the invaluable source, Answers.com is, “A V-shaped point formed by the hair near the top of the human forehead.” About six years ago, in a tremendous hair bout, I decided I would pluck a little bit of the hair in my widow’s peak (which by the way was hardly a widow’s peak at all). So, I did it. Some moments later, I began to see that by simply plucking my hair line I had truly made a mess of my life. From that day on, about every four to five days, I would have to add plucking my widow’s peak to my grooming routine. Often, weeks would go by when I would neglect the “peak” and would hear puzzled inquires from my loved ones such as, “what is that thing..?” and “… ya got something on your forehead.” Of course, I would briskly dismiss these formalities with a simple “I don’t know what you’re talking about” and try to change the subject. Years went by. Years of plucking.

Finally I realized that I couldn’t go through my entire life plucking my widow’s peak… I mean, how far could I take this one? Marriage? Children? I could just hear myself screaming to my kids downstairs, “Stop crying!! Mommy has to just pluck her godd**m widow’s peak and then we can have ice cream with rainbow sprinkles!!” Wow.

So, I decided to quit cold turkey. Unfortunately, my hair was blonde and my widow’s peak was a tad darker. And by a “tad darker” I mean my widow’s peak was black--- and that was when I realized that I had only one choice: to dye my hair dark.

I had made a mistake like this before one hot summer eve at my college alma mater, but how quickly we forget how minute changes in our physical appearance can affect our lives. Needless to say, I became a “pretty” brunette and my widow’s peak grew a little longer…. But, at the end of the day, I was never and could never be a brunette. And, after four whole months of “doing my time” as my wise friend once explained to me, I was done. DONE. (Yeah, I know that’s not the correct usage of the word, I know it should be finished, but “finished” doesn’t quite explain how I felt about being brunette).

So, I made the appointment, dropped the $400, (was unhappy and went back two days later to become more blonde—right, of course) and finally I was me again. Me.

My name is Suzanne, and I am not—and will never be —a brunette… I am a blonde. So, New York City, look out 'cause....

...we haven’t even met yet.

(as for the widow’s peak, she's doing well, but I’ll keep you updated).

---

[1] All italicized phrases to be performed in a classic voice impersonation of Dame Barbara Streisand.

My Favorite Pinksweater

Vanessa frantically texted me on Saturday morning.  She was about to get on a flight to visit her new born nephew in Iowa, but it looked as if she would have to flap her arms to get the plane off the ground.  "I'm sitting in the front row, back row, cockpit and bathroom all at the same time," she wrote when she mustered up the courage to get on board.  I imagined it was one of those small planes that television leads you to believe are always filled with chickens, goats and a smelly Greek-speaking farmer or two.  A few moments later, she let me know the plane was crowded, but with slightly different company.  The University of Iowa was doing a production of Saturday Night Fever and the props had to be hand delivered. Vanessa was surrounded by disco balls and bell bottoms.

The two years that Vanessa has lived in the city can be most accurately described as a shit storm.  She has thrown some epic dinner parties, which usually end with her floors being covered in beer, scrabble letters, hot wax, and the occasional open flame; she has accidentally gotten us into SNL cast parties; hosted impromptu tours through the abandoned buildings of Williamsburg; and taken me and her boyfriend lesbian speed-dating.

The stories that have come out of spending time with Vanessa are absurd to the point of being offensive. They are often so unbelievable that my roommates have come to the conclusion that my friendship with Vanessa is an elaborate lie to hide my secret double life.  To my roommates "going to hang out with Vanessa" is my way of saying "I'm going to have sex with hooker donkeys.  But I'm too ashamed to tell you the truth."

I'll admit that I embellish some facts, rearrange some events to make a story sound more over-the-top than it really was.  I suppose it stems out of a deep rooted fear of boring people and constant demands from friends and family to "be funny." But rarely do I ever flat out lie.  Besides, what makes a more entertaining story than sex with hooker donkeys?  I wouldn't be able to keep that to myself any more than the plethora of std's they would give me.

Unfortunately, Vanessa won't be taking a flight back to the city anytime soon. After some quality time with the baby, she's taking the shit storm on an international road show.  My weekends will certainly lose an element of ridiculousness.  Who knows - I may find plenty of my own shenanigans to get into, but regardless of whether my weekends will need embellishing or not, I'm going to miss her.

Bring It On

When I was a young boy, years ago, I used to dream of living in New York City. (I'm twenty-four years old. I've come to a point in my life where I can say "years ago" and it actually means "years ago." (i.e. "Oh, of course, Club Shelter. I went there years ago," or "Years ago, I was often mistaken for a lesbian.")) Somehow, to me, New York City was this incredible force that would solve all of my problems and even moreso, elevate me to levels of fabulousness that I could only imagine. Weekend trips to New York in high school were always filled with thoughts of my future life there. And, to you "NYC-is-the-best" skeptics, my idealization of NYC wasn't all based on cultural/media propaganda or geographical bias (as, I certainly did grow up right outside New York City). There was some of my own logic that went into perceiving New York City as paradise.

That is, it's undeniable that New York City is a veritable "best-of capital" of the world. Arguably, NYC is home to the best food, the best nightlife, the best art, the best theater, the best music, the best fashion, the best ________. Fill in the blank. Chances are New York City is at the top of the list; or at least pretty close. And in housing all of these "bests", NYC, in some way, houses the best people in the world.

This was my logic. I thought, if I could be amongst the best, I would become the best. I would find a great job. I would find cultural edification. And, there was also the issue of love. I thought, with statistical certainty, there would be a greater volume of queer people in New York City. And there wouldn't be as much ingrained racism in the dating-culture in New York; the people there were more worldly and wouldn't look at me differently for being brown-skinned. The numbers would be in my favor in New York City.

On September 11, 2007, a day marred with the memory of destruction and violence, my two best friends and I moved to Manhattan. It was, no exaggeration, a dream come true.

"Here I am, New York City," I thought. "Bring on the energy. Bring on the people. Bring on the Life."

It has been seven months now. I can't say nothing has happened. I got a great job with a major pharmaceutical company. I'm almost sure that wouldn't have happened if I wasn't in New York. I worked at Dolce & Gabbana. I met some great people. I got some amazing clothes. I went to a few memorable parties. I essentially got everything I wanted. But for the past few weeks, I've been wondering, "Is this all?"

I wondered, "where's the feeling of excitement that used to seem synonymous with this city? Where's the feeling of certainty that I'm spending the days of my precious youth prudently? And, where's my great transforming love?"

But the truth is, I was being hasty. Like the buds appearing on trees, I've been finding traces of hopefulness surfacing in myself after a very long absence (one that extended far past the onset of last winter). And my questions were good; they have kept me treading on the path towards contentment and self-betterment. If I got everything I wanted now; what kind of story would that be?

I'll tell you: a mighty boring one.

The question is not, "Is this all"? The question is, "Where do I look next?" Because, what is the most remarkable thing about New York City and its "bests", is the assurance of limitless chance. Anything is possible. Anything.

And that is the answer to my first two questions. Excitement is the feeling of liveliness in the light of possibility. Sometimes our dreams come true and in their wake, we forget what they have afforded us. Now that I live in New York City, it's harder to recognize it, but nothing has changed: New York still remains a pressure-cooker filled with millions of rare and high-quality molecules waiting to react. I have to keep reminding myself of that. And of course, providing myself with the most opportunity possible is reason enough to feel certain of the prudent use of my youth.

As far as "transforming love" goes; well damn girl, I love New York City a whole lot. But I don't know if she's going to cut it. I'll have to get back to you on this one. For the time being, 2 out of 3 ain't bad.

With my eyes open, and my blessings counted, I feel like I'm on my way. So I'll say it again:

Here I am, New York. Bring on the energy. Bring on the people. Bring on the Life.