Ever since I cut my hair to facilitate a more leisurely and hair-care-free lifestyle, I seem to have developed an automatic belligerence are prejudice against girls with long hair. This may be due to how impractical it all seems now, especially if they obviously spend more than fifteen minutes working on it every morning when they could be using that time to sleep or eat–two doubly more important parts of life, especially college life. However, this prejudice is tripled when they are of the “poofy hair” genre. I am not talking about the poofy hair of the texans–this actually looks not-so-bad because they have the all-over body and curl and it’s just so… Iconic. No, I am talking about the Utah poof.
This is the hair that symbolizes Utah–hair that looks pregnant. Much like a large percentage of the women in Utah. Hair that makes you wonder what they’re hiding up there (probably one of those newfangled godless contraptions called the bump-it). [I actually just tried to watch the commercial for bump-its and almost died. Seriously.] Hair that may also resemble a waterfall, or perhaps some sort of brain tumor. They may also looks like cat ears. The varieties are endless, but they all have one thing in common–ratting and a straight iron. Lots and lots of both. Oh, and hairspray. Lots of that as well.
Anyway, this really has very little to do with what I am actually feeling belligerent about, other than my roommate, who is also cousins with my other roommate, has employed this travesty as her everyday look, and it irritates me to the core. BUT… What I am actually irritated with is that today, Sunday the 21, was her birthday. We shall call her Heather because that’s what I call her anyway because I categorize her actual name and this name, Heather, under the same heading of “boring teeny-bopper names [who probably have poofy hair and have seriously considered buying a bump-it].” The cousin-counterpart [let's call her Nelly, after that mean, controlling girl from little house on the prairie] cleaned the kitchen this morning for a celebration they were to have this evening, which is I think is very nice–however, the moment she saw me this morning she immediately pounced on me, trumping my every thoughts of making any sort of mess in HER kitchen. I was to keep the kitchen clean–in perfect condition–and if I were to make any mess, I was to have it all cleaned up by 7:45. I kindly informed her that I could make no promises as I was to be making lasagna that night because lasagna makes me happy and cleaning obsessively does not (minus the last part). But I would try. She then went on to explain that she had “reserved” the kitchen like, forever ago, which got me wondering where the playplace and crappy arcade was, and whether our apartment was suddenly Chuck-E-Cheese’s. I again stated that I was still going to be making lasagna and I could make no promises because I wasn’t sure when JD would be around to help, and after a bit more dialogue, she decisively stated “It WILL be clean by seven forty-five because I said so.” because apparently I’m five and she’s a big scary nine-year-old.
Again, I rephrased what I said before, that I would try, but it might be seven-fifty or seven-fifty five by the time I finish cleaning up, at which point she thankfully seemed to have given up. And thus was my morning. I’ve been angry all day since. But my lasagna was delicious. And I probably showed up in a good few of her birthday pictures, looming in the background like a dark cloud amongst her poofy-haired high-voiced friends and male friends who watch football, and like tackling each other and shooting things. But there were a lot of them, and almost all of them brought gifts. Seriously, how does one amass that many friends who are willing to buy them birthday presents? So many anomalies…
UPDATE: I just realized I have the same shirt as one of the girls in the instructions for bump-its… I question if I can continue to wear it without shame.
