Hairdo's and hairohgodwhyWHYdon'ts.

My mom and I went to the hairdresser early this morning. Mom needed a haircut and I thought I’d color my hair a lighter shade of dark. Seeing as how I’d colored my hair black shortly before leaving for the trip though, this proved to be too much to hope for.

“But I can give you highlights”
“To go with…black? What color would you recommend?”
“Something light. A light blonde”
“How about something darker, that will blend more with the black?”
“No, a light blonde will be nice for you”

I excused myself from the hair-coloring chair and told the colorer lady that I’d go and wait for a haircut instead. I regretted it the instant I said it, but there was nothing much else to do, I’d already gotten the shampoo treatment, and you can’t just wander into a salon and get a shampoo treatment alone. The reason I felt hesitant about the whole deal was because I had, some week earlier, decided over a few glasses of wine that cutting my hair would be a very good idea. I get this idea a lot, it’s never a particularly good idea.

When I finally get the nerve to crawl to a salon with my tress (note: singular) between my legs, I get many varied responses. I’ve had little old ladies getting downright angry with me, I’ve had younger women shaking their head in despair. This one however, didn’t seem too daunted. She cut my hair quietly, occasionally sucking her breath through her teeth after lifting a clump of hair to reveal not so much hair underneath, mumbling ‘Oh, you cut there as well, did you,” and the what I’d like to think – more jovial “How interesting”. I laughed, anyway. Her responding laugh sounded a bit more tired. And she was.

In the middle of the session she left me for some four minutes and went to a nearby store, coming back with a Red Bull. I can imagine her at the shop-counter, leaning in close to the shopkeeper and whispering “The things I’ve seen man, the things I’ve seen.”

Well you shouldn't step on graves anyhow, is how I reason it.

There were always been several spots I avoided stepping my foot on when I was younger. These were usually places where insects had been killed. I always imagined that there was something left of it on the ground.

Like the spot outside the bathroom door, where we killed a cricket. All the juices that fled the now flattened body had left a ghostly cricket imprint on the floor, which lingered despite mom’s mopping and cleaning. I never told her about this, assuming that the cricket juice had simply become part of the tile.

Eleven years since I left Trinidad, and eons after the unfortunate cricket was killed, I still find myself taking longer strides to avoid stepping in these areas. Today I bent over to examine the place where the cricket stain had been left – surely it must have been removed by now? Mom can’t be that bad, no tile that obstinate to give up the glories of battle, albeit those of mom's slipper?

There, in the spot where it had been killed, was the perfect etch of a cricket. A groove in the floor, an fabrication anomaly, but a cricket all the same. Imagine that.

Tomorrow I’ll examine the rest of these places. Maybe starting with wood spider’s. Fourth step from the top, right hand corner, circa 1991, -92. It’s cathargic, and terrifying.

England, America, Trinidad, DONE!

It took a good 24 hours, but I finally got here. Now for completely random flight details:

British Airways: If you want your complimentary sandwiches to fly faster toward you than the plane to the destination. Should you happen to catch it, beware of the bacon & tomato brioche if you have cholesterol problems, a heart condition, or a semi-functioning palate.

Virgin Airlines: I love you. I love you wonderful hostesses who don’t understand why you would only want one nicely chilled Bailey’s. “But it’s freeee!” Never felt so good to have my arm twisted. Personal TV screens in each seat. Thirty new movies and TV series to rewind pause and fast-forward though. You know that one scene in Shrek Three? Score! Delightfully presented meal, Japanese style with tiny portions of everything. Eating with one’s eyes was just as pleasurable as the food itself. Having four seats to stretch across after eating was not that bad either.

Caribbean Airlines. Neatly presented sandwich. Tea and coffee came on a little tray, with the same tired “It takes the cup in its hand”. The sad mantra implied that there had been many tug-of-war with passengers who had tried to run – or well, sit off with the little tray the hostess used as a serving tray.

Any initial fear of flying that I had had wore off by the last leg of the journey. If God had decided that this was my time to crash and burn, then chances are that it would have happened already and not left to the last bit as a “Surprise!” sequence. What did make the trip uncomfortable were the cramped seats, but the scenery formed a pleasant distraction. Puerto Rico by night and from the air looked like a miners dream: a many veined goldmine lighting up a dark dark abyss. The cloud horizon, which could have been mistaken for some great and magnificent plain with the occasional clump of forestry, giant scattered Samaan, ridges and arches. Then there was the small matter of the full lunar eclipse on a clear Caribbean night.

And the greater joys of being greeted at the airport by parents holding out a small bag of Trinidadian breakfast snacks. Parents and pastry, who wouldn’t travel thousands of miles for a thing like that.

Why NOT to shave your pussy.

Yesterday Krister came with an unusual question.

"See, Andreas and I, well, we'd like to see what would happen if we shaved Kerstin."

Kerstin, for general information, is our fat cat. Shaving your cat feels like it's more of a people benifitting act that a cat-benifitting act. Something to laugh at long before the hair grows back out, but long after getting clawed to bits. It's one of those funny after-th-fact things, like how that time you went camping with your folks was nice when you're 90, and Garden State was good because you made it through the middle without keeling over and dying.

I told him I had to do some research on it. Research told me that some kitties enjoyed it, others didn't. There was a 50/50 chance Kerstin wouldn't mind. Either way, I knew I had to get something out of it.

"Okay. You can shave the cat, if I get to remove your chest hair. With optional method."

Krister happily agreed before he realized that he didn't know what the swedish translation of "method" meant. I told him it meant whatever I wanted it to. Unfortunately we'd already shaken on it, and I had already looked up different ways on waxing.

Everybody knows that the only thing better than shaving your cat is waxing a pussy. And as you can see, I had a lot of it to work with.



Krister looked content at first, even venturing a brave smile:



Naturally, I had to match his smile.



...not that anyone had to force my hand.



Course, after a while Krister's hand was flying around in an attempt to reach something, somebody to hold on to. Like he'd get by with a little help from his friends.

"Do you neeeeed anybody?

I want somebody to love."

TOO BAD. Sad to say, neither Andreas nor I had the time or the empathy. One of us busy loving their little post-yank war dance, and one of us busy taking the moneyshot.



As Gordon Ramsey would say: "Rosemary, THYME. White wine, CUM. Breast of Krister, DONE."

All in all it was a good evening. Krister got a cleaner shave than Kerstin did however, mostly because of his hand-holding attempts as opposed to Kerstin's desperate OH GOD I NEED TO SCRATCH OUT YOUR EYES NOW clawing.

The latter would have still been worth it.

Also: presenting the now half-bald scabiescancercat Kerstin.