Monday, August 21, 2006
My request for stories of heartache and heartburn recently resulted in this story of sexual woe from a former CNNer who shall remain anonymous:
"I was inspired to write in after reading about how broke we all were as VJs. I was so broke that one night over too many drinks, when a friend of mine offered to give me a free haircut, I seized the opportunity. She decided to give me what she called a "pixie cut". Despite the fact that I have a very round face, it seemed reasonable. She was in beauty school after all. And from what I understood, she was at the top of her class. A skilled technician. An artist even. After another glass of Chardonnay it occurred to me that it was crazy not to take advantage of this situation. I figured with the money saved I could finally afford to buy that big box of Tampax I'd been eyeing at Eckerd Drugs. Best of all, she even had her scissors with her.
When we got back to my apartment, I don’t even know how she had the confidence to grab massive hunks of my hair and chop them off. Maybe it was the cockiness that comes from being the gold star student at a beauty school in a suburban Atlanta strip mall, next to the Popeye's chicken hut. I guess all that fame went to her head. I know it went to mine.
I passed out and was convinced it hadn’t actually happened, despite the mounds of hairy evidence in the kitchen. Somehow the thought was just too awful to actually be true. I woke up the next day and stared at my head in the mirror for five minutes. I cried for ten. My round head had less than an inch of hair on it. I looked like a Monchichi.
The next day would be my initial appearance into the public eye. Of course my female co-workers were such liars. “Oh, it’s so cute!” they’d say. Meanwhile they were shuddering the way you do at gruesome photos in medical journals.
As for my friend, even she couldn’t convince me she was proud of her handiwork. She ran her fingers through it and said,
“Maybe next time I cut your hair, I’ll skip the third margarita.”
Next time! How could she think there’d be a next time?
But the greatest travesty of my haircut is that I began to feel invisible. It seemed that I just disappeared. I simply blended into the background, like mold or grocery store music. Men would literally bump into me on their way to prettier, longer-haired women. They didn’t even stop to apologize, probably because they didn’t want to spend one extra second in the presence of my haircut. Even my fuck buddy wanted nothing to do with me. Women would look at me and breathe a sigh of relief because I did not pose a threat.
In my depression, it occurred to me that my "friend" had turned me into a sexless blob of a human being. Had I not been so damn broke, I would not have entertained the notion of a free haircut. Now, because of my pitiful financial state, no one would sing me songs of desire or compose poetry professing their eternal love for me. I didn’t even feel like a woman. I basically had no sex organs. I was I was like one of those gender-nebulous figures on pedestrian crossing signs.
The point is: that bitch stole my vagina. I did not get laid for almost two years."