Standing Room Only

The tourists are here. Like Monday morning, we all knew they were coming, but they managed to sneak up on us and catch us of guard. Also like Monday morning, they are a necessary part of the week (or the city’s economy). We grin and bear Mondays because we have to in order to get to Tuesday (or in order to get to fall).
I don’t actually hate tourists. I don’t even hate Mondays, come to think of it. The hard truth is, I can’t dislike non-locals because I have been a tourist to DC a grand total of 7 times before last fall. I know all too well what it is like to be brushed aside as a bottom dweller because you are laughing on the Metro, or because you dare to use manners where a simple grunt or scowl will do, or to be mocked when you choose not to cross the street when there are only 4 seconds remaining before impending death by a local.
I understand the plite of the tourist. I really, really do. It’s just hard not to be annoyed when my commute goes from this:

to…well, I don’t have a picture of the actual cramped quarters of the Metro cars these days because it would be truly impossible to move my arms into camera-taking position. And plus, I would look like a tourist. But it is not unlike this situation:

It is difficult to remain pleasant when your personal space is being invaded by large groups of people in matching t-shirts, usually sweaty from walking from the Air and Space Museum to the Lincoln Memorial because the distance looks much shorter on the map, and group leader instructing the people at the back of the train when to get off the train in non-library voices.

Or, as in today’s case, a group speaking quite loudly in a foreign language. One of whom looked at me, said something to the guy at my side standing closer than I usually allow complete strangers to stand, causing the girl behind him to smile, causing the complete stranger at my side to say in a funny accent, with a look of complete horror, “Yo! Am I squishing you??” I was not exactly comfortable, but I found myself smiling and saying, “No, no, you’re fine”, because I promised my friend, and former DC travel companion, that I would not become a “hardened local”, that I would never stop Metro-surfing, and that I would not complete any given Metro ride without raising the corners of my mouth at least once. Ashley, I will confess that the last time I Metro-surfed was with you, and I often stare blankly out the dark windows and get off without sharing a joke with a fellow passenger. But please know that my internal dialogue while riding with tourists is not completely angst-filled.

So, DC, raise your glass and toast the sweaty non-locals who are lucky enough to live normal lives and are just enjoying a vacation in our nation’s capital. And while it is often hard to remember, with their colorful clothing and inappropriate happiness, they have just as much right to be here as you do. And plus, you never know when their vote will make or break your career.

Brave Soul

I am beginning to realize that my life is basically a five-piece puzzle in which I am constantly trying to rearrange the pieces and force them into places they do not belong. Occasionally, the pieces fit and I relax for a while until I make the same mistakes over again and wonder how five pieces can be so complicated.

Last night when I went to sleep, those five pieces were in place, but they had not settled down into that satisfying “pop”. While I was sleeping, however, they settled down into a nice, comfortable position and I woke up and KNEW that my hair had to go. Not all of it, but a good 1/2 of it.

This is why I am now sitting in a salon chair with wet hair, waiting for my hairdresser to finish up with another client, blogging from my iphone. I blame it on my restless feet. They took me from here…

…to here:

I also blame it on the wisdom and clarity newly bestowed upon me when I woke up this morning, that caused me to see that my long hair was entirely too juvenile, too frumpy, and too un-professional.

Which is interesting considering yesterday I had no complaints…Sometimes the five-piece puzzle feels like five thousand pieces. But trust me, there are just five.

It is Saturday and this morning I partook in my usual bowl of oatmeal and cup of coffee, watched an episode of What Not to Wear (Okay now, wait. Contrary to what might seem like an obvious cause and effect situation here, my roommates and I watch this show far too often to assume that it is the motivation behind every change in our beauty routines. So while watching the show certainly didn’t deter my mental inclinations, it can’t be given that much credit. Carry on.) with Amy and Marisa, announced that I wanted to get my hair cut, got two votes of approval, grabbed my umbrella, and headed out the door to the place I pass on my way home from work every night with the delightful little “walk-ins welcome” sign out front.

The man at the desk asked me if I had an appointment. I told him I did not. He didn’t know how ironic that statement was. He asked me what service I wished to have done. I told him I wanted my hair cut. He told me it would be forty-five minutes. I told him that was fine. I then thought that I should maybe ask how much it would cost. He told me. Let’s just say it was more than the time I was told to wait. Being a good little Washingtonian used to the high price of living ’round these parts, I concealed my shock and then proceeded to have a mental inquisition with myself: How badly do you want this haircut, JC? Can you honestly not wait until tomorrow? Do you realize you are about to spend twenty dollars more on something you could get for twenty dollars less if you just waited? Heretic. But I had already walked a mile in the rain and I had already decided that my long hair was the most unattractive part of my body. I told him that was fine. Fine fine fine.
I didn’t freak out when the woman cutting my hair said quietly, almost to herself, “We are cutting a lot of hair today.” I didn’t freak out when I heard the words escape my mouth, “Would it be okay if we went a little shorter?” I didn’t make rash, crazy decisions for a job half done. It was all or nothing or it wasn’t worth it. Bring on the sheers! I did almost freak out when I passed a mirror in a store later and narrowly escaped a meltdow, because I didn’t recognize the person I saw.

Why is hair such a big deal? I think part of the reason I knew it must go was because it was a big deal. I guess I should be thrilled that the bravest thing I can do in my life is cut my hair. I survived, and I haven’t cried about it yet. Hooray! I have more brave things up my sleeve, but those will be for another post. I know all four of you who read this blog will be on pins and needles all week.

This is the sad, forelorn, long-haired girl I woke up as.

Look how happy a reckless decision, a short walk, and a pair of scissors, can make a person! If you, or a friend or loved one, is suffering from a controlling growth on their head, encourage them to read my story. If I can do it, so can you.