Six weeks now I’ve been unemployed and some would say, I’ve been looking the part.
“You’ve got the hair of an unemployed writer,” Mom told me. I surveyed myself in her bedroom vanity and—noting the uninspired styling, abundant black roots, and the lackluster matte slicked to my skull—I agreed.
As Popeye says, I yam what I yam, but … I can do better. Through goodly employment and none, with God (and Mom) as my witness, I will never have bad hair again … until the next time it happens, of course.
So, no job yet, but I’ve got a new ‘do.
Where the old hair said: Unemployed Writer, the new hair says: Unemployed Writer Whose Been Watching Too Much Daytime TV, Most Specifically, The Real Housewives of New Jersey.
The new hair is Jersey-big! It’s Jersey-bold! It’s craving a projutto sangwich! And damn it, if you piss it off at dinner, it just might call out, “Prostitution whore!” before flipping a table and sending a cascade of linen and glassware tumbling down your front side.
In short: it’s fab … as is my random use of cat-as-prop. Don’t you agree?
