The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

You know how when you find a good stylist, you have to stick with them regardless of whether you move and how far it is?  Well, such was the case with the stylist I found at Terrificuts, this local hair salon in Ingleside, where I first lived with my then-boyfriend Sean.  Although it was relatively BFE, Ingleside had a sort of quaint charm, with a cute health food store, a Blockbuster, a huge Rite Aid, a slammin’ burrito place, dry cleaners, and liquor stores all up the wazoo.

Well, that doesn’t sound like anything unique or special, but because it was where I first lived with Sean, and I had my own huge room that was sort of like a ballet studio with its own set of bay windows, the place had a special place in my heart.

So, even when Sean and I had broken up and I’d moved way out to Treasure Island, I would take the Muni bus, then the underground all the way back out to Ingleside to get my hair cut.   It was always very bittersweet, like being on the set of a play that had ended long ago.  Once, I got there a little early, and strolled by our old place.  I kind of teared up a bit at the old stucco-fronted apartment building, and saw that there was still a For Rent sign in my old window. 

I’ve since found a better stylist and a salon closer to where I live.  Now, if I could only find a new boyfriend…

I was a bit wary of the massive rainstorm the news warned about this past weekend since I don’t have any rain gear.  So I boarded up the windows, turned the heater on full blast, and crawled into bed with a nice bottle of vodka. 

But when it came, pouring onto the windowpanes, I forgot how much I enjoy crisp, cold weather.  The streets are all wet like in the movies.  You can see your breath.  When you go outside, you can bundle up in sweaters, coats, and hats, like you’re still in bed.  And the cold air gives you a natural Botox treatment, freezing your cheeks to a cute pink.

Not bad.

Why is it everytime I buy something at a department store, even just, like, one thing, it takes them a good twenty, twenty five minutes to ring it up?  Not joking. 

I bought a shirt, *a* shirt, at Macy’s the other day, and first the cashier wanted to get the other salesperson who had "helped" me (he showed me where the dressing rooms were) so he could get commission or something for the purchase.  Then I had–God forbid–a giftcard, which invariably adds another five minutes on to the whole ordeal because even though it’s cash in hand for the store, the card bears their logo, and it is undamaged and ripe to be used, there’s inevitably some special code the cashier has to enter into the register so it will work, and they don’t know it.

Of course, all of this is preceded by their sales pitch for the Macy’s/Mervyn’s/whatever card, which will get you a 2% discount today, but cost you fifty bucks a month or whatever. 

And there is something so measured, paced, and listless in the way these people assist you, like time is an ocean, and there’s plenty of it.  I mean, wrap it up, give me my giant-ass scroll-like receipt for my one item, and lemme go!

My first memory of the new year will be me, sitting on my bed watching TV with Sugar, when suddenly my calendar fell off the wall, which sent Sugar into survivor mode, causing her to pounce across my stomach, claws outstretched, attempting to flee the perceived menace.  I laughed despite the pain.

If you do not already own one, treat yourself, and buy a sleeping mask.  Lord above, ever since I bought one, I’ve had some of the nicest nights of sleep.  They’re not just for rich bitches in the movies.  They allow for sunrises to keep to themselves while you just keep on sleeping.  Heaven.

I love when black people say, "…the hell?"