Two nights ago I had the weirdest dream in a long time:
I was standing in front of a mirror, although to be perfectly honest I didn’t look completely like myself. For one, I was much taller –as if stretched out– and my face looked vaguely like that of Sean Lennon or similar half-Asian looking person.
Granted, I *have* been asked on more than one occasion if I am half-Asian. However in this case it was obvious to me that I looked so, as opposed to being a point I have to grant to someone who considers himself some sort of amateur anthropologist who’s met his cave at Les Eyzies upon resting his eyes on my visage and in a moment of inspiration asks, “Are you Asian?”
Not that I’m offended, you understand. I’m just annoyed to hear this question so often, as if that somehow explained my quirkiness or my penchant for bluntness away.
Obnoxious Female: “OMG, she’s just so totally freakin’ WEIRD!”
Amateur Anthropologist (whispering): “Well, you know… she looks half-Asian.”
Obnoxious Female (nodding slowly, comprehension dawning): “OoooOOoooooOOOOooOOOOOH!”
Back to the dream: it really is short, but it just made me laugh.
I was staring at myself in the mirror, not so much focusing on my suddenly longer frame –accentuated by skinnyish jeans and a black t-shirt– but marveling at THE COOLEST HAIRCUT EVER!
This haircut had it all: it was mostly a wavy bob, but it had its longer and straighter parts that made it look full-bodied without highlighting the fact that it can get frizzy at times. I could pull parts of my hair back and into a coquettish ponytail; or I could let it all down and look fabulous in a way oddly reminiscent of Jane Fonda’s waves (who definitely DOES NOT look half-Asian), perhaps post-Barbarella. Kind of looking like this:
Only that on my head it looked fabulously chestnutty, shiny and rich and oh, my! The volume…. oh, and those perfect waves. Hm. That picture is not very good.
But you’re not ready for the last part of my coolest hairdo: if properly parted, the sides were like two neatly trimmed swaths that could be pushed asunder to reveal a fabulous curtain of hair in the center which could be styled into….
…. A FAUX HAWK!!!!!!!!
This was no ordinary and butchy mohawk AND it was no proletariat mullet. This was the most glorious faux hawk, buttery-soft and still shiny and not the least bit sticky –because in my dream the hair was self-styling– and it rose a very dignified couple of inches but no more off my scalp. I kept talking to the stylist, who was a Garren type somewhere in the shadows, and who like a capillary Q kept telling me all the wonderful things that my new hairdo could truly, um, do.
The most exciting thing to me was that with a faux hawk, I’d be a cool mom of a boy.
That’s the last thing I remember thinking before that dream changed and went away.
I really need a haircut/stylist/miracle-worker/someone to just cut a little bit off; but more importantly, I need more awesome dreams like those.
And hell, let’s be truly honest: I need me some sleep and a stun gun for my neighbors.