Wednesday, December 24, 2003

I Got a Haircut

Hollister has to substitute the traditional white Christmas with a wet, gray one — not that I’m complaining. Christmas lights twinkle all the more brilliantly through raindrops on a window pane.
Lonesome tears
I can't cry them anymore
I can't think of what they're for
Oh they ruin me every time

But I'll try
And leave behind some days
These tears just can't erase
I don't need them anymore
I got a haircut.

The last time I let someone take the scissors to me was in England, in late July. I’ve never seen five months’ worth of my own hair on the floor before, and I’ve never noticed the shape of my skull looking so weird. It’s a lot less blonde now, too. And in a way, I miss that most of all; the blonde on my head had gotten that way from summer sunlight in Roma and Interlaken.
I’ve seen the end of the day come too soon
Not a lot to say, not a lot to do
You played the game, you owe nothing to yourself
Rest a day, for tomorrow you can't tell

The Super Cuts next to the grocery store is now staffed by a bunch of chubby Hispanic girls I graduated high school with. In Hollister, it seems like chubby Hispanic girls are the only ones who give haircuts. Funny how I trust my hair to people with crispy, shiny bangs. They asked me if I've talked to people I haven't talked to in years.
There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go.
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy, but nobody cares
Despite the holidays, I’m happy. Quietly happy. Or happily quiet. By why can’t I listen to anything but the saddest songs Beck ever wrote?
People pushing harder
Up against themselves
Make their daggers sharper
Than their faces tell

Babe, its your time now
Loose change we could spend
Where we are going
Round, round, round the bend
In twelve hours, it'll be Christmas. Why was I counting down to this again?