Basically about pigtails.
On Friday night Greg and I went to see The Main Squeeze Orchestra at Galapagos, home of the most beautiful ladies’ room ever. The Main Squeeze Orchestra consists of eighteen girls in pigtails and knee socks playing “Glow Little Glow-worm” and James Brown and Kinks covers on eighteen accordions, conducted by a German accordion maker in a dapper sportcoat named Walter. I was prepared for it to be a one-joke act, but it was actually sort of fantastic, and I couldn’t get over the fact that there were eighteen girls my age in New York who could all play the accordion and be hot at the same time. I wish they wanted to make it a cool nineteen, because I have some knee socks that aren’t being put to good enough use.
On Saturday I went for brunch with Josh, and at one point he called me Downtown Sarah Brown, which reminded me of why I like Josh in the first place. Downtown Sarah Brown is the only thing remotely close to a nickname I’ve ever had, and it was printed on the back of a powder puff football jersey that I wore to school on game day in the spring of my junior year of high school, paired with a sports bra and denim cutoffs and tennis shoes and a RED GROSGRAIN RIBBON around my ponytail. Also, that black stuff under your eyes. The seniors rocked the juniors, as they are apparently wont to do when it comes to powder puff football, and then afterwards we all went back to some girl named Angie’s house and celebrated our defeat by drinking Bud Light out of cans even though it was still daylight and I don’t really care for beer, much less Bud Light. Cut me some slack. Spring of 1994 was a tumultuous time, people.
Anyway, I went for brunch with Josh at a place called Chango, where for $14 you get a delicious meal and unlimited mimosas, and everytime they bring you a new glass there’s a new plastic monkey hanging from the rim. After brunch we went to the Whitney Biennial, rolling our mimosa-d eyes at each other over the bad stuff, and after that I went to Williamsburg for a haircut, but not before I walked the wrong direction for half an hour and then realized that it was 494 Lorimer, not 949. The upside to this trek was that when I passed McCarren Park, these cute boys were lagging equipment to a van while some guy said loudly, “Come on guys, we need to hurry, because the crane is on its way and so is the snow machine.” When I walked back by 15 minutes later, though, I sadly saw neither.
Things had gotten pretty bad on the hair front lately, ever since my last cut in January when a very nice Russian girl shampooed me within an inch of my life and then evidently took me saying “Please, don’t cut any layers” as BY ALL MEANS CUT MY HAIR FULL OF LAYERS. This resulted in me wearing my hair in pigtails for roughly two months. But then I went to see Nikki at The Beehive Salon, and it was sort of a religious experience, and if you want an excellent haircut by a cool girl at a cool place that was plays Gn'Fn'R and Weezer and Biggie and is very reasonably priced, I highly recommend her.
There’s all this other stuff about Easter and crap, but is anyone still reading this far? I would have stopped after the powder puff bit. I mean, seriously, a red grosgrain ribbon? What was I, some kind of gayhole?