you know what i really miss

about Italy right now?

Having big hair.

My hair could be an afro poof and no one would look twice.  It wouldn't phase them.  If they looked at me, they would probably think, "Dang, that girl's hair looks sorta flat," except that they're Italians, so it would go through their brain something more like, "THE HAIR!  MY MOTHER!  THAT: WHAT IS THAT?  HAIR?  NO.  NOT HAIR.  MY MOTHER.  THE FLATNESS, THE LACK OF BODY, THE LIMP STRAGLEY LOCKS FLOWING DOWN FROM HER FACE, HER UNFRAMED FACE, CHE MANAGIA, THE HAIR NOT GOOD STRAGLEY FLAT CHE MANAGIA MY MOTHER BAD HAIR."

So I don't miss everything about Italy.

But anyways, for real, I could walk out with curls streaming out to Asia and up to Pluto and it would be totally cool.

See Exhibit A.  Here I am in my old computer lab at that smelled really, really bad.  Behind me is a diagram similar to what our teacher would use to somehow demonstrate some sort of churchy communications idea.  He always used sports diagrams, although I kind of got the impression that he didn't really know what he was talking about when it came to basketball.  Our teacher did not draw the diagram behind me; we (myself and my class buddy who kept me sane) drew it ourselves to make fun of it.  Next to it is the word "Prudenza," which means Prudence, which was often repeated in our classes (the irony).  I wrote "Liberta" above it, to commemorate when Joseph and I got stuck on a bus for 7 hours from Fatima to Cordoba Spain and we had to watch Braveheart dubbed over in Italian with a minny-voiced (probably short little) Italian weakly saying (no shouting, emphasis, or extra emotion) "Liberta." instead of saying "FREEDOOOHHHHM!!!"  We were both commemorating the fact that after we completed our theses and got our degrees, we would be "Professore" and "Professoressa" and could supposedly teach in Pontifical Schools.  Which makes my current life and line of work really, really ironic.

But I digress.  So these were the days when hair could be big(ger) and it was ok.  Here, surrounded by plethoras of pale-faced blondes with ironed hair, I feel out of place.  I feel like I should try to fit in.  But I really hate that.  So my hair is long and perpetually in a pony tail.

So I'm getting a haircut this weekend.  I want something bohemian and thinned out (ok, I'll sell out a little) with side-swept bangs that says "I'm a put-together-and-adorable writer, respect me or move aside."  It's going to happen if I can drag myself out of bed on a Saturday morning (hard).  And it will be awesome if I can figure out what I want.  Pictures will come.  And now that I've published it, it has to come true.