So went back to refresh my hair color and get more highlights. I now, apparently, have a regular hairperson. I've never had a regular hairperson. But now I do. I have a card with my name, address, three contact numbers, my hair color, what she does, and what color I use, along with the standard price. I have an index card.
Seriously, strange though this may sound, this is the most adult I've felt in my life. It's a strange, surreal feeling. They greet me by name, they sit me down, we discuss things in our lives, I have mysterious hair things done, and yet again, my hair is a vivid shade of red. It grew a surprising amount, and reds fade easily, which argues I really need to get some color-specific shampoo, and omg, am I taking my hair seriously?
Wow.
For the curious, it's a true red, not auburn, and the highlights are only on top in blonde. Per advice from my hairperson, who said it all through would look odd and not show as well. So far, everyone I've talked to seems to like it. I keep staring in the mirror, playing with the blonde bits.
My hairperson.
Seriously, this is weird.
Yes, my real life is a place of so many extreme boredoms it's unreal. But seriously. I have a hairperson.
Do they like to be called someone else? *worried*
Out for the Night
Nothing is as boring as listening to other people talking about their nights out, and everyone does it, and far be it from me not to continue the tradition. I mean, nothing extraordinary happened.
nezsa and I have changed venues to fifth street, not sixth. Sixth is Of Legend, Is the Place of Live Music, Is Where Everyone Goes (Everyone, Dammit, Ask Anyone! /sarcasm off), and is a terrifying number of people who make me feel Very Very Old. I mean, I'm twenty-eight, and I feel like a child molester. This is not so far off. Most of the clubs are set up for teh eighteen-to-twenty-three set. I don't grudge them the time or space and true, they have great music, but I do grudge tiny eighteen year old children putting their hands in Uncomfortable Places. Seriously, what would their mothers say?Yes, I did just say that. *sighs*
Fifth tends toward, as a rule, professinal adults, or at least, better mannered people. The age range is huge. And it's twenty-one and up only, which is a relief--see Uncomfortable Places touching. I get that in a crowded club, I'm going to be felt up at some point without necessarily being at all interested in the hands doing it, but at least most of them pretend it's a total accident and a problem with space.
Anyway, there are several okay places to go down there, and extremely watered drinks (I've had cough medicine with a higher proof than the vodka sours), and there's this one place that I really like, though I can't explain why. I think it's the egg-like chairs hanging from the ceiling. They just fascinate me. I haven't had a chance to sit in one, as they are usually full of people, but I want to. It's also indecently crowded from eleven on, which is sucky, but the chairs--I want one. I want to hang it from my ceiling and watch TV from it.
*frowns* Of course, I'm all full of resentment that all these people found it after we did and so, I never got a chance to sit in the chair. Maybe I should go earlier.
I've always wondered what it would be like to pick up someone at a club, or go home with someone. I was raised on the danger factor of even trying shit like that, and once, many years ago, I did try it once and it was--well, weird. Weird in that, Best Friend at the Time took his ID and wrote down his address and telephone number and told him if he didn't have me home at a decent hour, she would kill him in his sleep. She was four ten, but she also was kind of scary. Trust me, he believed her.
You lose a lot of the omgspontenaity when people you pick up are frightened beforehand.
nezsa just pushes them away and tells them go the fuck home, a much more direct say of saying, no, honey, you *can't* do that. I'm not sure if it's that she doesn't trust my judgement, or the suspicion in both of us that the last place you really want to *meet* someone is in a club. On the other hand, and this is a big 'if'--I can take care of myself, I think. It's that little 'I think' that stops me. I don't trust my own judgement.
Eh, maudlin-ness.
Anyway, we had a pretty good time. Oslo and its very cool chairs, Element and it's huge crowd, and a third place that one of her friends' friend works at.
Acutally, this is where life segues into work related, but in a stange way.
I interviewed a guy on Friday, and I asked if anyone else lived in the household.
"Just my partner," he said, and I had to figure out a way to ask the Question. The question that decides how I calcuate benefits, basically. It's pretty simple, and if yo've been in the system long enough, you know how to answer it, but he didn't, kept looking at me blankly.
"Okay, do you buy your food together or separately?"
I'm not sure if he thought I wasn't clear on what 'partner' meant, and he proceeded to be educational, whereas all I wanted to do was figure out how to tell him that if he applied as a separate household, he was more likely to get benefits--but I can't *say* that, because that's leading the client. I can just imply heavily.
"Okay," I said slowly, after hearing the PSA, but he was nice, so I wasn't bitter, just getting frustrated. That's the one and only problem with unmarried couples--you really have to figure out a tactful way of saying 'please apply separately if either of you are working--we only *have* to put you together if you have a kid or married and the other income could screw up your chances'. "Here is what I mean. Is he *working*?"
The guy looks at me like I grew a second head. "Yes."
*sighs* "Okay. If he is working, *his income* counts toward the income limit. You said he works nights. You eat separately, don't you?"
Light dawned. "Oh. Yes, we eat separately."
Anyway, his last job was at the club we went to, and I tried to figure out if I was supposed to say hi to a client or not. Let's face it, your caseworker showing up at your club isn't something you want to have happen. We had just talked two days ago, so I figured he'd remember me (he liked my hair color and it was even more vivid now), and I didn't want him to think I was being snobby, but on the other hand...
I was interviewing him for state benefits. And I'm almost sure that his idea of a good time wouldn't be saying "Hey, Jenn! Guys, this is Jenn, she interviewed me for foodstamps, by the way, how's it going?"
*sighs* Only I could freak out about the ettiquette of this.
Luckily, it didn't come up, but I feel like I should have some kind of policy for this. Like, maybe a wave in general? A nod of recognition, leaving it up to the other person to decide how to handle it?
*groans* Must. Think.
In other news, *loves to
svmadelyn. She sent me cookies! I WAS SENT COOKIES! OMG THEY ARE GOOD COOKIES! She sent me cookies and a CD of *very eclectic music*, which I am putting in the CD player *right now* and Bedazzled and chewy fruit snacks and a bag of travel sized hair products. *happy place* Pretty red nailpolish, too.*happyhappyhappy*
Me and my happy cookies are going to bond now.