Hairdresser

Remember the name Esther Gallois because I am already on my way to becoming a world renowned hair designer extraordinaire.

I gave Matt a haircut. Probably one of the scariest things I have ever done. But I'll tell you for those who have never cut hair before, it gives off a sensation which is incredibly satisfying. You just want to keep cutting and cutting, more and more off. But you know at some point you have to stop otherwise they will end up looking like a peach with fuzz which I am sure is not what most people want from a haircut.

If you see Matt and you like it tell him he looks pretty. If you feel sorry for him tell him he looks very very pretty.

Also, this morning I found my new girl crush. She is this 15 year old girl (cradlesnatcher?) from the states called Olivia Bee and her photographs are breathtakingly beautiful and leave you feeling as if everything is a dream. On her website my favourite album is titled 'lovers'.

http://www.oliviabee.com/

I am Woman

I thought I was a sexual being, entirely encompassed by femininity. Germaine has put me back in my place.

Note: Uncensored Content

But let me ask you this. Just because I am not prepared to taste test my own menstruation does this really mean I am compensating for my lack of a penis? Apparently so. I thought that I, like all modern women, had accomplished independence from my gender. Alas, we are still the female eunuchs, desexualised by society. Supposedly.

And yes yes I know this book was written around 35 years ago but its still sounding its horn.

Is it just me or is there a point when you feel like extreme feminists just enjoy feeling like a victim? Dear Germaine Greer and co, I appreciate your efforts in fighting for equal rights. That was real lovely of you. But you got it for the most part. Why are you still going on about men not appreciating your sexuality?

That being said, read a few pages of the Female Eunuch and you will feel like screaming from the rooftops I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR.

Dear Woman, You Rule

Alone

I remember when I visited Paris with my father when I was 14, we stayed in the smallest hotel you could imagine. It had three separate rooms and each was a bedroom and a bathroom. My father and I of course were on the top floor and had to cart our bags up the tiny wooden staircase. After a few minutes of his not so muffled swearing and wrestling with the broken doorknob we made it into our room. There stood a four poster bed next to a window draped in off white lace curtains. My Dad sat in the one chair and I on the bed with a glass of wine. Peering out through the gaps in the lace I could see the lights of Paris, I could smell the food and hear the people. I was in one of the busiest and most exciting cities in the world. As I sat and sipped from my glass I became confused as if something inside of me had gone back in the other direction. And then I realised what it was. I had never felt so alone. It wasn't an unsettling or disheartening thought. It just took me by surprise. And now I sit in Kenmore, on my couch, in my own home, at 10:30 at night and it took me by surprise again.

3/19 Lily St

Sitting in the Gloria Jeans in the city, sipping a chai latte and blogging. Pretentious git? Well that is just a matter of opinion.

Last night was spent at 3/19 Lily st, a night like any other, a night like every other, except that I realised that it is where I am happiest. I feel like I am breaking some sort of unspoken rule just by describing this place as if it should be a secret to the outside world, from everyone else. Because 3/19 Lily st is where people come to escape.

This is Dom's house which makes it my house, Matt's house, Ally's house and everyone else's who needs to sit and forget while listening to bossa nova. It is where I go to disappear, to be safe and to exist beside the people I really love. But I wouldn't tell them that.

I bet you could pick it from the street. Could hear it from the driveway. Could smell it from the front door. Just look for the run down shack draped in 70's decor. It is disguised beneath a cloud of cigarette smoke and every step you take the sound of a gypsy playing the guitar takes over.

There isn't much room but I am sure you are all invited.

The battery on my eepc is running out so I better wrap this up but I will probably be back at Lily st tonight.

Downtown Syracuse

Everytime I listen to Sufjan he takes me back there. Every christmas I used to go over to New York and visit my dad to check he hadn't frozen to death amidst the blizzards of Syracuse. It was a Sunday night drowned in a storm which had turned all that beautiful fluffy snow into slush lining the sidewalk. Julia was getting her hair dyed (which was a complete disaster just fyi) and dad and I had gone down the road to this dingey record store. It was one of those places where you just felt "damn I am so cool just for being in this place." The floor was just creaking planks of wood and the high walls were dressed head to toe in records and posters of The Clash, The Ramones and Sid Vicious snorting coke. A tiny staircase lead up to a whole other level of genius trapped in record sleeves. That is when I fell in love with holding the album itself. Owning a piece of the musician. I spent all the money I had left saved up for my trip on a Sufjan Stevens album 'A Sun Came'. To be honest it was probably the worst album he ever made but it was my first Sufjan. Listening to it over and over again, I learnt every word to every song and soon tossed it aside. But sitting on the bus this afternoon iPod shuffle revived my love for Sufjan Stevens and I was filled with what it felt like to be 12 in a beat up, American record store and being super cool.

Reminiscing instead of reading my history textbook. Have I made the right decision? I think so.

Bloody First Years

I have survived the first week of uni without spontaneously combusting from embarrassment.

In my first history lecture the room was packed. It was dark and solemn outside and under the fluorescent lights every body in the place was sweating into a coma. After spending a few minutes herding us into every available seat the room was settled. An exhausted, post middle-aged lady made her way to the microphone and began a sentence rehearsed every year. That is when the girl finally found the right room. Bustling in through the door, my lecturer stopped mid sentence, she ducked her head to avoid too much attention and sat in the aisle, not wanting to further intterupt by finding a seat. She was then addressed in a patronizing manner. "Is there a reason why you prefer the aisle to an actual seat." Everyone in the room could feel the poor girls heart jumping out as if it wanted to save itself from this girl's embarrassment. Scrambling to the other side of the room hastily the room was settled again. Not one person would know her name but her introduction had been made. This was my fear. No one wants to be that girl. You want attention to be paid by your own invitation. Not because of pity.

In other news uni is making me a caffeine addict. There is something about sitting in the great court sipping on a latte that seems so fitting. This is not good for my wallet. I could sleep during a nuclear holocaust so that really isn't a problem but constantly having a coffee cup in my hand is going to break the budget. And now I have decided that I really must try every cup of coffee every joint in the uni has to offer. Not good.

So now I have to head back into uni (wow that still sounds weird). Trust me I am going to be early for every lecture.