Graffiti the Ghost

Hair I am... rock you like a hurricane.

Although I've never been what you would call "well endowed," I've never even considered breast implants. My theory behind breast implants is that you could never really know whether you picked up that hot guy who later became your boyfriend because of your winning personality or because of that fabulous set of hooters. Like being rich, having breast implants would mean never knowing who your real (boy)friends are. Plus c'mon, who wants to date a tit man? You'd have to constantly explain jokes to him, and remind him to chew with his mouth closed and stuff.

A similar theory applies to this story that begins on a blustery day on Santee Street in downtown LA's Fashion District. Santee is known for "designer inspired" apparel, as well as incredibly cheap accessories and beauty products. It's sort of like Chinatown, except that you will find more Torrezes than Changs hawking the wares here.

Babs and I ended up on Santee after a sample sale went terribly wrong, but we were pretty happy poking around and stocking up on cheap beads and expensive shampoo. That's when I saw it: shiny, flowing, red... the long hair that god and nature had always denied me. Pure sex in the form of a ponytail hair extension. I caressed it lovingly, dreaming of someday having locks this luxurious. The saleslady spotted her mark and made her way over, found the appropriate plastic wrapped bag o' trick and placed it in my hands. Her eyes seemed to say, "herein lies great power, use it wisely." Her mouth said "seven fifty."

Although I'm not really the kind of girl to wear fake hair (I always imagined that those are the same women who have images of sunsets and palm trees painted on their square-tipped acrylic nails), I justified the purchase by saying that I would likely use it for Halloween or Burning Man or something. But deep down I was thinking, 'this is LA... land of illusion. Let's take this puppy out for a walk.'

That night I was to meet my friend Serena for some Echo Park carousing. Echo Park is one of those hoods that's full of cute hipster boys, so it was the perfect opportunity to perform this little social experiment. I piled the curls up into a messy bun and threw a cute scarf around the top of my head to hide the fact that the hair was a slightly darker shade of red than my own. Even my roommate said she couldn't tell it wasn't real, and this was in our sunlit apartment-in a dark bar it would be completely undetectable.

Now, I wouldn't say that I'm a wallflower when it comes to men. I'm a flirt, and on a good night I can hold my own with the fellas. But let me tell you- this night was like nothing I had ever experienced. Maybe it's the Lady Godiva/ Rapunzel thing. I don't know. But men flip their shit for long hair.

This particular bar had more than a couple of hotties on display-- the kinds of unattainabe boys who date waifish pixie girls with names like "Claire" and "Cloe." Well tonight even boys who were sitting with those cute girls named Cloe were giving me looks that said they'd like to have a go, and making multiple passes by our barstools. I, of course, was ignoring them. I was out with my friend Serena. We were there to have a pint and a chat- not to pick up indie rocker boys with great asses (I said I was ignoring them, I didn't say I was blind). Plus there was the fact that I couldn't really pick up a boy that night- as soon as he got me home the ruse would be up. No one wants to see the look on a guy's face when he runs his fingers through your hair-- and it comes off in his hands. Although that would have made a damn fine story.

Some folks might say that having all that hair increased my confidence, thus increasing my allure to the opposite sex. I gotta tell you, I don't think that's the case. To be quite honest, I always think I'm the shit, and carry myself accordingly even if the rest of the world doesn't always share my opinion. This was well beyond the increased attention that a little extra shake in my step would have garnered. At the end of the night I wasn't really ready to let go. I awoke the next morning ready to take the next step- extensions.

Here in LA extensions are more prevalent than implants. All the stars have them- Jennifer Aniston (and her arch enemy Angelina), Lindsey Lohan, yep, even Jessica Alba has gone there. Sad but true, real hair just doesn't grow that long and stay that shiny and thick. Nature has ordained: real D cups are saggy, and real long hair on any woman older than 11 is thin and ratty looking. Those long flowing tresses that you admire on that Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model started on the head of a little 10 year old Indian girl, trust.

So I googled it. And found that I could easily afford quality hair extentions- if I was willing to be homeless for a couple of months. That's right, we're talking $2000. And this for something that might last 6 months. But I figured it's totally worth it. They'll pay for themselves in the first month just in my bar tab alone. Hell, I could probably get tons of shit for free come to think of it- oil changes, sushi dinners, rent- all with one flirtatious toss of my mane.

I realize that it's a slippery slope. But I promise to stop before I get to this point. Well, maybe just some tasteful green clovers...

You gotta love this town.

posted by Jess @ 5:04 PM