I'm not going to say much, because it'll ruin the story. But see this girl. She looks somewhat surprised, but not in a "I'm going to kill myself because someone shaved off all of my hair" kinda way. Well. This photo could have been me....but with a VERY different expression on ol' One of 365's face. Seriously---don't ever fuck with my hair.

Dear Ethers, 

OH MY GOD.  I have the CRAZIEST story to tell you.  Right.  So, you know how I’m always going on about my hair and its length.  I mean, by this time you know the diameter of each follicle.  But you also know how much I treasure it.  I swore the only way I would ever cut my hair is if I became destitute and it was the last thing I had to pawn to eat that night. 

So, I had straightened my hair for an event and had been wearing it down because I usually don’t take much care to make a fuss over it (you know, tying it in a messy bun etc…) and wanted to work my “do.”  I’m walking down the street and this woman comes up to me and says, “You have the most beautiful hair.”  Well, of course I was pleased and thanked her very much.  But she went on.  “Is that your natural color?”  I politely responded, “Yes, it’s my own.”  “So you don’t use any dyes at all?” Okay, now not only was I getting annoyed, but I was getting weirded out.  I said, “Look, I’m real busy…” and she cut me off and started telling me that she worked for this charity called “Locks of Love” and they were really desperate for donors because all of the salon owners were paying a fortune to girls and it was the recession. 

Now, I’m not saying I’m the most benevolent person in the world, but I do give to certain charities.  But they are ones that I choose and that I approach.  I make it a policy NEVER to give to charities on streets or on the phone.  I like to do my research on the net and donate via e-mail.  But regardless, where was this woman’s badge?  Who the hell was she?  And I’m sure “Locks of Love” didn’t have a bombard you policy that freaked young women out on the street.  

I calmly told her that I had no intention of cutting my hair and that I would appreciate her leaving me alone as I felt this was very inappropriate.  Now, a normal person would walk away.  Oh no, this lady got PISSED.  “Don’t you care about kids with cancer?  Women who’ve been burned and lost parts of their scalp?”  Did I mention I’m standing on a street where there were cafes and people were staring at us?  I just started walking away—but she followed.  I started to reach for my cell phone and my keys. 

And then I felt a tug. 

My whole body went numb and I swear to god for a second I thought she took out shears and lopped my hair off. 

I spun around and screamed at her to never fucking touch me again and that I was dialing 911.  I’ve never seen a skinny woman with a bob-cut run so fast in my whole life. 

When I got home I called “Locks of Love” and told them my story.  And Ethers, I’m not joking (and you might think I’m a pussy) I was crying.  I think they were afraid I was going to sue for assault charges.  But the truth is I didn’t have the woman’s name and they said they have so many volunteers that even with my description of her, it was hopeless. 

I think “Locks of Love” do a wonderful thing and I do not want to incriminate them for one woman’s insane breakdown.  But I have to tell you that I will never forget that moment.  I did wonder if that woman was really from “Locks of Love” because they told me that dyed hair WAS acceptable though bleached wasn’t.  And if the lady had cut my hair without it being in a braid or ponytail first she would have done it for nothing—they can’t accept it loose.  Oh and FYI, if you ever DO want to donate, your hair needs to be 10” tip-tip minimum (and they do request it to be clean, thank you very much).  

Later that night I took a shower, used my special Kerastase shampoo that I pull out for special occasions and my Redkin conditioner that is for VERY special moments, and lathered up grateful for something to still be attached to my head.  My waves re-appeared, and as my hair dried, up it went into its lazy bun happy to be protected.  I was just so happy to have given my OWN locks some love that night when it all could have been snipped away by some nutter with a bad bowl cut.  Sheesh.  Only in L.A. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Ahhh....now that's more like it. This boudoir beast needs to aim for this kinda sleeping palace and grow up. I don't see any bras hanging from the ceiling in this joint, do you? No, only lovely damask curtains. Again, shall we repeat, ahhhhh.

Dear Ether, 

Have you read “Catcher In The Rye?”  If you have, you know the character Stradlater A.K.A. “The Secret Slob.”  Now, I’m not going to say that I’m a slob (I’m extremely hygienic, unlike Master Stradlater whom I believed used rusty razors and wore dirty underpants) but I’m appallingly messy.  You wouldn’t even imagine my clandestine dealings when you saw me on the street…well with the exception of my fingernails (but we’ve covered that one in http://www.oneof365.com/oh-so-talon-ted/). I’m pressed, coiffed and perfumed—I waft through posh shops where I’m complimented on my dress, or asked what fragrance I’m wearing.  If only they knew that the outfit I was donning was only hours ago in a ball, in a dusty corner, under a wet towel, in my room…that my dog was curled up on.  My bedroom…oh dear…my bedroom…it’s a no-go zone.  I don’t know why I can’t control it, but no matter how hard I try, it’s a district of disaster.  

It follows me wherever I go, this messy bedroom.  My dorm in college was famous by other students as being horrifying (and that’s pretty bad given college students aren’t the tidiest of folks), my flats in London looked like nuclear bombsites.  

I always move into a new place with the best of intentions hoping that THIS time a new me will blossom and the “Secret Slob” will shed its skin.  

This is how it all begins: I start off with a clean, fresh canvas.  My clothes, neatly folded in my bureau, hung up in closets (I even have lavender sashays and drawer liners in dainty Liberty prints!).  But it just takes that one night when I’m too tired to fold the dress I’m wearing and I just step out of it, and a week later there it is, lying crumpled under a layer of 100 other things that have amassed on top of it.  

It’s a curse.  I never can find matching socks, shoes go missing (and I always blame some sordid robber who REMARKABLY never steals anything but that one pair of misplaced shoes).  I step on and tear new clothing with tags still attached.  Bras hang from ceilings (that’s a joke, but you get the idea…).  It’s also a really horrible living situation psychologically.  I’m surrounded by a pigsty and feel like I’m living in squalor.  I want to live bright and happy, not dark and crappy. 

My partner, a total neat freak (the guy folds his ties into perfect pleats and balls his socks—boarding school—that’s what it does to you) can’t stand it and has lectured me about my beastly ways.  He spends as little time in the shit-hole as possible, works in his office as much as he can and even sometimes finds it so maddening that he sleeps in the guest room.  Yep, this “Secret Slob’s” sex life is even screwed (pun intended) by this too.  

The crazy thing is I love reading and daydreaming at the décor in Architectural Digest and Martha Stewart Living.  I dream of empty space and trendy wallpapers, rooms filled with fragrant amaryllis and orchids in vases.  I love apothecary jars with old labels neatly filled with cotton balls or a Diptyque candle burning elegantly on a side stand with a gorgeous oversized coffee table book.  Oh, to have a magnificent antique iron bed neatly made with crisp Ralph Lauren sheets, and delicately folded at my pillow freshly pressed Princesse Tam Tam nightwear ready to put on after a balmy shower. I imagine my room clean and inviting—just as I appear to the outside world.  

Every so often I’ll take a stand and gut my room with a bulldozer, (well, more like my hands and a large trash bag) make it very presentable and for a day or two and I’m no longer Stradlater.  But then, that dress slinks down my legs into a disheveled heap on the floor and the catalyst begins.  

My only hope is that when I roll into my 30’s or make the big bucks that I can have a walk-in wardrobe like Posh Beckham (that girl has it MADE).  Hopefully I’ll grow up and morph into what I look like on the outside and make it happen with my personal space.  Until then, I think my English gent wishes he had probably met a proper English rose who didn’t have a mouth like a sailor’s (I tone down my language for you lovely Ether’s) or a bunk like one either. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365