The Great Fallout of Ott-twelve (Ott sounds better and more serious than Twenty)

I'd like to say a few words about hair. Because I've been obsessed with it lately and I think there's some deep-rooted reason why. See, I think I recently lost a gig because of my hair. No--not follicle discrimination like blond vs brunette--and not really a job-- more of an assignment. But before I  get to that--let me begin at the beginning, which also feels like the end.

For about a year I've been noticing the more-than-usual clumps of hair in the shower, on the floor, in my hairbrush. There's no question--my hair is falling out. And not because I have some rare, talk-show-attention-getting disease--no. I guess it's because I'm getting old. Google's top search results pretty much says women my age lose hair because of hormones. But what Google doesn't say--and Lynn wants to know is--when does this shit stop? I mean really. Enough already. There isn't enough, already.

Before the Fallout

Men like long, flowing, full hair. Not twelve strands pulled together to form a noodle-like ponytail. I'm losing so much--if you lift up what's left around my forehead--you'll see the holes. Aren't MEN supposed to deal with holes as they age? (don't answer that) Male pattern baldness? What kind of pattern is this? Except some wicked, F'ed up joke being played by someone upstairs on women my age everywhere. Especially SINGLE women my age. I mean, come on God--leave something up there? Someone's still gotta find me attractive? (And even though I'm into Yoga, I'd prefer they not be part of the Hare Krishna movement.)

It's stressing me out. And my hairdresser says stress makes you lose your hair too. Another vicious circle. Hormones. Stress. Fallout. Repeat. Make it stop please. I should cut it. Shorter hair looks fuller right? But then men don't like short hair--so not until I can snag another one with the thin mop. I'll just continue to look like an aging hippie aka: Gloria Steinem, thank you very much. I've been using hot rollers to curl the 12 noodle strands. Curls make them look fuller, right? But not only is it falling out--but my hair texture has changed too. The curls just fall into stringy-looking mink pelts. (Which WAS attractive back in Ott-twelve.) It's wiry. Frizzy. The beginnings of old lady Clampett's hair, soon to be in a bun.

And where, oh where, has the shine gone? One day I was looking like those Pantene commercials--but now? It's dull. Coarse. And don't even get me started on the color. Dying is rough on your hair and will make it fall out more. So you can HAVE more hair, but you have to have gray ones? More cruelty. How the hell do you deal with the gray? If it's falling out--I don't want to dye every 4 weeks. But if I don't--suddenly I'm Bea Arthur. (And I"m not even going to say anything about what other hair on my body is turning gray because that WILL and IS sending me over the edge when I think about being with a man again.)

The frequency women my age have to dye--is mean menopause trick #3. Because it costs a fortune. $100 every time. I've tried to buy a box of dye--and DIY it for $6.99. But I have long, dark hair. And a white bathroom. Inevitably I end up with what looks like a crime scene--dark smears on the white rugs, walls, towels--and last time I tried this--not sure how--it was on my toothbrush. So I'm back to the pros.

Now, about that gig I lost because of hair. A while back, I was at a meeting to discuss coverage of a movie festival that starts with Sun and ends with Dance. And was pretty excited about it--figuring I'd be the "correspondent" doing all the interviews--maybe get to meet Robert Redford? (definitely worth dying for.) But the meeting began by telling me, the "correspondent" would be a little late. Wait? I'm already here--right? Nope. It wasn't going to be me. And then it walked in. The correspondent, and her long, shiny, silky--THICK--hair. The kind that looks good even when you don't wash it, and wear it all piled up in a clip? The youthful hair got the gig. I immediately thought--Ah. I see. I'm old. I have thin hair that doesn't shine on camera in front of celebrities. She has no experience, but hot damn! What hair! You're done Lynn. Find a new job as an elementary school lunch lady and hide that crap under a shower cap for all eternity. (Or at least until the undertaker can work his wonders.)

My new glasses. (and hair?)

So what's a middle-aged single gal with lack-lustre hair to do? Buy exciting and interesting eye glasses so the attention moves downward. Right? Wrong. I normally buy the same eye glasses every time. Small frames. Black. Thin. So they don't look obvious. (That I'm blind.) But not this time. Note to self. Don't ever go pick out new frames when you're feeling bad about your age and your massive five-head. (forehead isn't big enough) Also another note to self? Don't pick out new frames when your eyes are still dilated. Result? I walked away with something large and BLUE. And wait for it...there's some kind of jewelry on the sides. So not only do I now look like Gloria Steinem with the hippie hair--but I'm starting to resemble Dame Edna as well. (Line right up boys!)

I never cared much about hair growing up. I was a bit of a tomboy--my mother forced me to get a "Twiggy" pixie cut from age 3-15. It was all the rage. (Okay maybe not for over a decade, but...) My hair never kept me from succeeding--I still made cheerleader--dated the homecoming king--got into UCLA--with normal looking--non-special hair. So now--what gives? Why make it all about the hair now? I looked around on the train home from work the other night. Young girls--long, full, hair. Washed or not washed. Styled or not styled. Didn't matter. Gorge. Women my age? All tried that day to style it, curl it, hat it. But thin. Wire. Holes. The opposite of Brooke Shields. (Who HAS to be getting near 50--is she wearing a wig?)

See? No hair. Okay!

I thought maybe writing about it would lessen the stress. But as I do, I run my hand through the few pieces I'm babying up front--and like the sounds of precious pine needles falling off Charlie Brown's little Xmas tree...I hear another few dates, I mean strands, falling to the floor. Anyone with good wig store suggestions for pale white girls, please leave a comment with address. *Sigh*

My Thai Pad

Alright. It only took two and a half months, but I finally got the courage--no I'm gonna say it--the ladyballs, to sign a lease and move into a new apartment. After what HAS to be the most difficult housing search this side of Tokyo and maybe the North Pole, I decided I needed to just take a place. Stop looking for perfect. Stop looking for what I had. Because in the Bay Area--it just doesn't exist. Well not for less than $6K a month anyway. (A big thanks to Facebook and your pimple-faced programmers living six to a flat--for that one.)

With SF out of my reach and/or wallet, I opted to move to Oakland. (I can hear you laughing from here.) Look, I know. It's one of the most dangerous cities on the planet. Could be. Could also be why the rent was so cheap for a big two-bedroom flat. When it came down to it--I found what looked like a clean, somewhat updated apartment--upstairs, with parking--just what I wanted--or maybe not wanted--needed. But looks are deceiving. So are low rents. And this one had nothing to do with the homicide rate. (Although I'm thinking of contributing to it right now.)  This low rent rental, had more to do with what the AT&T guy said when he came to fix the phone lines: "Looks like they really got you by slapping some lipstick on a pig!"

Now--let me try and describe the pig, I mean the apartment, for you. This isn't TV--what I normally write for--so you can't actually see the lipstick. But let me try to visualize it for you. The place looked pretty shiny and clean when I walked in. New door knobs. (pink lipstick) Updated light switches and ceiling fans. (mauve lipstick) New paint. New carpet. Tile in the kitchen and bathroom. (Lip gloss!) When I first saw it, I thought--I can do this. Sure there's no dishwasher and the kitchen is the size of a postage stamp with no room to roll out my pie dough--but again--This is about making a change (see last disaster blog post) and finding a new path. So I finally said "okay" to the pushy Lululemon-wearing real estate lady who couldn't seem to answer my questions about who lives downstairs or whether or not the building has been retrofitted. So I caved--I mean, signed the lease. Time to get out of boxes and stop drinking wine out of paper cups. We've all moved into places that didn't feel exactly like home right? (Please nod)

Now, I'm usually pretty good about catching things when looking at prospective places to live--like I noticed there was no shower curtain rod OR broiler pan in this one. (Ha! Can't fool me!) I asked if I could try to park my car in the garage to see if it fits. (Did not do that when I rented my house in Sacramento and so the garage became a high-priced storage unit for 7 years.) And while I noticed the apartment was next door to a pizza joint and a Thai food restaurant--I didn't seem to think it mattered much. This apartment didn't share any walls with either. Pizza and Pad Thai within steps would be a benefit--especially with no dishwasher--right? Wrong. When I first saw the place and then again when I moved in, all I could smell was the toxic new carpet fumes (most likely eating away at my lungs as I write) and the new paint smells. But as the days went on and those wore off--I began to smell something else. Something with an odor akin to the carcass of a fried yak, seasoned with a dash of fish balls and some rotten onions mixed in for good measure. You know that smell if you've ever walked the ally behind a Chinese food restaurant in Chinatown. Not good.

Horrified--I began to realize--or wait--I began to "dramalize" (Lynn's term for jumping to her own conclusions)--it was the Thai food restaurant! It had to be! Either the exhaust fans from their roof or some really stinky shit they're cooking every night-- is seeping through the windows and walls and filling my new pad. Ahem. My new "Thai pad." F the new doorknobs--Would these thin walls make everything, including my velvet couch, wreak of this fried, fatty, garlicky stench? I immediately called the landlord and ripped him a new one for not telling me about the smelly seepage. "You need to disclose that for people like myself with ultra-sensitive senses!" (Dramalizing again, although I am hyper-sensitive to smells and noise including snoring boyfriends.) He SWORE that it wasn't the Thai food restaurant and that it had to be something else causing the odor because he's been there before!? Sure. That's it. I began to think he's the pig or maybe that's what they're boiling next door.

There wasn't much I could do about it--after all, I just signed a lease. And I unpacked 78% of my boxes. So after spending a hundred bucks on candles from the Bath and Body store--I decided I didn't care if burned the crapartment down--I was just going to light the damn thing up with fragrant candles and plug-in this and thats--do whatever I had to-- just so I could breathe. I mean it was so bad--that even while living in the scariest place on earth (Oaktown)--I was forced to leave my windows open during the day while I was at work, just so I didn't sympathy vomit from smelling too much Thai food, when I got home.

But one day I came home and learned the single mom and her teenage daughter who plays her music way too loud for Lynn--were moving. And God be my witness and/or chef--when they moved out--so did the smells! It appears the odorama wasn't coming from Thai Palace--but from the Texas BBQ that was my neighbor's kitchen downstairs! Apparently--they weren't at home without a deep fat fryer boiling some sort of meet 24/7. When they moved out --I could breathe again.
And thankfully--the Texan teen's rock music stopped too! I could sleep and all was right with the apartment world for my nearly two thousand dollars a month. I wasn't dramalizing the fact that finally--I got a break. After all the stress of moving and searching for a home and starting a new job--I found myself starting to smile again.

For a minute, I thought I just might settle in-- here in my little flat in Oakland. Maybe even go try out the Thai joint next door. Make some new friends. Tell the chef how great his food smells. I expressed my apologies to the landlord--and told him it was the woman downstairs. I kindly suggested-- to "please rent to a quiet, professional woman like myself, who eats mostly cold salads and colder wine for dinner." But when one window closes--and you finally can breathe a little easier--yep--god makes sure you gotta open another. And another.

A couple weeks later--I came home to find a young man moving into the vacant flat downstairs. After introducing myself as the "upstairs neighbor"--I didn't hear anything else he said--because I became fixated on two things only: He was unloading a double-stroller. And he was wearing a Yarmulke.

Welcome to my new home--aka: the Gefilte fish flat. Complete with screaming babies.
To be continued. (If I'm still here.)