Jalee is one of my best friends. She has no idea how beautiful she is, and I seethe with jealousy over her hair. It’s dark brown, it’s perfectly wavy, it’s like freakin’ Rapunzel. I don’t think she’d take a million dollars to cut it. She knows how super cool her mane is.
I wouldn’t take it either. I wouldn’t take a million dollars to shave my head, live in a small hick town anywhere between L.A. and New York, or get on an airplane. I have a horrifying fear of heights (Acrophophia, to be exact) and I had an actual case of Vertigo last year. So lame. I love it when well-meaning people say to me, “Wow, you have to get over that! Don’t you want to see Paris?” First of all, Go Fuck Yourself. Second, YES I want to see Paris, but my palms are getting clammy at the thought of getting on a stupid plane for more than 30 seconds. So stop making me feel bad.
J and I both lived on Hollywood Blvd at the same time, within walking distance of each other, back in the 90’s. We were bartenders, we had funky hours, drank Chai Lattes all day, and had fantastic parties at night in my favorite apartment I’ve ever had. No one had cell phones or the internet. I honestly don’t know how on earth we communicated, because it couldn’t have been easy with just our pagers. I don’t even remember having cable TV. I guess we all passed the time… wait for it… talking to each other.
So we would prowl around Hollywood at night, dressed like Spice Girls, smoking like maniacs and causing trouble. It ruled. I wish we had more pictures. It was like The Hills but before it ever aired. (Don’t judge me; I got stuck on that show one day, God knows how, probably because it was all about L.A. and hey, 10 million MTV generation twenty-something viewers can’t be wrong.) And now, we both live over the hill, where the grown-ups live, within walking distance of each other. I’d call Jalee right now, but it’s after midnight and she’s probably asleep. I should be too. I get up early these days.