The Big Day

So today’s the day, officially. At 2am, I am still haunting Manhattan College, working away furiously into the Student Government office, just like the not-so-old days. In approximately 14 hours, I’ll leave here to go to JKF to board my one way flight to London, and then on to Scotland. I’ll be flying in and seeing Scotland with my friend Nicole, who’s going to teach English in Italy for 6 months. On the 8th, we go our separate ways, she to Italy, I to Oslo. The big question of the day has been, “How do you feel?”, “Are you excited/nervous/scared/crazy?” Yes and no to all of the above. It’s not necessarily something I pride myself on, but nonetheless, I’m exceedingly adaptable; I roll with the punches at an alarming rate. I have many of the same feelings now from when I moved to college and was being asked the same questions. I would say my lack of nervousness is just because it hasn’t sunk in yet, but if my last experience with college is any indication, it never will. I am happy to be going, of course. I don’t mean to say that I find this in any way to be lack-luster or that I am in a tranquil state, my feelings just do not match what others’ expectations of what my feelings should be are. Today, I attempted to shake myself up a bit by getting a haircut. I went to this one place and told the woman I would like to donate my hair, but all I got was a blank stare, she didn’t understand. “You know, donate. Give it away”. I make chopping and giving motions with my hands. “You want to cut it all off? Sorry, no comprende ‘you want to donate’…What language do you speak? ” Have you ever had that game played on you–you walk into a room and (unbeknownst to you) everyone has made a pact that no matter what you say, everyone acts as though they don’t understand? Very frustrating. Also, I’m not too keen on trusting someone to do what I ask with my hair when they don’t understand what I’m asking. So, I leave. Then I wander the Village for some time, searching for a reputable-looking establishment. It’s not happening, so I decide instead to find a store whose character matches the ‘mood’ of the haircut I’m looking for. I settle on a nifty little place called the “Mod Shop”, which sells cool do-dads and t-shirts with prints like “Tom Cruiazy” on them. There’s only one person working there…and he’s completely bald…but I ask him anyway if he would mind recommending me a good place nearby. He does, and now, voila, some lucky child is going to have a good 10 inches of my hair. It’s pretty short, so I’m still getting used to it. Some of the time I like it, some times I’m not sure. It’s like one of those scraggly, ugly little dogs that’s so hopeless it’s actually very cute. Only I don’t really think it’s ugly or hopeless. It’s different. It’s me. I love it even when I hate myself for taking a bald man’s advice on hair. So that’s really it. I’m going to attempt at least a few hours of sleep–jet lag will be bad enough on it’s own. A big thanks to all the folks who’ve leant me their houses, beds, futons, and couches over the last week. Sorry if I’ve been a pain….i.e. Clare, who, as it is now 2:30am is probably sleeping soundly until I barge in and start rummaging through my gear for pjs. You guys are the best.

Sleep tight,

Blair