As of late, I have been asked quite frequently why I no longer don my once signature suicide roll. And that is a perfectly reasonable question with reasonable answers. Yes, answers, because I never do anything without ample justification. And by that I mean I do things and then rationalize them later.
The suicide roll began a few months after I moved to New York. I was wrapped up in that grand, false idea that I needed to look absolutely perfect if I was going anywhere below 125th st (which I know some people will laugh at, but I came from a place where people wear crocs as business-casual, so even Harlem looked like a concrete runway that deserved at least an hour and a half’s worth of grooming).
I’ve always struggled with what to do with my hair, and it’s an ongoing thesis. I fawned over the impeccable victory rolls of pin-up goddesses to the point of neurosis, and I eventually (*ahem* accidentally) formed the upper third of my hair into a shape not unlike hurricane Irene (who happened to be banging on my window at the time), moving north-west across my forehead at 27 MPH.
Somehow, though, even after executing my perfect hairdo and perfect eyebrows and perfect contouring and perfect outfit proportions of short-dress-long-jacket-tall-shoes, I always felt exceedingly... imperfect. Sometimes it was because an inch-long nose hair was waving at me in the mirror - but mostly it was just the fact that perfection is as easy to find as my sex life (which is a unicorn - magical, horny, and entirely fictional). Nothing, but something, was off.
It’s only when I found myself so late for work, doing nada to my hair, wrapping my head in underwear and leaving my face bare for painting on the train, that I actually liked what I saw in the mirror. There needs to be a little bird-nest factor to the hair, or a rip or two in the tights, or scruffiness on the shoes - it’s the only way to realize that taking anything too seriously is like trying to make poached eggs - you’re a fucking moron.