i'm pretty sure i am going to end up in england for good within five years. i am also pretty sure that my first stop upon stumbling onto the isle will be here:

that's where the ladies known as tatty devine sell their plastic jewelry that makes my heart beat faster. i found them through a link on the duke spirit's myspace page and have been click happy ever since. their prices are quite high for what it is (plastic), but you're paying not just for style, but deliciously pompous british humour as well.

don't ever let me walk in there.

for some reason, the ancient advertising slogan "the face of cool britannia" has been circling around my head for weeks now. only, it's more about the hair, you see. i've fallen for it. hook. line. and sinker. "it" being a haircut, that's been causing a transcontinental riot, not seen since the days of the rachel.

i'm talking about the agyness. about that fluff of peroxide that lives on top of the supermodel formerly known as laura hollins.

there was even a whole thing in the style section of the new york times a few weeks ago. the new york times! that newspaper for grown ups! this bratty brit has been showing all of us that short doesn't mean boy and that jean seberg wasn't half as gamine as we thought.

yesterday i went to the salon armed with four pictures of "the agyness". my hair was already short, but it had morphed more into "the hillary" than anything fun, spunky or sexy. as a recent recovering "black-hair-dyer", i'm still terrified of taking the peroxide plunge, but here's what my head looks like:

i think my stylist did a great job with the cut and with adjusting it to my enormous head! now if only i could convince her to charge me the cheaper men's cut rate. it is, afterall, their look. and their fault that i'm getting all styled up. details on these mystery men pulling all my strings, soon. ironically, it involves photography and someone who is in this photo with agyness:

everything always ties together.

inspiriert vom auftritt von thomas schäfer-elmayer in diesem blog hier gestern, mein echter look damals mit sechzehn beim besuch der tanzschule elmayer. teuer, renommiert, konservativ. wenn's eltern gut meinen.

jedenfalls, ich kreuze dort auf in einem entzückenden siebzigerjahre blumenkleid meiner mutter, und meinen ersten jemals am flohmarkt gekauften schuhen. schwarz mit je zwei schwarzen samtstreifen über dem rist, die silbernen schnallen, die dort ursprünglich einen auf versailles machten, hatte ich selbst abgetrennt. wenn man genau schaut, erkennt man auch den ausgemusterten yves-rocher-lippenstift, den mir meine mutter überlassen hatte.

ich hab dort hingepasst wie das gänseblümchen auf den misthaufen, nur dass ich damals dachte, ich wäre der misthaufen. ausser mir nur reiche tussis und pickelige söhnchen mit durchgeschwitzten weissen baumwollhandschuhen. ich komme also zur ersten stunde in die tanzschule, und ich schwöre, ich war die einzige, die nicht schwarz trug. böse blicke, und verunsicherung. simi (so ne freundin) war schlauer, die hat sich dort angemeldet und dann nur mehr geschwänzt.