Last night I had a dream I got a haircut.
My hair is the longest its been in years, and I feel simultaneously deeply unglamorous and like a well-kept Persian cat, since all there really is to do is look in the mirror and groom and examine every inch.
I’ve been passing the time sunning myself, bleaching my hair with salt and lemon, and reading Eve Babitz because, as Greta Gerwig says in Frances Ha “sometimes it’s good to do what you’re supposed to do, when you’re supposed to do it.”
That’s how I’m trying to feel about being stuck and slow and hot in LA. It’s almost … how it should be.
Or at least that’s how I’m trying to think about it, like this is all a site-specific piece and I should do my best to act the part.
I wish you could be here to see the jacarandas bloom.
Miss you all so much.