May 2004: the beginning of the summer of “too many dudes” and a month where responsibility seemed a thing of the past while slowly creeping down on me. I was staring down the barrel of a move eight hours away and three years of law school. So I didn’t care.
And I also had my friends cut me a rat-tail.
My hair was, for me, luxurious. I was surprised at how shiny and how long and how perfect it was. It had even developed a bit of a natural wave. So of course I had to ruin it.
On the night of May 12th, 2004, I asked my friends not once, not twice, but thrice to cut me a rat-tail. And as promised/threatened, the third time I asked the scissors came out and they cut my hair in to a rat-tail that made me look somewhat like a lady George Washington. They tied a ribbon in a bow around the rat-tail and I skipped through the woods in a borrowed shirt (after all, hair covered mine) that said “PUSSY MASTER” in iron letters.
At 12:34 am on May 13th, 2004, I typed the following statement into my Livejournal: “i am drunk and just had my friends cut me a rat tail…OMG i have a fucking rat tail helllllo 1988.”
Amidst drama (I was accused of “coppin'” someone’s “steez”) and lack of rat-tail appropriate occasions, I planned to keep it for exactly one week. Then, I would cut it off and burn it surrounded by friends. However, a job interview was scheduled on the morning of the 20th and hampered that plan. For just under a week, the rat-tail lived and changed my world.
Oh my poor, poor hair.
However, the rat-rail had to die. I had to go on and spend my summer days as an administrative assistant and my summer nights drinking vodka and PBR while running from cicadas. I had to let it die and let that one last reckless summer spring from its ashes.