Good day, Tuesday. I leave for Miami in two days and seriously looking forward to it. And though warmth is on the horizon, I have to admit that this gloomy "wintry mix" today is pleasing me. I'm listening to the Band and Bob Dylan and getting a little bit deep. I'm a fan. I may be alone in liking a bit of winter, but it's early in the season and the first little snow is a special one, even though there's not much. But enough about weather and classic rock. Let's talk about going insane.
Last night found me at a late night appointment with my haircolorist- my roots were loud and proud and I had to deal with them before they started shouting. Though I was weary from a day of advertising ping-pong, beauty called. My sweet Italian colorist was double dipping last night, so there was a woman next to me getting her tresses tended to, and she can only be described as very much needing way more than a bit of color in her hair. She needed a bloody straitjacket. As I sipped my generous glass of chard, I wondered why the archetype of the New York cuckoo never seems to lose its manic luster.
In New York, going insane is an art form. I can't tell you how many crazy ladies (and gentlemen) I've seen since I've lived here; but the crazy lady variety is a very indigenous breed. We really do grow them here. There's simply something about this city stuff that does people right the hell in, especially post CBGB/Sex and the City female types who never quite got it right and chose their kitty cats and overbearing mothers over real human contact, which, admittedly, can be overrated in these here huddled masses of metropolitan life .If you live here, you too have seen her- she's loud, she's got a really kooked out hairdo and crazier eyes, and she's probably spent too many years scaring people off to maintain a lot of close pals. This particular lady owned a bunch of parking lots in the city (probably quite successful), and looked to be about 60, with a haircut that very much resembled Edie Sedgwick's- dark in the back, and a shock of blonde in the front. I have really never heard anybody speak at such a volume in my life, and at 8 pm at night in Soho, the tone and grating timbre of her New York accent was not unlike an ad nauseum air raid siren on meth.
As I checked my watch for the thousandth time to see when my processing would be finished, I happened to lock eyes with said crazy lady. And that was that. For the next half hour she proceeded to talk my ear off about her mother, her haircolor, and asked me no less than fifty times "do you like my hair do you like it do you like the color what do you think of it is it flattering is it good is it cool is it sexy do you like it do you like do you like it?” My dear sweet, adorable colorist from Naples stared at me apologetically and shrugged a bit, but I was more than entertained and listening to her squawk did pass the time a bit. And though there's nothing wrong with being eccentric (guilty as charged), being a complete fluffer nut is something else. And it's those moments, on cold New York nights talking to the mad ones, when I am tired and yearn for some peace and sanity and balance, that I wonder if this brand of crazy will ever infect me.
Because in this town, it almost feels inevitable. After all, the stress, the expense, the energy, the weather are all enough to make anyone lose their shit and never get it back. And as I approach the midpoint of this thing called life, I can't help but feel vulnerable to coming down with a case of the New York crazies. Please G-d no.
I think my chances are slightly lower since I have a husband and a dog and an apartment I love, but still- anything can happen and who knows when I may snap and demand kudos and compliments on my perhaps ironic hair from strangers on some dark evening? This city is full of completely crackers types- crazy from the years of tsouris from living here, crazy from over stimulation, crazy from the (radiator) heat. And though I may be contemplating some interesting haircolor and often feel cuckoo from the chaos, I think I'm safe for now. I'll say this though- nobody does a crazy lady like New York City. And I ain't talking about a wacky chick a la Simon Doonan- I'm talking about something way more out there than rocking a zebra print or blue tinted glasses at the Carlyle. But if you do spot me talking way too loudly, asking for inappropriate feedback, or yelling at my hairdresser and calling him an "asshole" and then saying "just kidding", take me aside and quiet me down with a healthy mix of lithium and sympathy. It's hard to stay sane in this town, but my newly retouched roots and I are gonna try and not live that vida loca around these parts, for as long was we can.
Cause that's what's up this cuckoo for cocoa puffs kind of snowy Tuesday in the 212. Keep it together, people. XO