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It's not just me. Star confirms it. Ever since the haircut men have been treating me different. I can't say exactly how--just different.
Last night we had a few drinks at the Mercury Lounge before heading over to the 40 Watt for a dance party with the Krush Girls and Twin Powers. At the Mercury, some sort of pseudo-jazz band was playing entirely too loud as usual, and though we sat outside, I could barely hear a thing Star was saying. Mostly I just watched Brad watch me and about four other guys I didn't know, only two of whom I'd seen before. It wasn't that they were looking exactly, not in the way they usually do, the sorry eyes and open mouth, never daring to actually come and talk. No, it was more like they were listening, not to Star but to me, to the few things I managed to say.
One of them sat down at our table after he'd been outside about twenty minutes. He asked for a smoke. We didn't have any. I don't smoke, and Star stopped when she had Rose. He shrugged his shoulders, stood up, and went inside.
A few minutes later he was back, pack in hand. "Mind if I?" he asked, breaking it out.
We shrugged.
"Heard what you said about the Cranberries," he said, lighting up. He took a drag. "I think you don't know what you're talking about."
All right, he disagreed--just about everyone in this town would--but he heard me. He actually heard me.
What I'd said had been in response to some comment Brad had made. I wasn't part of his conversation, but I felt kind of putout when he'd made a sly comment about Dolores O'Riordan, the lead singer of the Cranberries, so I piped up. No one here respects that band, I say, because they made it big. What's wrong with making it big? If they hadn't made it big, everyone in town would have thought they were freaking amazing. I'm not usually the kind to do that sort of thing, say what I think when it sounds so, well, you know, stupid, so much like what you'd expect from a Barbie. But I don't know--maybe it was the haircut--I wasn't in the mood to fake smart last night.
Things were different at the 40 Watt too. I don't usually dance, even at a dance party. Way too self-conscious for that. I just sway in place, you know, do the white-girl shuffle. But last night I let loose. Star said she didn't know what got into me. I shook my hips and got down. I lost track of the guys who joined our little coterie, Star and me and some girl named Desiree with whom we shared a few drinks at the Mercury. The guys in our group seemed into it, into the dance, which was different. Usually they just ogle me, too busy with that to care that I'm not really doing anything.
I don't know what's gotten into everyone, but one thing's certain: Barbie never had a haircut like the one I have now, and for that I'm thankful.
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