An Open Letter to the Second Coming of the Hair of Williamsburg
Dear Hair:
Let’s be clear here: you are not THE Hair of Williamsburg. It’s almost worse this way, because I do not have a legion of similarly mystified people to commiserate with about any trauma a sighting may have induced. Oh no, you are my own personal horror story. The Hair of Williamsburg got its own documentary short at Rooftop Films two weeks ago. You get this letter.
We met when you stood directly in between me and the US-Ghana game at The Gibson last weekend. Proudly, for 45 minutes, your stupid reaching tendrils clawed at the sky for their freedom while you bopped along, wasted, telling all your friends every priceless witticism that struck you. It was a packed bar so I stayed patient: I didn’t try to tear you out once, even when your frizzy, oily curls got in between me and seeing Landon Donovan’s penalty equalizer. I just drank more beer.
And the more I drank the more putrid you seemed. There was fuzz, a cowlick; the whole thing was so misshapen, so bizarre, that it seemed to me that your hairs were feelers out on a mission to establish communication with whatever would listen. And I think underneath that constellation of wrong, I spied a few bald spots. Impossible!
But now, just one question: WHY? This is a question posed not just to you, but to people who insist on maintaining this shit the world over. Seriously? It must take some effort to get it so wildly fucked up, to ignore the stares, and to keep your fingers in your ears and hum show tunes loudly to drown out your friends’ voices of reason. I am all for quirks and eschewing popular demand, but COME ON. Everybody’s gotta get laid sometime.
So hit me back, hair nightmare. Let me know what the deal is '“ I’m dying to know. I’ll be waiting here, patiently, clippers in hand. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Lovingly yours,
Polina
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