Trash-Tastic Weavery
by Karen Abbott
My name is Joshilyn Jackson, and I freely confess that I love me some Karen Abbott.
She's more fun than a bucket full of drugged-into-a-state-of-bliss confessional poets, and under that bombshell bod beats the heart of a lion. Not the kind of lion who stalks you and kills you and eats you and pukes your bits back up to feed the cubs, mind you. More an English FLAG kind of lion, rampant and mighty. A lion who always has your back.
She's also the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling author who, according to USA Today, "pioneered sizzle history," with her debut Sin in the Second City.
Most recently, Newsday said, "Abbott creates a brainy striptease similar to the one her subject may have performed: uncovering doozies," while rave-reviewing her most recent book, American Rose: A Nation Laid Bare: The Life and Times of Gypsy Rose Lee.
PS! This means that not only does she have the inside skinny on the best burlesque shows running, but if you go to see them with HER, you get to claim you are only there to help do RESEARCH.
A note on images: The Madonna pic shows Madge's Ray of Light look, and the white dress pic is Karen rockin' her old school hair. The brunette pic is Karen now, and then I toss in one more OLD SCHOOL HAIR pic because---PEEP THE SLEEVES ON THE DRESS! It is just so Luke-and-Laura's-Wedding, I could DIE! Here's Karen:
Joshilyn Jackson and I were on the phone having one of those conversations borne of a desperate need to procrastinate. We don't care what we're talking about—or even if it makes any practical sense—so long as it blithely, stealthily takes the place of actual work.
Previous topics of this vein have included a debate on the hotness of erstwhile presidents (neither one of us would've kicked Warren Harding out of bed, for example, and didn't Andrew Jackson have quite a rakish sweep of hair?) to whether Matthew McConaughey's strangely bloated skull should be classified as "fetal chicken head" or "amniotic sac head."
"What's the trashiest thing you've ever done?" Joss asked. "Not the smuttiness, not the sleaziest, but the trashiest."
"Well," I said, "when I lived in Atlanta, there was the time I bought five dollars' worth of crap at Krystal Burger on Ponce de Leon at 3 a.m.—and put it on my credit card."
"Pretty trashy, Abbott," she said, "but I know you can do better." Of course I could.
It was 1998, and Madonna's "Ray of Light" video played nonstop on MTV. I coveted Madonna's hair (also her abs, waist, and ass, but mostly her hair). At the time my own hair was shoulder-length, recently (and thankfully) downgraded from pure bleached to ashy blonde, and I determined the only way I would acquire that wind-whipped, ringleted golden pelt was via extensions.
Today, the highest-quality extensions—real hair with the outmost cuticle layer intact—cost $200 per package, and are such a hot commodity that roving bands of thieves are stealing them from salons across the country.
But back then I was in debt from student loans and didn't bother to do any comparison shopping. Instead, during lunch break one day, I popped into a beauty supply store in Center City Philadelphia and purchased a weave, wrapped tight in clear plastic. Two pieces of long, wavy, blond, hair-like substance for the bargain price of $20.
After work, I ventured to an old-school hair salon in West Philly that specialized in weaves. It was apparent that I was not their typical customer, being the only white person within blocks, and when a stylist approached me I placed the weave in her outstretched hand.
"Girl," she said, "that's the sorriest looking weave I've ever seen, but if you really want it in your head, I know how to put it there."
It took about six hours to cornrow my entire head and sew in the weave. If you squinted or were very drunk, I'm sure I looked exactly like Madonna, or at least some crazy cousin, one who was housing a colony of randy squirrels in her head.
Since it wasn't real hair, I was told not to wash it. I mostly obeyed this edict, just patting my roots with soap and stuffing the rest in a shower cap. After a week, I grew careless and wayward strands of weave on my left side tumbled out.
I panicked and grabbed my hair dryer. Bad idea: the strands of "hair" melted and fell limp and began separating; you could see the cornrows peeping through.
There was only one thing to do, of course: cough up another ten bucks and buy a replacement weave, just for that left side.
I made an appointment for Saturday afternoon, and left the weave in my car.
On Friday night, after work, my husband and I went rollerblading in Fairmount Park. After the ten-mile trek, we arrived back at the car to find the passenger's side window smashed open. The culprit stole our house keys, my husband's wedding ring, and my new weave, still wrapped in plastic.
It was time, I decided, to become unweaved.
My husband spent two hours sifting though my hair, pulling out pieces of thread and unbraiding cornrows, wondering if the thief would fetch more for my weave or his wedding band.
I consoled myself with a cheesesteak, but at least I paid in cash.
So now it is your turn. Surely you have some work you need to put off!
Let me ask you Joshilyn's question: "What's the trashiest thing you've ever done? Not the smuttiness, not the sleaziest, but the
trashiest."
