Of science writing, Sinbad and acceptable haircuts

Hey folks, apologies for the long absence—it’s been a bizarre couple of weeks at work. I am not going to rehash it cos I don’t want to give it any more of my energy, so let me tell you about a science writers’ function I went to on Tuesday. I went along to network—the very thought of which makes me snort—and learn a bit about alternative energy. Did you know that the technology exists to shoot small mirrors into orbit which would travel together in a clump and reflect sunlight away from the earth, thereby reducing global warming in specific regions? If China decided tomorrow to blast a bunch of mirrors into space to reduce their trapped emissions, they could do it.
I mostly wanted to meet some science writers who might be interested in writing for the science section I edit. (If anyone had said to me back when I was writing fashion copy—capelets are chicer than ever!— that I would soon be wrassling with stuff like carbon sinks, parasitic bacteria, the mating dance of the lance-tailed manakin, and thermo-organic electricity or whatever it’s called, I would have swallowed my own tongue.) But this is the situation in which I find myself, so gimme your business cards, freelance science writers!
I went along with one of our dear interns, who is a real science writer and a microbiologist to boot, and we had an hilarious time. For starters, the venue is this seedy waterfront bar called Sinbad’s which has nautical rope-trimmed bar stools, baaaad paintings of the bar as viewed from the Bay, and, inexplicably, many hanging pot plants. The food is so typical of crap buffet food that it is actually impressive. I had steak, chewy as dinosaur skin and covered in a congealing paste of canned mushrooms and brown sauce. Accompaniments included limp green beans and stale bread. The coffee was room temperature and there wasn’t enough milk. It was of the most memorable meals of my life. The man sitting next to me, a chemist with a column in some chemistry publication, got very close to my face and sent spittle droplets onto my plate. He was charming, however, and terribly worried for his daughter, who just graduated with a degree in women’s studies.
The speaker was a whiz-bang engineer from Berkeley who is one of the leading lights in the anti-carbon crowd and had an all-too-thorough Power Point presentation on the whole energy crisis—from the Kyoto Protocol to mirrors you can shoot into space. By the time we left I was hopelessly confused and yawning and deeply amused. I am half tempted to join the science writers' group so I have a legitimate reason to return to Sinbad's and watch sleazo businessmen pick up unsuitable women.

BTW: I finally screwed up my courage and got my hair cut today. I have been scared of hairdressers since the incident in February when I ended up with chunky toilet hair. I am still in budget mode, so the notion of paying $100 for a cut—not to mention color, wash, blow dry and service tip—and then loving my hair and getting sucked into paying for said procedure every 12 weeks, well it’s just not something I can consider right now. So, I went to this little place about two blocks from the apartment that Tim frequents. The turnoff for me all these months has been the big sign in the front window: Men, women, children $14. I love a deal but I spent more than that for two drinks at a rooftop bar in the Mission last night. However, things had got so bad on top of my head (I’m pretty sure I overheard the hair above my left ear telling the crown crop it was time to consider mutiny) that I threw caution to the wind and made the acquaintance of a nice Chinese lady named Daisy who sat me down and chatted at me for 45 minutes or so and—hey voila—I have decent hair again. She had an unorthodox approach to layering that made me nervous: pulling random strands of hair above my head and attacking with scissors from all different angles. A couple of times the scissors got stuck in my hair and I thought, uh oh, toilet hairstyle #2, but somehow she pulled it off.