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.

Chunky toilet hair

Because we are yet to land “proper” jobs that will net us enough money to live comfortably in San Fran, we are on a tight budget. This has been interesting, in an academic sort of way, because neither of us have had to worry too much about budgeting for the past four or five years and we are starting to realize just how incredibly lucky we’ve been. On a practical level, it’s a pain in the ass because every time we want to go to the movies, or buy takeaways for dinner, we have to think about it. That dash of spontaneity enjoyed by professional childless couples is not something we experience too often. Still, there are plenty of free/cheap things to do in the city, so it’s not like we’re bored, and we’re eating well, we’ve managed to furnish the apartment, and I have discovered several fab consignment stores, so really we’re fine. But my hair is a disaster.
Last week, despairing at my scraggly, multicolored mop – untouched by a professional’s hands for nine months and dry as kindling after three at-home dye jobs – I decided to bite the bullet. I handed over $15 to a nice woman with not a lot of English in a clean, comfortable salon in Fillmore Street, home of West Coast jazz. It’s a groovy little neighborhood; we do our laundry there. I throw a couple loads in the machines, sink my quarters into the slots, and bounce out onto the street to window shop.
My favorite consignment store is in Fillmore St. Treasure to date: two pairs of fancypants jeans, a pistachio colored merino sweater, a groovy little fox necklace, and a pair of gorgeous Donna Karan heels topped with feathers and diamantes. (I needed some dressy shoes for a Waitangi Day party at the Golden Gate Yacht Club.) So Fillmore St is a happy place for me.
Anyhoo, about 25 minutes after I walked into the salon with my scraggly nonsense of a hairstyle I walked out with a poorly layered bob – still multicolored cos they don’t do permanent dye jobs at this salon, for some reason that is not clear to me because of the language barrier. I like the length but the layers are so thick they hang together like worms and stick out at eccentric angles. There is no subtlety to the cut. When I pull my hair into a ponytail it looks like a toilet brush. And when I blow dry it and use my velcro rollers, to give it some volume and disguise the layers, it looks like one of those flouncy crocheted toilet roll covers beloved by old ladies and people from the South. I have toilet hair.