Sunday, 26 March 2006 | Blow out

It was the first time I've been behind the wheel since October, I think. Although I don't really miss driving, when I learned that I'd have a friend’s car all weekend, I eagerly made a tiring list of (normally impossible) errands, ensuring that I would spend the majority of my weekend stuck in an old Volvo station wagon.

An hour after Todd and I dropped Eric (the Volvo's owner) off at the airport, we were sitting on the side of the interstate highway with a blown out tire, trying to figure out if either of us still had an AAA membership. (The answer was No.) Fortunately, though, we didn't even have a chance to find or call a tow truck before a friendly and quiet mechanic appeared out of nowhere; he backed up his white angel-mobile in the breakdown lane, hopped out of his car holding a fancy golden jack, and whipped off the shredded tire like a magician's table cloth. We handed him some money and were back on the road in five angel minutes.

My experience at the automotive center (and the mall across the street from it) was far more agonizing. While waiting for a new tire, I amused myself by trying to think of a type of store that could possibly be more boring to me than one that has nothing to look at but rows of black rubber circles. (I quickly gave up.) At the mall, I ate in the bustling food court and had sad thoughts about American culture.

The rest of the weekend, in car terms, was erratic, depending on whether I was trying to park on competitive Brooklyn streets, or whether I was traveling around my borough in record time. I alternately cursed and praised the car, and gazed at subway entrances longingly or with smug indifference. The source of my confusion is gone now, and I don't know how to feel.

...

Two noteworthy things: one, a photo of mine is going to appear in issue number five of JPG Magazine. And two, I got a bunch of my hair cut off today, in an asymmetrical shape I sort of made up and relayed to my hairdresser. I'm still getting used to it, but I think we're going to get along okay.

While sitting in the barber's chair, I listened to hairdressers commiserate about hanging out with customers outside of work. They agreed that while in such company, they obsess about the state of their customers' hair, and have to fight urges to style and cut misbehaving strands.