Smells Like Wig Spirit

After about two and a half hours of eating nutella alone in my kitchen this evening, I was a bit surprised to find Matt outside of my New York apartment, panting with excitement and bearing a box of gifts. As I had hoped and suspected, the little blonde number that transformed (and entranced) so many in Providence this weekend was included. Matt is beside me now, as I write in my mothy-smelling living room (it's a little unclear whether the smell is due to Matt or the wig), taking a breather after our hour-long, sometimes fruitful, sometimes harrowing photobooth session. The project was spurred on by Matt's tales of admirers at the infamous party this weekend who told him he looked "just like Kurt Cobain" (Matt was unfamiliar with the name). I insisted that we fully recreate the look, going so far as to apply liquid eyeliner on a trembling, but willing Matt. It so happens that he's growing quite attached to the look.


I also took a turn of my own with the wig, and out of this came some moments of creative brilliance which you can witness

HERE

I believe the piece speaks for itself, but I will say that the entire process was transformative -- for both of us.

Go Wig or Go Home

DANIELLA HERE! BADABINGBADABOOOM. it was nice to talk to other people at the dinner party, other than rhea. lest i come off as a "bitch," i'll say here and now that that was simply a joke. I dont want to start anything.

BUUUUT SERIUSLIUY, hurrrs the deal. After the dinner party dispersed, Nicole, Matt, and I proceeded to a jam-packed birthday party in honor of someone I knew well at one point in my life. However, I'm a changed WOMYN. Matt later told me I was giving everyone knowing looks and refusing to talk. It's true; the party was hella bourgeois. Things took a turn for the criz-zayzy when Matt and I (looking for a "dance party" we'd heard tell of) ended up in the basement. Entranced by a battered old trunk, we popped it open.

What we found, dear reader, went beyond our most exuberant dreams. The trunk was overflowing with richery--from gold lame sweatshirts to rainbow bandannas. Most precious of all, though, was the booty we found at the bottom: what appeared to be seven to eight elaborate wigs.  DANG!

A brief moral dilemma followed: did stealing two wigs--clearly resigned to the basement, possibly decades old--make us "thieves"? What is the line between citizenship and criminality? Did RACE play a part? (Feel free to offer your thoughts in the comments section, Shruti!)

As you might have guessed, we immediately stole the two best wigs. Matt stuffed them up his sweater and we NONCHALANTLY returned to the party, where we beat-boxed for two hours alongside the stalwart Nat Rosie. Matt later told me that the wigs kept riding down and he had to keep reaching in and hitching them back up. Luckily Nat was in a druggy, benevolent frame of mind (as usual?) and just shrugged it off as "classic Matt." He later said that Matt perceived everything in terms of theatricality and, when Matt took issue, he frantically backtracked.

We scuttled home before anyone had noticed the missing wigs, belting "Part of Your World" the whole way. Thank goodness for these old thingees that make me a REAL person, living in the world, visiting the ole college, taking a liiiiittle leap into the FUTURE.