got my haircut yesterday. Thanks, I like it, too. The whole thing took forever, at least three hundred years, and frankly, I would have loved to have my laptop there, get some writing done, but then my laptop would be covered in hair. Hair other than cat hair. There is a fair amount of cat hair up in this bitch.

I started reading this month’s Vanity Fair, which is my default publication to read when enduring long bouts of laptopness--i.e., plane, train, prison. I usually like Vanity Fair. I once considered writing for it to be the absolute pinnacle of writerly success. I don’t know about that anymore. I think the absolute pinnacle of writerly success should have a little more casual distance from all those Prada ads.

But this month’s issue is particularly strong. Like, super good. There is a story about starlet mothers that is fascinating for anyone who covers that kind of crap. It will help you remember how fascinating those stories can be, not just punchlines, even though you always carry a spare punchline, just in case. But everyone, and I mean everyone, should read
Christopher Hitchens’ column this week. It’s about a young man who decided to enlist after reading Christopher Hitchens’ pro-war columns, a young man who later died in the war. It is heavy. It is heavier than heavy. It is so sad and beautiful that I actually cried while I was getting my hair cut, and my very shy and excellent hair stylist was like, “Umm, are you okay? What’s happening down there?” And I had to explain what I was reading, and she was like, “Aren’t you supposed to be reading trash magazines?” But I’m sick of trash magazines. So I started text messaging people. And if you are one of those people I text messaged, then I thank you for responding, you made the whole thing go much faster.

And yes, that’s right, I am blonde again.