My hair is now all the way down to my waist, and I think it's time to get it cut.  As Jen said, it's starting to look a little Pentecostal.  Sometimes I think that I should cut it all off, somewhere between my shoulders and my jaw, and I would if I thought that it would still curl properly and be pretty.  I get the feeling, though, that it would just be frizzy and impossible to do anything with, and lord knows I don't want to have to actually spend time styling it every day.  I might cut it all off anyway.  There's more than enough to donate to Locks of Love, which might make it worth it even if I hated the way it turned out.

I feel like I should provide a complete description of Dr. Barefoot, just so the whole hairpin thing can be fully appreciated by those of you who don't go to school at the W:

Dr. Bebe Barefoot is from Alabama.  She is a writer, interested in experimental literature, and she teaches creative writing as well as various lit classes.  She is a small woman with very dark hair and eyes, little lines at the corners of her mouth even though from a distance she looks, if not young, then at least not old.  She could be anywhere from thirty to forty-five years old.  She wears elaborate jewelry and very severe clothing, so that she looks graphic, like a comic book character, one of those morally ambiguous ones.  Every day she wears stiletto heels, without exception.  And usually her hair is pulled back in a very tight bun, secured with a silver wire thing, like a little basket, and a long silver pin, which just looks deadly.  She also has long fingernails and drives a sports car, and I'm pretty sure she married a rich older man; I think I heard that somewhere.  I really enjoy her classes.

I skipped class again today, but Rachel is going to make me go to the democrats meeting this afternoon, and no doubt I will see Dr. Barefoot on her way out of Painter as I go in, and she'll be all like, "So, you're too good to come to my class, but you can waste time with your little club that never accomplishes anything," and I'll have to be all downcast and ashamed and say, "yes ma'am, but it's my birthday."  And then she'll give me a withering look and hurl her deadly hairpin between my feet or something, just to see me squirm.  I've always envisioned her sending that thing directly through the eye of someone who tries her patience in class, but she hasn't done it yet.  To think that I could be the one.

In other news, I bought myself a lovely hippie skirt.

Tomorrow, I must go to class.  I must not miss class ever again this semester.  I must have good grades and redeem myself even in the eyes of the loathesome Dr. Daffron.

I have returned.

And I guess I will go ahead and let everyone know that I am finally seeing someone.  I am having my obligatory inappropriate college relationship, with a professor (not at my school) who is eleven years older than me, and I like him.  A lot.  If you want the sordid details, you'll have to be disappointed, unless you are one of a select handful of people I decide can know, based on an elaborate and highly subjective screening process that takes place in my head.  Otherwise, the best you can hope for is general information and vague innuendo.