“So, what do you think?!” I implored, giving my roommate a 360 of my new haircut, grinning as widely as a circus performer.
“Ah – Joan Jett,” she concurred after a brief appraisal. “Yeah, that’s who I’m thinking of.”
The expectation plunged from my face. My stylist did say he thought it butched up my look. I guess I just assumed he meant it more in the Cassidy, than the lesbian sense.
Eh. Could be worse. Joan is a bad ass. And I’ve been mistook before. Mostly by edgier incarnations of Rachel Maddow. One in particular kept dancin’ on me even after I flashed her the five o’clock shadow.
It may have been closer to 1:30; but still, I can only shrug again. This time in acknowledgment of the undeniable – my sexuality is transcendent. Some might say. That or “Androgynous,” as Joan herself croons (the cover) on her 2006 album, “Sinner.”
YEAH. Picture book that!
I can do it. I can rock a quasi-mullet for six weeks. Sure. At least. And it’s much more than an aesthetic adventure, it’s a social contribution. This JJ agrees; we should all exert our identities as brazenly as rock stars.