While Boston cried over a hawk attack, Allston residents dealt with real problems: They got their purses stolen, tires slashed, and necks poked.
- In an act of good measure, a tire-slashing vandal left behind a gift bag full of dog poop on 3/24. According the victimized car-owner, this is not the first time this has happened. We're not sure why, but two words come to mind: angry ex-girlfriend.
- The Citizens Bank at 2000 Beacon Street was robbed on 3/29 by a man the Allston-Brighton Tab has described as non-hispanic, in case any of you were wondering.
- A pastor- yes, a pastor, was attacked by an unidentified man on 3/30, in a Brighton church. After he told the pastor, "You have death points against you," the man struck him in the neck with two fingers.
- A 34-year-old Allston woman was arrested on 3/30 for stealing a Dora the Explorer book from Stop & Shop. She was carrying no identification at the time of the arrest and told police that she "just got here from Vegas and hitchhiked to Stop & Shop."
- A 20-year-old, "non-hispanic" male mugged a female student on Wallingford Street on 3/30. However, we're still not sure why the Allston-Brighton Tab included the second descriptor.
04 April 2008
02 April 2008
Alabaster in Allston: What's blonde got to do with it?
For years I have struggled with deciding on a hair color. As a young woman, I have the choice: to bleach or not to bleach. And since moving to the city I've learned that THAT is a very important question. I moved here in September as a blonde. (No, I am not a natural blonde, but I've had some good times as one so why not shed some shades?) Also, I forgot to mention that I moved here not only blonde, but single. Very, very single, and looking to meet someone.
Once I started working in a spa/salon, I had the opportunity to further my blonde-ness, and rightly did so. The first few days, I was excited to see the results, expecting to be swarmed by attractive men from John Hancock as I passed the building-of-mirrors every day on my way to work.
However, the only things that swarmed me were homeless men. Every day one would come out of the woodwork with a compliment for me, whether it be the homeless-ish black man serenading me with, "Sheeee's got beeeautiful leeeggsss" at the 66 bus stop next to Marty's; or the one coming out of the alley way behind the same package store with the ever-so-romantic "You got a cigarette? Aww thank you miss, you're beautiful you know that? Are you IRISH?". After weeks of only being hit on by the borderline-crackhead-but-nonetheless-very-homeless men, I had enough. My dream man was replaced by one of these nomadic wanderers, and I. Had. Enough.
Around mid-December I made a drastic change and dyed my hair dark brown. I said to hell with it, the blonde isn't working like I had hoped. Instead of being blown away by the wind at Copley, I was getting blown away by the lines these homeless men threw at me. The first day as a brunette, though, I noticed a change. That night not a SINGLE cracked-out, felon-looking creature hit on me. This is GREAT, I thought, and I was really happy for the remainder of the week. But then something happened that rocked my entire world...
I'd been a brunette for a month and still nothing happened for me in the love department. Not only did I meet zero prospects, but even the homeless men I once despised stopped hitting on me. Why did their oppinion even matter? Was I that desperate in search of a man that I let these bums get to me?
Then, in a Carrie Bradshaw-inspired move, I got to thinking: Do homeless men know something that no one else understands? I tried to brush these thoughts away but just couldn't shake them. So I gave in, and demanded that my co-worker throw a few foils in my hair-- I was a woman on a mission. A personal mission, for now, as I couldn't talk to anyone about my homeless hair fixation; they'd just think I was nuts.
Now, this might sound superficial, but the downward descent into lighter shades was comforting, like returning home for Thanksgiving. I was on my way back to blonde, and in February I added even more foils, making blonde a platinum reality. The first DAY I had my foil I was noticed by one of the cracked-out, broke-ass men I missed hearing from so much. I was walking down Newbury and he asked me for change, and not wanting to give any, I apologized and started to walk. But before I got even four steps away, he said four words that almost caused me to turn right back around and donate to his crack habit.
"You've got GREAT hair!" he said, and I was back in business. All it took were those four words and I was considering ash blonde. No longer did it matter if I met a great guy; all that mattered was the attention of the men who wrap themselves in trash bags and drink cheap booze at ten in the morning to keep warm.
It's now April. I am pretty damn blonde, and the compliments don't stop. I mean, it's easy to say a homeless guy hit on you, but how many people can say that the men go into detail about their hair? Most of my friends think I'm a little crazy for even letting the homeless impact how I feel about myself and my hair, but I believe that the Boston homeless are our most important critics. Think about it for a second: They are EVERYWHERE and they see hundreds of people daily. But if they take the time to make a comment that lights up your day, then does it really matter if it's coming from a half-drunk, crack-hungry, derelicht-looking man?
Once I started working in a spa/salon, I had the opportunity to further my blonde-ness, and rightly did so. The first few days, I was excited to see the results, expecting to be swarmed by attractive men from John Hancock as I passed the building-of-mirrors every day on my way to work.
However, the only things that swarmed me were homeless men. Every day one would come out of the woodwork with a compliment for me, whether it be the homeless-ish black man serenading me with, "Sheeee's got beeeautiful leeeggsss" at the 66 bus stop next to Marty's; or the one coming out of the alley way behind the same package store with the ever-so-romantic "You got a cigarette? Aww thank you miss, you're beautiful you know that? Are you IRISH?". After weeks of only being hit on by the borderline-crackhead-but-nonetheless-very-homeless men, I had enough. My dream man was replaced by one of these nomadic wanderers, and I. Had. Enough.
Around mid-December I made a drastic change and dyed my hair dark brown. I said to hell with it, the blonde isn't working like I had hoped. Instead of being blown away by the wind at Copley, I was getting blown away by the lines these homeless men threw at me. The first day as a brunette, though, I noticed a change. That night not a SINGLE cracked-out, felon-looking creature hit on me. This is GREAT, I thought, and I was really happy for the remainder of the week. But then something happened that rocked my entire world...
I'd been a brunette for a month and still nothing happened for me in the love department. Not only did I meet zero prospects, but even the homeless men I once despised stopped hitting on me. Why did their oppinion even matter? Was I that desperate in search of a man that I let these bums get to me?
Then, in a Carrie Bradshaw-inspired move, I got to thinking: Do homeless men know something that no one else understands? I tried to brush these thoughts away but just couldn't shake them. So I gave in, and demanded that my co-worker throw a few foils in my hair-- I was a woman on a mission. A personal mission, for now, as I couldn't talk to anyone about my homeless hair fixation; they'd just think I was nuts.
Now, this might sound superficial, but the downward descent into lighter shades was comforting, like returning home for Thanksgiving. I was on my way back to blonde, and in February I added even more foils, making blonde a platinum reality. The first DAY I had my foil I was noticed by one of the cracked-out, broke-ass men I missed hearing from so much. I was walking down Newbury and he asked me for change, and not wanting to give any, I apologized and started to walk. But before I got even four steps away, he said four words that almost caused me to turn right back around and donate to his crack habit.
"You've got GREAT hair!" he said, and I was back in business. All it took were those four words and I was considering ash blonde. No longer did it matter if I met a great guy; all that mattered was the attention of the men who wrap themselves in trash bags and drink cheap booze at ten in the morning to keep warm.
It's now April. I am pretty damn blonde, and the compliments don't stop. I mean, it's easy to say a homeless guy hit on you, but how many people can say that the men go into detail about their hair? Most of my friends think I'm a little crazy for even letting the homeless impact how I feel about myself and my hair, but I believe that the Boston homeless are our most important critics. Think about it for a second: They are EVERYWHERE and they see hundreds of people daily. But if they take the time to make a comment that lights up your day, then does it really matter if it's coming from a half-drunk, crack-hungry, derelicht-looking man?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)