Purple Flowers of Death-Confetti
An update: shag haircuts, published poetry and pre-production
The Jacaranda trees are in full bloom over here in the scraggly city of Los Angeles. June gloom has arrived, bringing the enchanting spell of Gemini season, and purple flowers of death-confetti, smattering the streets and all of the Teslas. Some peeps around here can’t stand this purple mess all over their luxury cars, but I think it’s otherworldly-gorgeous, especially since it kicks off my birthday month. No surprise, surely—that I’m a Gemini.
Since my last post in Sun Valley, my makeup work has been somewhat busy (thank god) despite film production being at an all-time low. I’m super grateful to still be working during these unpredictable times. Something shifted for me this past year, partially because of a hairtastrophe, I’m sorry to say. Yep, I was having one of those—I think I need more layers and bangs moments—you know, the erratic kind.
Look, when it comes to hair, I know I’m blessed (thanks, Mom). But blessings come with a price. My sister, Gabi (a hair whisperer) decided in the last five years to become a mom, take up crocheting, and move her family to San Diego. This decision rocked my world. Not only would I barely see them, but who was I going to bribe with Thai food at a moments notice in exchange for free haircuts now? A stranger, that’s who.
The catalyst came this past September, after I moved out of my beloved, pre-war apartment and into my boyfriend Ross’s place, just a mere block away from mine (very Mia and Woody, right?). I had been in that apartment with perfect molding (more like ten kinds of mold) for well over a decade. It was my giant, Barbie-pink four-plex dollhouse—but it was also crumbling. But that’s a story for another time.
After moving, I felt the familair urge for a dramatic hair change. My auburn hair had been quite long and mostly one length for most of the years I lived in that apartment, and I needed to mark this graduation. Freed from its confines, I wanted layers and some edge, like Jane Fonda in Klute, but with a French twist—still long, of course. So, instead of driving to see my sister in San Diego like a rational human—I went to a beige salon in Silverlake and paid a demon-eyed barber to give me crown layers with a razor. I blame the targeted reels on IG. Looking back now, this eerily resembles the time I let my childhood friend shave my head when I turned thirteen—but that was mostly to destroy my mom.
“It looks like a different color.” I said, staring at the dark mullet shag in the mirror, my heart practically beating out of my favorite Zara shirt—I had asked for a French look, but this was NOT the vibe. Sensing my discontent, the demon finished up quickly. Was that a smile on her lips? After paying, I flew from the beige chair to the sacred comfort of my car and cried. What had I done to myself? The reality was that, as hard as I try, I will never look like Jane Fonda.
**
Back home, I sobbed on Ross’s linen-covered bed. I had asked the demon barber to keep the length but instead, I looked like a hipster version of Jo from Little Women after selling off her beautiful hair. Except this wasn’t for my family; this was an expensive decision with consequences.
“I look so eighties!” I cried as Ross rubbed my back, assuring me that it wasn’t that bad. He agreed that some thickness was gone, which only made me sob harder. I needed lies, hair growth vitamins, and a hat to hide under for at least two years, not the truth. The truth is that this was my fault and Ross is a handsome menshe and a heart of pure gold, did I mention that?
That night, I took a candlelit bath and mourned my full head of hair. A strange peace moved through the Honest Co. bubbles, a freedom that felt a lot like Jane Fonda’s style in Klute. My mom had named me after her character in that movie because she was infatuated with her hair and her apartment. This moment was fitting, I realized as ran my hands through my shattered layers.
I should mention that this all coincided with the ninth anniversary of an ex-partner’s death, whose ashes I buried in a Jacaranda tree during a DIY funeral in Topanga back in November 2016. For years, I’ve tried to tell this interesting story in various forms, and I’m finally making some progress. Elements of this narrative have made their way into a poem that was published in Moria Magazine last month. Raise the unpaid poetry roof—I’ve been published!
Check out my published poetry HERE!
The first poem, “The Land of Yellow Brick Roads,” reflects on that experience. In addition, “Palm” contemplates a changing Los Angeles and the slow decline of the entertainment industry. Both pieces are part of a larger LA-inspired chapbook project that I’ve been working on since the fires. In the meantime, I’m thrilled to have a few of these poems featured in Moria’s Introspection spring issue. Huge thanks to the amazing Lauren Oertel for her relentless support—I cherish you.
In other news, I’m in pre-production for a short film called Topanga, which I wrote. This story is not about the funeral but revolves around a sex starved couple trapped in an anti-technology cult in Topanga. Firing off on all cylinders over here. As a writer, makeup artist, and semi-retired actor, this is an exciting time. I'll be co-directing this story with my dear friend and collaborator, Justin Nelson, who’s a seasoned veteran in the biz. I’m eager to learn the ropes from a new perspective and channel my inner Lena Dunham. Our hope is to share this new work with the planet and submit to festivals. It’s all very fun and terrifying!
The pre-production process has been super intense, especially the casting! We’ve had great success, thanks to the fabulous casting director, Chloë Curran. After reading the script, she instantly got the vibe and helped us find the perfect female lead. After years of rejections (as an actor and now as a writer) I was thrilled to have Chloë along for the ride. Justin and I are self-funding this little project and trying our best to keep things on a micro budget—as much as possible. Our costume design will be helmed by my brilliant friend and designer Michelle Mchale, and now all we need is the rest of the crew! LOL. I’ll be keeping ya’ll posted on our progress as things move slowly along. It’s looking like we’ll be pushing things for a month, unil late July—I’m trying to trust the precarious process.
Thankfully, we found a great location in proper Topanga, not far from where one of the fires started. As you may know, these fires destroyed so much of Malibu and Topanga (RIP Reel Inn). Many friends, both here and in the beautiful Altadena, have lost their homes and been deeply affected. My heart go’s out to them all. At this point, our film feels almost period, capturing that bygone California feeling that we will always remember.
As my forty-third (eek!) birthday looms closer, my inner Gemini is feeling good. Even though I’m not at the finish line yet, I’m taking micro-baby steps. This new season of creative movement has been thrilling for me, as a writer and as an artist. I’m trying to find magic in all of the things… even in my haircut.
As I headed off to another makeup appointment this morning, I shook the purple flowers from my overgrown shag and imagined it long, lush, and mostly one length again. Here’s hoping that by next birthday, I’ll look nothing like Jane Fonda.