The journalism diet

I procrastinate. There's no way to sugar coat it. The problem I'm facing at this moment is that I have a story due tomorrow and no one will call me back.

I'm sitting in a corner of the student union, too afraid to go get lunch. Because of course, the second I get in line for a sandwich, my phone will ring and the source will give me brilliant quotes, only for me to frantically run back to my table to grab a pen, accidently stealing said sandwich in the process. Or, I could bring my notebook with me to the sandwich line, but then if someone calls, I will do the awkward tango of holding my phone between my shoulder and ear (which with a cell phone is nearly impossible) and cradling my notebook in one hand, writing with the other. That precise moment would be when my name would be called to pick up my lunch. Would I grab the sandwich by my teeth? I don't even want to think about it.

So here I sit. Hungry. So I've decided to blog to keep my hands busy and away from the container of grapes the girl sitting next to me is enjoying. But if she gets up from the table, so help me, I will steal one.

Anyways, here's a little story. So I'm going to be Lady Gaga for Halloween, which requires some major costuming. I love dressing up, so I don't mind spending a little cash to give my impersonation a little something extra. Like a long blonde wig.

I will never wear this wig again. I'll probably look borderline revolting with blonde hair. Nevertheless, I trekked to the Garment District by MIT on Monday and picked out a perfect Lady Gaga wig. The wigs were all behind the counter, so I told the girl working which one I wanted.

"Oh, you're being Lady Gaga, aren't you? Good choice!" she said. Why thank you, I thought. I like you.

So she gives me the wig in a bag. I see it's blonde, but you're not really allowed to open the packages in the store, so I buy it and leave. Thirty minutes later, I arrived back at my dorm room, beyond excited to have a dress rehearsal and get all dolled up.

I take out the wig. It's a mullet. A business in the front, party in the back, platinum blonde mullet.

The Garment District, specifically poor Ron, received a phone call with the tone of someone who just spent their afternoon on the T only to have a bad haircut to show for it. I was eventually able to get him to reverse the rule that all sales are final, and got his name just in case there were any issues. I think I get this from my mother.

So I'll head back Friday and buy the correct wig, but I'm blaming my stressful week on that bad piece of synthetic hair I have sitting in my room.

Mullets are no way to start a Monday.