I’ve been on a purging spree for the past two weeks. I stuffed a huge garbage bag full of clothes and donated it to Goodwill. I am going through piles of notes, recycling everything I can, throwing away stuff I can’t, packing everything else into boxes, bags, and suitcases. Purge, rinse, repeat.
And in the middle of throwing out beauty products that probably shouldn’t be used anymore, I looked in the mirror at the bob that had achieved “soccer mom” frumpiness. Thick and gross, I called a salon, found out that my usual stylist was out for the week, and made an appointment with another one anyway. How bad could it be?
“I’m just going to add some layers on top and thin it out a little but keep the length,” my new stylist informed me. I’ve learned, however, that this is what every stylist - possibly with the exception of the one I would trust my life with in Japan, who has taken me from awkward tween to bouge-y punk to brand-name whore to some semblance of working professional without really uttering a word - is taught to say. And when you’re fortunate enough to have friends and family that wouldn’t refer you to someone that is just so-so, you end up being just a little too trusting when left on your own. You trust Yelp reviews and forgive a few botched cuts. You go to a new stylist employed by the same salon because really, come on. How bad could it be?
Well, I’m sad to admit: it can get pretty bad. Like mullet bad. Like wtf-I’m-actually-going-to-pay-another-stylist-to-fix-this-because-I-never-want-you-near-my-hair-again bad. Like I-
briefly totally-considered-suing bad. [Although it doesn't look as terrible tied back...oh and do you love my Little Mermaid bath towel? I DO!]
Post-mullet-imposition, feeling sort of terrible for myself and acting right in line with predictable contradiction, I picked up the search for things to acquire. Even in spite of all the discarding and donating, I’m a packrat at heart. So reminding myself that that new one bedroom won’t fill itself, I went hunting for a new bicycle.
You know, the one with gears that I still haven’t managed to get my hands on [total lack of finances having something to do with it]. Ebay and Craigslist hasn’t turned up much, and I’ve pretty much given up hope that the Internet was going to deliver something awesome to my impatiently clicking mouse. Until, bitching and moaning to SkullKrusher about anything in my size that was decent, he showed me...
Possibly the shittiest bike I’ve ever seen, a close examination of the description of this stellar thoroughbred on two wheels will tell you that shifting can only be done on the top of the bars, like a mountain bike. But to brake, you need to use the hoods. I actually don’t really understand how this works, except that somehow, someone took grip shifters and forced them onto some road bars. And then expected people to buy it.
But fascinated in a disgusted sort of way, I couldn’t stop looking. And Googling. Amazon.com provided even more entertainment with some amazing reviews of this zippy 21-speed bike, and trying to figure out wtf is going on with the shifting, the ghetto quill-like stem, and who at Shimano was on drugs when they agreed to supply parts for this monstrosity, I found a picture. One that is almost as amazing as the existence of this bike.
At first, unable to admit that this could possibly happen, I convinced myself that I was seeing it wrong. I stared for a while longer, closing in on my computer screen, squinting some, tilting my head. But, no. What you’re thinking...dreading...is right. That’s a GPS, mounted on a sub $250 bike, with the hoods on backwards. Oh, yeah, and with those grip shifters. Awesome.
And if that hasn’t made your Monday, here’s another shot where you can see the grip shifters in all their glory, plus this guy’s impressive wrap job.
I could feel mechanics around the world cringe in unison, and my lunch almost came up through my nose when I saw the second picture. I clicked through the rest of the pictures provided by Amazon and considered buying one for about 30 seconds, mostly to embarrass friends that I would make ride with me. Oh the fun times it could provide...until the whole thing fell apart 20 miles from home, of course.
Sadly, I decided against it [I can be persuaded otherwise, though], for now. Which means no new bike for me, yet, but after discovering this little gem, I can’t say that the search hasn’t been anything short of entertaining. Even with a mullet.