Venice Flytrap: The New Hairdo That I Didn’t Want

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Venice Flytrap: The New Hairdo That I Didn’t Want


A blogumn by Kelly Kaboom

Today I was butchered. My hair taken off my scalp with great care as a gross miscommunication occurred between me and a detail-oriented little man. With scissors and a lot of bleach, a slightly lost boy from Laos touched my hair and off it went. The request was to modernize my Marilyn, an inch off and razor the ends. Within minutes I went from Marilyn to Mia. Yep straight out of Rosemary’s Baby right in time for Halloween.  Now don’t think I sat there impassively and took this wanton chopping with wistful abandon. No, I did my best to boss Mr. Young around; but there was that gross miscommunication that I mentioned earlier. So with great skill and great misunderstanding, away he went.

Hours later I was off to drown my lost 3 inches in whiskey and wings at the Sidewalk Cafe, my place of employment and favorite beachfront watering hole. I brought three things with me; Derby Dog, my notepad and the best of intentions to write my already late blog. Venice Flytrap needs a voice, a direction beyond my singular experiences. With that in mind I decided to be more social than usual , take the time to learn other people’s stories. Thankfully the new hairdo that I didn’t want is a great conversation starter.

Walking up Windward, I spotted my friend Andy outside Tattoo Assylum. She looked cool and bored smoking a cigarette, her back pressed against a glass window. The neon lights framing her and the window turned her skin orange, causing the big red rose on her neck to jump out. A beautiful flower on a flower of a girl. She had to get inside and start working on some guys new piece, but wanted to know when we’re gonna shoot pool again.

“Monday is my Friday,” I say. “Come by the Sidewalk then and we’ll knock some balls around.”
“Cool,” she says, flicking her cigarette away, “See ya tits.”

Andy has a thing for grabbing my rack every chance she gets.

Two doors down I pass Bondi BBQ, look in and son of a bitch! Art! Art’s hot. Surfer, bad-boy, Venice native hot and he’s funny. I should be pissed at him. He took off during the busiest part of summer from the restaurant. And guess who had to cover his Saturday shift? A Saturday that until his departure I miraculously had free. But Art and I are buddies. I like his stories and he likes my company.

“What’s up Grisley Adams?” I asked, pushing open the screen door in. He’s growing a winter beard, a popular look for young So-Cal men that I don’t understand or particularly like. Still it didn’t detract much from his devilish good looks as he smiled and came over for a hug. Seems he is almost running the place, which is good. Art is an individual who doesn’t play “team member” well; but he works hard and likes an honest paycheck to show Uncle Sam. This way Sammy-boy won’t be so quick to ask about the funds coming from his other job. The one where he supplies treats to late night partiers around town.

We talked, caught up and for a few moments I lived a nomadic life where summer never ends. I listened to a few surfing stories and heard him wonder where each week goes as they all just seem the same. Pretty soon I headed on. Eventually I got to the Sidewalk. Once there I went completely outside my norm and ordered a series of very girlie drinks. You know, it’s not that hard to be a girl drink drunk. The drinks are sweet and fruity. Each glass comes with fun extra’s like little umbrellas and orange slices. Those sweet drinks made my haircut cute and my disposition pleasant. I talked to every co-worker, bar-fly and desperate man that approached me.

While very little writing got done I do think I found the voice of Venice Flytrap. It’s in the words of the people I see everyday. Maybe instead of talking at them I need to talk to them. Shouldn’t be too hard, after all I don’t have hair covering my ears anymore.