You never even call me by my name.

As I’ve mentioned before, all of the Indian guys I work with sometimes mispronounce my name or call me by a name that’s close but not quite. With them, I’m either Char Char or Zsa Zsa. Since I’m only fluent in my native tongue, I throw no stones.


As of late, other folks – native English speakers, mind you – have been calling me Zsa Zsa. Including my own boss. My own boss – a man I’ve worked with for more than two years – called me Zsa Zsa in a meeting today. A meeting that I had set up. A meeting that one of the participants wanted to reschedule, so he e-mailed my coworker instead of me. Because I am evidently fucking invisible.

I feel like I’m literally disappearing.

I’ve been trying to figure out what has changed. The only thing I can come up with?

It’s the hair.

My follicular journey started out with a pixie, then hit some rough times with a remember-I-said-I-was-growing-it-out haircut. But I had a goal.

The hair was looking pretty good. Not like the end goal, but presentable. Not homely. It wasn’t emergency hair that would cause you to grab your friend and perform an immediate intervention.


I realized that my hair currently looks like a cross between Rod Blagojevich and Dorothy Hamill.
And folks, it ain’t pretty. No wonder I’m disappearing. I look like shit. I look like the bedraggled new mom who is still wearing maternity pants and discovers baby vomit in her hair. Except that I’m supposed to be the glam singleton.

But it’s hard to feel glam when you’re staring to resemble Shaun Cassidy. And not in a good way.

I’m trying to keep the faith.

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