My haircut cost $35, the most expensive haircut I've ever had -- I usually cut my own or go to one of those beauty schools where they do it for $5. The last time I got my hair cut was in Bangkok, and I swear a four-year-old could have done a better job. She couldn't even cut in a straight line, let alone attempt layers or an actual style.

But I can't blame it on Bangkok. You know how they say some people have "a face only radio could love"? Well I think I have "hair only a hat could love". I have spent many months and years hiding beneath a favorite hat. Last time I was in San Francisco I bought an amazing black felt 20s style hat, which I wore continuously for two weeks and then lost in San Diego. As soon as I get to the Bay Area, I'm going to find that store again and buy a replacement.

So I described my idiotic, kind-of-curly hair that is always sticking out and getting in my face and generally annoying me, and told the stylist to do whatever she thought would look best. Blank slate. I've always wanted to try that. She cut it quite nice, while we talked (the more expensive salons also hire better conversationalists), and then she put a product in it and blew it dry, to bring out my spiral curls. It looks amazing, but I have never owned a blow dryer and I'm not about to start, nor have I ever used a "product" in my hair.

However, I felt pretty for the rest of the afternoon, wearing makeup for once, hair in an actual "style", reading magazines and drinking coffee at the bookstore, and picking out paint colors for my room. I'll see how my hair looks tomorrow with my laissez-faire approach.

I am my parents' personal color guru; they always consult me when they redecorate, and even called me in Portland to ask what color to paint the kitchen last year (I told them sage green, and sage green it is). So now I get to have my way with my old bedroom, which has a deep purple carpet that I put in ten years ago. Today I chose a slightly pale yellow and a taupe-ish brown for the walls (I was thinking "old manuscript colors"), and a reddish orange for the trim (like an illuminated medieval manuscript).

I finally told them that I bought a train ticket, even though I bought it five days ago and I'm leaving in a week. My approach seems to be: buy ticket first, tell people later. That's what I did in Thailand, and I've done it before, though I only now became aware of the pattern. I am indecisive and too influenced by what other people wish I should do, particularly people I love. It helps already to have the ticket so I don't back down under pressure. They really like it when I live here...

My aunt, Liza's mother, called my father today because she had heard through the grapevine that I was moving to Oakland. There was a notorious incident when I was 17, when Natalie and I gave acid to Liza's sister Giulia, who was 15 at the time. Her mother eventually found out and it was a huge scandal. She is one of the most conservative members of our family, and she's worried I'll be a "bad influence" to Liza.

I wonder if she knows that one reason Liza left New Orleans was that several of her friends had started doing heroin, including a few overdoses. That makes me glad my trip there failed, even though I was so angry about it at the time. I think Liza can take care of herself, judging by the crazy experiences she's already had. If we weren't family her mother wouldn't even know all the "bad" stuff about me, and I'm not about to rat out Liza about her previous friends and have her mother worry even more about her -- she seems to be the worrying type.

Speaking of that, I'm not sure how to continue keeping track of how long I've been clean. Does relapsing once mean I have to start over from zero? That seems depressing. If I hadn't done that, it would be nine months as of today. You can think what you want but I still think I've been clean for nine months.

If you hadn't noticed, I put the guestbook back -- but it is a new one that requires me to approve messages first. This diary is a dictatorship, not a democracy! I recently figured out that one person had been posting under four -- yes, FOUR -- different aliases, often several in a row. I feel a bit creepy about that. Who has that much time? It's not that I will only approve shiny messages of joy, but if you want to give me advice, at least make sure you have the facts right.

This from Donna: "It's not a matter of being closed to other people's opinions. It's a matter of closing yourself off to abuse. Especially anonymous abuse. Not only that... you are in a fragile state in which it is important to feel good about your life because your number one priority is not doing ::spooky music:: H. If people even write concerned but negative entries, and it makes you feel bad having them be public, it is your right not to let them be posted. You don't need nay-sayers while you are doing something so difficult. What you need and what you personally respond to *are* in fact cheerleaders. It does not matter if someone thinks that is unfair, because they are not running your life."

Amen!

I am so excited to see Donna again, and her many cats. We (Donna and I, not the cats) have already planned shopping trips and other things I *must* do in Portland (stock up on books at Powell's, buy pretty clothes, visit my favorite parks). And my parents have been telling me about all these old friends of theirs I should visit in the Bay Area, and recommending literary works that are set there.

I've become superstitious in my later years, but I swear there have been so many signs that I am doing the right thing -- every time I open a book or magazine to a random page, I read a sentence that seems to confirm my choice, says something about Oakland (which is weird, because who writes about Oakland??!), or some other connection. Even my parents are happy with my plans, for once -- I was just overhearing my dad tell one of his friends about it over the phone.