why i probably shouldn’t audition

I had an audition yesterday.  It’s interesting getting auditions from people who know you, or at least know of you, or are familiar with your work.  It’s different than a cold audition.  In a cold audition you walk in, the director listens to your monologue(s) and then looks you up and down and says, “Would you read for Sandra?  She’s the alcoholic prostitute.”

And you think to yourself, “Do I look like an alcoholic prostitute, or was she so impressed that she just wants to see if I can also play an alcoholic prostitute?”

And you read for Sandra and you go home wondering what you could have done to make the director know that you’re talented.

Having been on that director’s chair, I know that many times you’re just looking for a look, or a physical presence, or a voice, and when you see something close, you try it with that actor.  It’s very similar to holding a dress or a shirt up against your body and looking down at it to see if it would look good on you.  You stick your leg out to see how far down it would go.  Sometimes you stick your head in the hanger and let the dress fall in front of you to see how it would look.  You think it’s great, but then you put it on in the dressing room and suddenly the top is too small and the bottom is too long.  You thought it was going to be perfect.  You take it off, and the next week you see your friend in the exact same dress and it looks perfect on her.  You get jealous because you couldn’t make it work for you.

At yesterday’s audition I walked in and the director said, “Pam, I’d like you to read for Skinhead Girl.”

Because that’s the sort of personality I give off, I guess.  Pissed off racist punk girl.

No, what had happened was she saw the play I’m in right now, and I play a bit of a crazy person, and this girl is a little whack. But she’s a lot more street than I am, you know what I’m saying?  Like, I’m doing this monologue, and it’s all, “Man, that shit is fucked up.  It’s fucked up, you know I’m sayin’?  And I’m like– hold up, hold up.  It ain’t like that shit, you know?”

And I feel like the whitest human on the face of the earth.

I finished the monologue and the director said to me, “Would you be willing to cut your hair?”

I smiled.  “You mean shave my head? If you mean shave, then say shave.”

“That’s the most honest answer we’ve gotten so far.”

“I don’t know.  I guess.  Whatever.”

“She doesn’t necessarily have to have a shaved head.  There’s no part in the play where she’s called ‘Skinhead Girl.’”

“Well, I have a job, but I could wear a hat or a wig or whatever, if you want to cut it and Manic Panic it green or something.”

“Cool.  Yeah.  We just want to know if you’d be willing.”

My mother will cry for nine weeks if I have green hair.

I’ve always had long hair.  Always.  Sometimes I’ve gotten really sick of it and just want to cut it all off and save me all the trouble of washing and twisting and drying and curling and humidity and everything, but when it really boils down to the truth– I look horrible with short hair.  I assume I would.  I don’t know.  I mean, I do that thing where I lift the bottom of my hair and hold it under in this weird bob-like look and that looks terrible, so I can only assume that’s what short hair would look like on me.  I’ve worn short wigs.  My hair is so thin I think I’d end up with tiny hairs sticking up all over the place if I cut my hair off.

I like my pigtails.

I do think that tiny pigtails are very cute, however.

I guess I’ve always been looking for an excuse to cut my hair.  I wouldn’t just do it to do it.  But if for some reason Eric needed a liver transplant, and I had to get the money for the surgery by selling my hair– then there’s something noble to fall back on if for some reason it comes out horrible.  Or, if everyone is like, “Man, your hair.  Why?”  I can be like, “Oh, I’m in a play, and the girl has to have short hair.”

One time I didn’t get a part in a play that I thought I was going to get.  I was so pissed off for months about not getting the part.  And then I went and saw the play.  The role that I thought I’d get involved cutting off all your hair for what amounted to a three minute monologue at the very beginning of the play.  Part of me was like, “Okay.  At least I still have my hair.”

Melty talked about hair a while ago, and it’s something that I still think about. Just doing it.  Just shaving your head.  I don’t think I could do it, I don’t.

Well, of course I could do it, it’s not like I’m physically incapable or anything.  I’d just cry buckets and buckets until it all grew back.  And since my hair is down to the middle of my back… that’s a big ol’ river of tears.

Because I’m a wuss, really.  I’m a wuss that hides behind my hair.  I twist it and pull it and put a whole exhibit of butterfly clips in it and I put glitter in it and I put Britney-Spears-Puffballs in it, and I do all of these things because I don’t really wear makeup, so when I do my hair, it feels like I’m doing something.  You know, like how your mother says, “You should at least look like you tried.”  That’s how I try.  With clips and combs and whatever.  I like making it all curly and then piling it up on top of my head.  I like twisting my hair into what Eric calls my Pooh Ears, that compliment my Winnie the Pooh backpack and makes us look like a team.

Without my hair, I’d just have to look like me.  And that’s what melty is talking about in her essay.  I guess it’d be a good learning experience.  I’d have to deal with stares and explain things and feel good about myself in front of strangers who wonder what happened to that “nice girl.”  I’d have to hold my mother and explain that hair continues to grow and it would all grow back.  I’d have to hope that Eric would still want to pounce me, when I know that my hair is one of his favorite parts of my body.  I’d have to get a new toy for Lillith to play with.  I’d have to stop spending so much money on fancy shampoos that I love.  No more ponytail holders.  No more clippies.

But, you know, maybe I won’t get the part.  Then I’m just worrying for nothing.  But then again, maybe I will get the part.  I won’t know until Tuesday.

Until then, I’m sure I’m going to stop in front of every mirror and pull my hair back and stare.

Ugh, I’m going to hate my nose without any hair.  I just know it.

But maybe it’ll bring out my eyes.