Zoe Zombie

When I was in Hong Kong, I bought the book “Sex and the City”. I had seen the film only a few months prior, was a big fan of the tv show and now I was ready to embark on the centre from which it all came. As I read the book, I thought – this woman is almost like a masochist. But I empathised with her. I related to her. Candace Bushnell made her alter ego feel like another person – one who seemed to be on the look for someone who would love her just the way she is, and got badly hurt along the way.

The television show lost the reality of this toward the end – I’m almost surprised that people were saddened when it was announced the show was finishing when it was so popular. To be honest, it began to border on “Fantasy” rather than the sexy, comedic tragedy of the earlier seasons.

Then there was the movie – and while die hards wanted to believe it was the best thing they had ever seen, I just kept imagining that dead, beaten horse. How could I empathise with a 40 something woman who finally decides to marry a man she’s been on and off with for 10 years? Watching the film was like watching a catatonic woman dressed in Dior – looks fabulous, but there is a whole heap of mess going on behind those eyes. So basically, what I am trying to say is – it was shit.

I liked Sex and the City because it seemed so normal – finally there was a show on tv that had women who (for the most part) talked the way normal women talk. It tried to break down those double standards that said women enjoy having sex too. And it’s got it’s too-funny parts – like when Samantha was trying to explain what exactly tea-bagging was, or the guy who fucked Carrie like a jack hammer, or when Charlotte dated “Mr Pussy”, even when Miranda faked every single orgasm she had with her lover at the time.

But as time went on, you think to yourself “I hope single women are not aspiring to be Carrie Bradshaw.” Sure, she has a shoe closet to die for, some awesome clothes and a job that everyone wishes they had – writing a column for a newspaper that takes up 3 hours of your week, leaving you enough time to spend your insane salary on shoes, lunches and clothes. But she’s emotionally retarded – she believes in a fairytale of the perfect man rescuing her from her life of singledom which she continues to say is “fabulous” but deep down in side knows that she doesn’t want to be alone forever. Who does? But her unrealistic view of relationships forces her to run away, or create problems so that eventually, whatever relationship she is in just crumbles.

I enjoyed being single, I thought it was awesome to do whatever I wanted with no one to answer to, not having to worry about someone else. And I could understand Carrie’s emotional retardedness when I started dating my boyfriend – but then I realised – I don’t want to be alone forever. I don’t want to be one of those women like Carrie Bradshaw (a fictional character, but you can’t say you’ve never met one like her) who just fucks off men because they’re not exactly what she is looking for and they can’t give her exactly what she needs. I don’t want to wake up one day at 38 and still be single because I blew some of the best relationships of my life.

So I was wondering what the second movie could possibly be about. I had just watched an episode earlier (for the 25th time) where Carrie runs into Aidan and his son and he says “I had a baby” and she says, with shrill and competitive excitement “I have a date!”. I mean, what the fuck? Are you 12? How is having a first date the same or even better than having a child with your wife who you just married?

I had remembered that there was talk of Aidan being in the movie, but those scenes were cut out. Then I wondered if he would be in the second film, and rejected the idea, but laughed out loud. I could just imagine, Carrie at 45, running up to Aidan with his however many children and saying something almost as retarded as “I have a date!” but she can’t since she is married. I’ll probably still see it – it’s a chick thing.

“MEAT TRAIN is guaranteed to make you squirm, scream and beg for more. You won’t need a round trip ticket for this sucker, because you won’t be coming back…7/10.” – Bloody Disgusting.com

I can say that I squirmed but I didn’t scream. And I didn’t want to even think about begging for more. Aisde from the fact that this film sounds like a dream for anyone who takes dick, I can safely say that this film is not a porno and if it had been it probably would have been super awesome. Alas, The Midnight Meat Train was a waste of time but I could not stop watching. Simply because I wanted to give the film a chance to prove to me why I just wasted 2 hours of my time.

I used to watch horror movies several times a week. I like crappy vintage exploitation style horror films. There are those films that are so bad that they’re good and become my favourites. A lot of the time I buy a film on dvd after reading about it and so I have a pretty solid collection. If in doubt – I download. And I am glad I did.

It’s films like these that make me wish I had a show like “At the movies” on ABC but it would just be horror films. And none of these stupid commercial films that everyone thinks are horror like “Disturbia” or whatever. I’m talking retarded remakes of classic 70s/80s films, awesome exploitation flicks – I would have the awesomest horror film review show ever in the history of all time. And if I had this said show, I would rip the fuck out of this film like that weird dude ripped out that chicks still beating heart in this flick.

The acting was shit, there was no real character development. The usual suspects were murdered the way it always is. It’s really quite sad because I quite enjoy the short story authored by Clive Barker, but I also wondered how they were able to turn a short story into a full length feature film that’s not craptastic?

Next I will be watching Quarantine, the remake of the Spanish horror film [REC] – should be interesting maybe… and if not, then stay tuned to my At the movies – horror(ble).

It’s time to get superficial. And brutal. The best of both worlds. What I am talking about is my hair, and the fact that I just can’t win in regards to a certain hair salon in Osbourne Park. I had been going there since 2002 and even though it cost an arm, a leg, my ass and $200, I kept going back. You could even call it masochistic. I had a sick addiction to the pain of being charged more than $200 every time I was getting my hair done. And do you know what is worse? I accepted it! I kept justifying it and saying things like “they always do a great job”.

What. the. fuck. ever.

Last time I went, it was a nightmare. I was there for 5 hours. I’m not joking. I had half a head of foils which takes an hour for me as I have a lot of hair, and a cut which takes all of 10 minutes. Then of course there is all the shampooing and blow-waving. Oh! That’s the other thing – I even opted out of the blow wave a little while back because I had found out it was $65! For a blow-wave! Ridiculous.

Ok, so back to my brutal, brutal story.

The last time I was at this particular HAIR salon in Osborne Park, I felt like I was being weaved through a LOOM. You could even say that I was fucked around. Whatever, how else am I to cleverly tell you of the place I had my hair done? I sat in the chair, waited 30 minutes for my hairdresser to approach me, then i sat in another chair, waited for 20 minutes for someone to get me prepped. Waited 10 minutes for my hairdresser to return to tell me that SOMEONE ELSE was doing my hair. Might I just add that yes, I was timing these little blocks of time that I was sitting around waiting. Since waiting a really long time at reception, I thought – what the fuck – and just started timing.

At first it was a joke, and then when I was left at the hair dryer sitting there with the damn thing off and waiting for someone to come and assist me for 20 minutes, I thought enough is enough. I actually began to get furious. I thought that this has to be it – no more waiting. But I was so wrong. My hairdresser started cutting, then excused herself for 35 minutes as she tended to a lady at the front counter. I was flipping out. If it were possible, I would have had steam coming from my ears. Of course, I forgot to invoke the “I have an appointment at xx:xx” so they would hurry up and I wouldn’t have to get out 5 hours after I went in. My boyfriend even called me to see if I was ok.

So I thought, fuck this. Fuck you and your outlandish prices, your shitty service or lack of service at all, your ego to think you are even worth that much, leaving me alone for over an hour for no good reason – it wasn’t even busy! I was going to go somewhere else, and on Saturday morning, I did just that.

I went to this fabulous little hair salon on Grantham Street in Wembley. It is owned by a mutual friend and so I thought I would go anyway since my bee eff eff said it was super cheap and awesome as evidenced by her current hair. I slid open the door to the salon, walked 10 cm and I was at the reception. I was obviously used to the poor excuse for a salon in Osborne Park that had there grand entrance with their endless, undeserved trophies and a brick wall that looked like it should have been a water feature but probably got clogged with hair and stopped working. I was promptly shown my seat where I was greated with mens magazines which I read anyway.

With magazines, men know where it’s at. It’s all about tits and cars – there is no covering up. It’s what they like. With women’s magazines, it’s always a constant regurgitation of “real life articles” and “you can be better!” – you know, stories that try and disguise the fact that we just like shopping and sex.

My hairdresser came promptly, listened to what I wanted, showed me colour charts to help match my natural colour and just started cutting. Quick and to the point. I was taken aback that there was no spraying – normally at that shitty little box of a salon in ozzie park I had my hair streaked first then cut – but I didn’t care – down to business. My hair was drowning the floor and I loved it. I had been pissed the last couple of times I had my hair cut it looked no different and felt no different and I would somehow be $200 poorer. Then followed the streaks. I sat and read magazines from a week to 6 months ago which I found slightly refreshing. There were no Vogue’s, no Cosmopolitans. Just the trashy gossip mags which are always funny and no matter how old they are, it was like a soap opera – still entertaining and full of crappy drama.

After the streaks, it was time for the shampooing. My hairdresser led me to the chair which was a metre away, out in the open and the chairs looked like they were from the 70s. I was almost taken aback but at the same time, I loved it. There was no pretensious attitude about it. It was just a hair salon, the way it should be. I had been used to the old salon, with the private back room with all the shampoo girls, reclining your chair with a peddle and turning on the chair massager.

And then there was the blow drying – the girl doing it pulled my hair quite a bit. It was slightly uncomfortable and at some times, kind of painful. But whatever, I didn’t care. And I loved that fact that I didn’t have to talk to 19 year old girls who had been clubbing since they were 15 or some shit.This place catered for all kinds – lovely old ladies were in there chatting away and being randy as it was Valentine’s day. It was quite funny and yet also comforting. I was in a no-bullshit zone – just the way I am.

Ok so the HAIR salon that weaved me through a LOOM is obviously a lot more trendier than this wonderful little salon on Grantham Street, but who cares? And when my total came to $90 I was booking my next appointment right away and I was out of there 2 hours later. Who the fuck wants to be sitting there for 5 hours, being shunted and having to listen to girls who rant about which West Coast Eagles player they know/slept with/dated/slapped whatever?

Not me.