When Bad Hair Happens to Good People

Two weeks since Halloween and I haven’t even stuck my fingers in the annual pumpkinery. For shame. Here at Pepper we had great readership all through October on a single post from last year: up to 250 wandering wondering souls a day came to read my Top 5 Halloween costumes roundup from 2003, and our search engine logs looked like this for two weeks:

• Halloween costume penis
• Halloween costume bartender
• Halloween costume funny
• Halloween costume funny penis
• Halloween costume bartender penis
• Halloween costume funny bartender penis

Last year I rode a float in the annual Village Halloween Parade, which produced a good photo gallery. The float didn’t work out this year, but since it took until the last minute to not work out I was more or less out-of-costume (I can’t wear getup when I’m shooting, it’s too distracting).

I had already nabbed a bright orange “This IS my Costume” t-shirt (five bucks at the new local Tarzhay), so I donned it and headed out through the spectacular sunny day to Lobo on Court Street, where I like to brunch and tank up on 50 or so cups of coffee when time allows. Lobo, which used to be Harvest, is a pleasant place to hang; I’m not sure that the new Tex-Mex thing actually ups the old Americana thing (though there’s much more tequila, so that can’t be bad). But I’ve got one of those slow-boil bring-me-food waitress crushes on a girl who works there — no, the other one — and I like to drop by to be pampered and fussed over. We play a coffee game where I can’t say no to refills, and when I leave sometimes you can actually hear me slosh.

On the way down Court I pass a guy wearing my same shirt. I look him over. That’s a pretty sorry excuse for a costume, I think. He looks me over too, and crosses the street.

There’s good news and bad news. That night I primp up before heading out to the Red Hots Burlesque Spooktacular at Rififi. I unleash my ponytail (a rare event) and sweep my hair, which is pretty long these days, up over my head, right to left. I mousse it more or less in place. Later, Peaches N’ Cream will narrow her eyes and cock her head. “What is that, some kind of half-man half-woman thing?” she asks. “No,” I answer, “I’m a gigantic combover.”

My waitress, on the other hand, is in a simple afternoon costume that doesn’t tangle her brunchtime duties. Her Halloween costume t-shirt shouts in bright red letters: I LOVE BOYS.