My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [57]
e. Answers C and D.
I’m pretty sure I don’t have to explain the scoring key on this one.
CHAPTER TEN
Survivor: Chinatown
My enormous out-of-town dinner FAIL tells me that I’ve got to step up my effort in getting more cultured. The one thing I’ve got going for me is I’ll be at events every night during prime time for the next month and thus will be removed from the constant barrage/terrible influence of reality shows.111
I’m going to be in a whole bunch of big cities, and each of them is filled with important museums and world-class dining and landmarks rich in historical significance. My time’s pretty limited but, damn it, I’m going to capitalize on the opportunities in each city.
I am. I swear. Just you wait.
Detroit: Um . . . it’s the first stop and I’m staying in the hotel at the airport. But if I weren’t all the way out here, I’d totally hit the Detroit Institute of Arts. I would. Really.
Boston: I lived here for a summer in college, so I’ve actually been to a lot of the museums, which is why I don’t feel bad about deciding to spend what free time I have in my hotel instead. Someone in the travel department had a contact at the Four Seasons and they got a superdiscounted rate, so I’m staying here tonight!
I get the feeling there’s very little I’d see in this city that could compare to my pretty room with the unencumbered view of the Boston Common. Not only was my ice bucket already filled when I got here, but then my doorbell rang—my room has a doorbell!—and a staff member delivered a copy of my book made out of chocolate.
This? Is so much better than Disneyland.
I figure I can see art any day of the week, but when am I ever going to be in a Four Seasons again? In a room with a doorbell? I can’t not take advantage of this situation, so I park myself on the couch, order a room service cheeseburger, and tune in to Deadliest Catch reruns.
Sadly, I’m leaving shortly to do a televised interview, so I put on all my eighties gear—madras plaid Bermuda shorts, layered pastel Lacoste shirts, and a cable-knit sweater over my shoulders. Right now, especially given my setting, I could pass for the quintessential John Hughes villain. Whoever’s wearing this outfit on-screen will absolutely be the one who makes Molly Ringwald cry. I stuff my enormous mane of fake hair into an impressive ponytail and tie it with a coordinating madras ribbon, topping the whole do with a pair of polarized Ray-Bans.
As I admire myself, my eyes trail back up to my hair. I feel a moderate level of existential angst over these hair extensions. While they were being applied,112 the stylist explained that what I’d gotten was Indian temple hair. Because of its sturdy texture and ability to hold a curl, this is the best kind of hair to use. I was intrigued, so I went home to have a consultation with Dr. Google.
Apparently devoted Hindi women spend their whole lives growing out their hair in order to eventually give it to Vishnu in offering. Once ready, they go on a pilgrimage to the Tiripati temple, which can take days of travel for some of them, often in squalid conditions. Upon arrival, they submit to the temple barber, who shaves their heads, which hopefully prompts the gods to heap good fortune upon their shiny bald noggins.
So, the idea of a religious pilgrim spending her whole life preparing this gift and then traveling hard for hundreds of miles only to have me tease her sacrifice with a can of Aqua Net so I can look like an asshole on a book tour isn’t sitting so well with me.
Guilt aside, I’m pleased with my level of authenticity and am particularly proud of the electric powder blue eye shadow I managed to find, which I’ve now blended artfully with the sparkly powder pink stuff. I am currently coming across more eighties than I even was in the eighties.
I grab my bag and head down to the lobby. The elevator’s crowded,