The Hair That Killed the Pussies

I moved to Southern California in the fall of 1982, strangely enough, quite by accident. You see, I had grown up much of my life with my grandparents, and they had recently moved to California themselves. When I heard the news my grandfather was gravely ill, I immediately hopped on my first airplane to get from Rockford, Illinois to Redlands, California. Guilt in full bloom, my family told me that if anyone could give him the will to live it would be me. Quite a lot of pressure for a nineteen year old, but I loved my grandfather more than anyone I’d ever loved.

Despite my hurry and my resolve, Poppy (my grandfather) passed away two weeks after I arrived in California. At least I was able to spend most of those last two weeks with him, though I did spend a bit of time at the local mall. While there I bought myself a bright punk-rock looking pair of tight leggings and a tight top to match. I also bought my first bottle of good perfume, and I wore both to the hospital one day. My grandfather looked me up and down and said to me, “You look like hooker and smell like one too, but I still love you.” Those were the last words my grandfather ever said to me, and as fate would have it, I wore that exact outfit again in the original New Wave Hookers. Somehow that seemed appropriate to me.

But before I get too far off track into my film career, one of the sets on the Members’ Area reminded me of my first modeling gig, so let’s talk about that today.

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