This is an ever-evolving story of a girl writer and her two greatest loves, the movies and travel. As she hikes the trenches of Hollywood, you're brought along for the ride.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Last Looks...

Sunday morning I got up, threw on some shoes (no socks) and started walking to the corner qwik-mart to buy a paper. I didn't put on makeup. I didn't really comb my hair (but I generally have good hair so it's OK.) I was wearing a track-suit, which is an L.A. euphemism for "sweats." And I didn't think of any of this before I walked outside the door.

I felt pure freedom, not self-consciousness. Sure, this is L.A.

Looks, appearance, image are everything here and haven't they told you-- no one walks in L.A.

I'm not famous. No paparrazzo's knocking down my door (Thank God) and if I want to go to the corner market in my pj's, why should anyone care? And more importantly, why should I even care if they care.

Of course, if I were outside my neighborhood running errands along Ventura Blvd--as I often do, I'd go to a little more effort. Because don't get me wrong, I like to look nice, but there's a certain pleasure in emerging 'as is.' Secondly, I don't want to become one of those people profiled in a tabloid weekly with a black stripe across my face with the scathing words. In my walk to the corner market, I pass a strip mall, a strip club, a pawn shop, a laundromat, and two liquor stores, and oh yeah-- a place to buy real Indian hair. In fact, on my way home, I passed a Latino guy wearing pajama pants. I looked at him and smiled.

Photo credit: Irona Baby/flickr

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