MUNI put a rock to my scissors again last night on my way to my first Italian class. Even with extra time padded into the lining of my transit schedule, still the late bus made me late for lecture. And then I was all sweaty from rushing.

I’m always a little surprised to find I can sweat. It doesn’t seem like something I would do. Though I suppose the alternative — closed pores, a gradual buildup, and then one day a spontaneous firework: sweat bomb everywhere! — is hardly preferable.

Anyway, I don’t know quite what to do about MUNI. Maybe next time I will try being paper.

It’s 2:30 on Wednesday afternoon and I’m sitting in a hotel suite while two strangers fondle my hair. Alas, it’s not the prelude to an orgy blog: it’s fashion.

While striding along in my dressy togs today, late for a fancy-pants luncheon/fund-raiser, I was stopped by a lovely girl who gave me a flyer that said Model Call. It happens that the Bumble & Bumble road show is in town and looking for hair models.

“You sit on stage all day and have your hair cut,” the girl explained to me.

“I have my hair cut all day?” I asked, but no. A large part of it seems to just be sitting.

If this is all sounding sort of vague and hard to picture then you’re right there with me. After my lunch, I went to the room number on the flyer, where four British people — all of them much better looking than me — were sort of hovering around, mostly ignoring the five or six model girls who came and went while I was there.

“Have a seat,” a woman said when I walked in. I sat. She immediately pulled out my ponytail and started spreading my hair over my shoulders.

“Um…what’s this all about, exactly?” I said. Her answer was to bring a much frownier British man over, who also fondled my hair without meeting my eyes. I was starting to worry. Were these the white slavers my mother never warned me about?

After a third Brit had also touched my hair with alarming (but also kind of soothing) familiarity, they all stood back and looked at me.

“What could you do with it?” the woman asked the frowning guy, who answered her in, as far as I could tell, a kind of Cockney-accented growling. She nodded sagely.

“You realize this is all incredibly surreal, right?” I said loudly. Finally they all looked at me. The woman blinked.

“You mean because you’re in a strange room and strangers are touching your hair,” she said. Clearly it had not occurred to her before.

Actually, the surreal part came mostly from the models that kept coming and going. I wanted to point out that there was much better hair than mine on offer, but stayed mum because there was a chance I’d get paid for this.

They were all startled by my blue streak. It was shown to all the Brits as they entered and left the room. “Oh, I like it,” they all said, with varying degrees of conviction. “It’s so…interesting.”

Finally, the frowning man suggested that, were I to be chosen, he would cut my hair into something “less teenage.” They took my polaroid and my number and sent me off. I have this feeling, maybe from the way I kept looking at them warily, or from the way I finally shouted “HANDS OFF, FLESH-EATERS!” at them, that they are not planning to call.

I’ve now had two brushes with the fashion industry, and the consistent trend seems to be the people in charge ignoring the models. In both cases, I kept trying to converse, or at least get some kind of verbal reaction, but it was nearly impossible to get through. In both cases, the photographers or scouts or whoever would wander off in the middle of a sentence to take phone calls or joke with other photographers or do anything to emphasize that the model does not need to be taken seriously as a person. It’s weird. I’m glad I’m a writer and not a piece of meat for a living. Still, if they want to pay me to give me a fabulous haircut, I’m not going to say no.

A few weeks ago, I was heading downtown to meet my dad. Zooming through the MUNI tunnels with my nose in a book, I finally noticed we were zooming faster than usual. In fact, “I can’t stop,” said the conductor apologetically — and said again, with rising panic, as we whizzed through Civic Center and Powell, finally screeching to a stop in the tunnel just past Montgomery, where we all got out and walked back to the station.

Fast forward to today, when yet another bus whizzed merrily past me as I stood at the bus stop fruitlessly waving my handsome, man-sized hands. (“I can’t stop!”) Which caused me to be late for my appointment, which caused me to reschedule, which means tomorrow I’ll be rushing from my meeting with a rough-and-tumble union organizer straight to my fancy fashion lunch for dogs. Which will require either a wardrobe more convertible than Barbie’s or else machinations on the level of a French farce.

These are but two files from my cabinet of anecdotal evidence which, considered as a whole, proves that MUNI is ruining my life.

Very well, I shall know how to act.

Last night, my dad took me to see Gavin Newsom being interviewed at the Commonwealth Club. Some highlights:

Interviewer: Let’s talk about sports.

Newsom: Sports are important…but ultimately, sports are games, they’re fun, they’re just games.

Interviewer: And they’re big business.

Newsom: Like I said.

I chuckle to myself. To millionaire mayor Newsom, big business is a game.

Newsom: You know, I created this amazing anti-poverty legislation…and the next day, the front page story is about my hair. My hair is not important!

Woman behind me, whispering: It’s kind of important.

After several probing questions citing Newsom’s critics, while Newsom got more and more vehement in his answers:

Interviewer: You seem kind of angry.

Newsom: I’m not angry.

Interviewer: Ok.

Newsom: I’m passionate.

Interviewer: ‘Cause you seem angry.

Newsom: [Turns purple. Remains handsome.]

Overall, I’m sold. Not because he is a tall, gorgeous drink of water poured into an expensive suit who exudes an appealing mix of charm and smarm; not because he’s intelligent, articulate, and has a stunning memory for facts; not because he’s a millionaire who’s willing to date commoners; not because he seems sincere about ending poverty (and whatever you think about his programs, he is sincere about that, I think).

Wait, no, those are the reasons I like him.