I love making lists.

Here is a list of awkward reactions to my newly-shorn hair. I posted it on Facebook and on this blog so I would stop getting so many shocked faces pointed my way, but that hasn't stopped some of these truly classic comments, none of which I truly took offense to. Following each comment is what I would've responded with if I hadn't just awkwardly laughed. If you're reading this and one of these comments looks familiar, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

1) "What are you going to do about the dyke comments? I hadn't gotten any such comments... until now. DOES THIS MEAN I LOOK LIKE ELLEN??? Because even though she's definitely my favorite lesbian,  I don't know if I would consider her my style icon.

2) "Did you go to a hair stylist or do it yourself?"Wow. Okay. It looks that bad?

3) "Did you just ask her to make you look like you came from the sixties?" If you are agreeing with the six people who have told me that I look like Julie Andrews from the Sound of Music (aka, the most perfect human being ever to walk the face of the earth) then of course I did!

4) "Oh, you look like my mom!" ... I'm nineteen. How old was she when she had you???

5) "You're lucky you're pretty." Thank you, by the way :)

6) "It's a cute haircut, but it doesn't suit you." We're not friends anymore.

7) "It looks very... classic." Translation: you look like you've been living in a cave and watching Turner classic movies for years. 

8) "Why would you do that?"  You have a buzz cut... why did you do that? Your skull is not exactly as flawless as a baby's bottom. 

9) "It's a very smart haircut. You look smart." I feel like you just compared me to Hilary Clinton. And did long hair make me look, I don't know, vapid? 

10) "I'll warn you, some guys aren't into that." If a guy cares that much about my hair, maybe he shouldn't be dating me. Or girls in general. 

11) "Oh, you got in a fight with a lawnmower!" How about I hold your head under a lawnmower and you tell me how it feels.


12) "Girl you FIERCE!" Yes, I'm black.

Now, guess how many of those comments were from guys? All but two (1 and 10 were girls). Yep, even 12.

Not that I'm bitter. The response has been overwhelmingly positive, and I have zero regrets. I advocate that every girl chop her hair off! And I advocate that every guy grow his out long so he can see what a pain in the butt it is and how much of a relief it is to just hack it off.

Speaking of guys, the demographic of guys who check me out is totally different now. Less frat star, more argyle-wearing, Dostoevsky-reading, Fleet Foxes-listening grad student. Winning.

It's not summer until you've had an awkward bikini incident

So, I chopped off all of my hair on Wednesday. I don't just mean I trimmed it, I took off a solid foot of hair. It went from this:

To this:

Let's just say that the skype date during which this second picture was taken was HUGE shock-fest.

Anyways, onto the awkwardness! I hit the pool today (I was a swimmer for years and my body just isn't happy unless it's chlorinated every once in a while) for some chemicals, sun and anthropology reading. I have a new bikini that I was wearing which was just precious. I love anything floral. Can you tell from the picture above? Maybe that's a good thing, because it overcompensates for my super-short hair.

This super-short thing means that it dries really, really fast. It took about ten minutes in the sun to dry. My new bikini obviously didn't dry quite as fast. I put on shorts and t-shirt over my suit to walk home.

When you have wet hair, a wet patch on your butt is totally acceptable, because it's obvious you were swimming. Wet patches on your shirt also contribute to this. For some (mystifying) reason, my bikini top was really dry, my hair was dry, and the bikini bottom under my khaki shorts, well, not so much. Walking across campus looking like you just peed yourself? Not fun.

Second unfortunate pool incident? I have lost a little weight since buying my bikini top, which is strapless (don't you hate it when you lose weight exactly where you'd rather not get any smaller? I mean, diet and running, take away my thighs, sure, but I'd like to keep my boobs, thanks) and suddenly it is a little too big. I ducked under the water and... you guessed it. I had pushed off the wall and was streamlining underwater across the pool when I realized my top was down on my butt. Thank goodness that hasn't gotten any smaller or I would've lost it entirely.

No, you heard me right.

I have a tendency to a) say completely inappropriate things by accident b) type completely inappropriate things by accident (blame the overzealous auto-correct on my new phone) and c) mishear things and misconstrue them as completely inappropriate.

Example a). I was at a Christmas party this year. To make this story even better, I'll tell you that it was at a big house off-campus that a bunch of super cool Christian students live at. It's called Hampton House. I was chatting with a couple friends over apple cider about the movie A Bug's Life (yes, I'm in college...) We were discussing that romantic scene between the two main characters (by the way, bugs in love? Or animals in love? What? Awkward. I squirm through every scene like that in animated movie history) and I tried to say: "Their tentacles got tangled up!"

What did I say instead? "Their testicles got tangled up."

Example b).  I got a new phone over Thanksgiving. It is way over the top auto-correct happy. And furthermore, it takes completely kosher, white bread words and makes them really, really awkward words. Okay, so this is maybe partly to do with my carelessness. Here are some texts I've sent over the past few month, with my intended message in italics:

We're going over to his place to cock. We're going over to his place to cook. 

Friend: Merry Christmas Elisabeth! And wish Merry Christmas to your parents for me too!
Me: You tool. You too. 

Let's make out in your kitchen! Let's make it in your kitchen. 

It's a sexy of Judaism. It's a sect of Judaism.

This one wasn't on my phone, but instead of typing "simulate climate" on my environmental science review during finals, I typed "stimulate climax". Blame that on exhaustion and an intense desire just to be done with the semester already. Or on Freud, I guess.

Example c). I was playing a heated game of Uno with a couple friends at a game night a couple of weeks ago when I stopped to look down at my phone. I was kind of half-listening to the conversation (never a good idea because you'll always hear something really strange and out of context.) My phone is, by the way, pretty huge. It's long and wide (cue the "that's what she said" jokes, I have heard and made them all when it comes to my phone) and basically looks like a mini iPad.

I had a female friend to the left and a male friend to the right, and they - I thought - had been talking to each other over my head when all of the sudden I heard: "Oh my God, your boner is huge!"

"What did you say?" Maybe a more appropriate question would have been, what on earth is going on and why is it going on it front of me?

"I said, your phone is huge?"

Oh herrow there!

I have been totally swamped these past couple weeks. But now it's (almost!) Spring Break, so I'm kicking off my free time by... using someone else's awkward story instead of writing myself. Here's a guest post from a friend who would prefer to remain anonymous... and to apply extremely, um, creative code names to everyone in her story. Enjoy!

Unlike the creator of this blog, I'm not a very awkward person. This isn't because I have godlike abilities to make anyone feel comfortable in any situation. Quite the contrary -- I've been told that I inspire unimaginable awkwardness in others. (It's a talent. But, I digress.) Point is, I usually don't register it. Time after time, I'll come out of an "awkward" conversation with someone without realizing it. You know how they say that ignorance is bliss? Well, I'm the epitome of ignorance when it comes to picking up on awkwardness. I’m either a social Neanderthal or insensitive moron -- you decide -- but I'm happy with it. Not noticing awkwardness saves me time, energy, and needless worrying. I rarely experience an interaction that is too awkward to be ignored.

Which is exactly what makes this story so memorable.

A couple of weeks ago, I was eating alone in the on-campus dining hall. Because I had decided to procrastinate on some reading that was due in my 2pm class, my nose was buried in a book as I shoveled food into my mouth. It was a disgusting sight, I'm sure, but I didn't care. That is, I didn't mind until someone interrupted my gorging/reading.

Here's more or less a blow-by-blow account of what happened --

HIM: "Hi."

ME: *CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP*

HIM: "Hey. Hi. Hello?"

ME: "Oh, *swallow,* hi."

HIM: "You're Katie. Hamburger. Katie Hamburger. I know you."

ME: "Uh... yes."

HIM: "You're Aaron Hamburger's little sister. You're also dating David Wone."

ME: "Uh... yes. Sorry, but I can't place you. Have we met somewhere?"

HIM: "Oh, no, never in person."

ME: "...."

HIM: "I mean, you know, Facebook. That's how I know you. That's how I know most people, in fact."

ME: "..."

HIM: "Man, I'm hungry." *sits down, starts eating*

ME: "Yeah. Well, hey, nice to meet ya, but I've gotta go. You know, class and stuff... and this reading... and..."

HIM: "Right. Nice meeting you, Katie Hamburger. Your brother and boyfriend are both good guys. I mean, not that I really know them in real life, but yeah. They seem like good guys on Facebook."

ME: "... yeah, thanks..."

And I walked away, too mortified to care about my half-eaten lunch.

After I recovered from the exchange, I came to a couple conclusions:

1)      Random Facebook Stalker could’ve have been hitting on me. He mentioned my boyfriend. He knew he didn’t have any chance… or did he? Was he hoping that I’d burst into tears, complain about my relationship, and decide to date him instead? Not likely, unless he had some serious issues. No, he just wanted to have a chat and didn’t know what else to say. Like many other males, I assume that he did what made sense – take what little information he knew about me and use it to start a conversation. Unfortunately, however, he didn’t pause to realize how awkward that information would sound to a stranger.

2)      Random Facebook Stalker hadn’t just glanced at my profile in passing. He studied it carefully, perhaps even looking at it every night before going to bed. How do I know this? Well, he recognized me in the middle of a crowded dining hall, even though I was looking down and away from everyone around me. I have long hair, and it hangs down over my face when I look down. Plus, it was cold that day, and I was bundled up in three layers of clothing. Between the hair and extra clothes, I wasn’t terribly recognizable. Unless he spent time sifting through pictures of me, it’s unlikely that he would’ve been able to place me.

So, to those of you (yes, you) that randomly stalk Facebook profiles and then start awkward conversations with your victims, here are a few tips:

1)      Never greet someone you’ve never met in person by announcing his/her full name. That sort of thing is only cool in James Bond movies. Everywhere else, it’s creepy. Really creepy.

2)      Never tell someone you’ve never met in person that you’ve Facebook stalked him/her. Rule of thumb: Yes, we all have done it. No, we never own up to it.

3)      Don’t start a conversation with someone you’ve never met while he/she is busy during lunch. Eating and reading is difficult enough – adding conversation to the mix just makes things downright messy.

4)      If you do want to talk to someone you know but haven’t met in person, prepare topics of conversation in advance. Or practice small talk. Or something! Rattling off names and associations and Social Security numbers can only get you so far with strangers, especially if you’re already giving off creepy vibes.

So, that was that – a conversation so awkward that I could almost feel my skin shriveling up in discomfort. But hey, aside from that lunch being the most epically awkward experience I’ve had in a while, there’s good news: I didn’t have any spinach stuck in my teeth. For that, I feel lucky.

It began early.

The awkwardness did, that is. Here is one of my most terrifying (and hilarious) memories. I grew up in the Netherlands, where my often sent me to the grocery store, Albert Heijn, on my own, because we lived in a safe, quiet suburb, our house was walking distance from the only grocery store (quick side note, I grew up going to a butcher and poultry shop and a cheese shop and a baker and then stopping at the grocery store for canned or packaged good or American imports... to me, Costco and Wal-Mart are mind blowing. Albert Heijn grocery stores are the size of a large CVS), and I was such a cute little kiddo that I was automatically forgiven for butchering the language. This independence and responsibility resulted in me one day bringing home green ketchup... don't ask.

On this particular day, though, my mother and little sister accompanied me to the grocery store. I was about ten. It was one of those rare sunny spring days in Wassenaar (that's pronounced Vah-sin-r, folks, it makes me cringe every time I heard wass-in-r). It literally rains and it cloudy and miserable for about eight months out of the year in the Netherlands, so I decided not to go into the store. I was left alone, sprawled out lengthwise on the bench in the square across the street from the store, with me eyes closed, shoes kicked off, every inch of my milk skin absorbing the vitamin D.

Then, I felt it.

Someone was tickling my bare feet. I grumbled, without opening my eyes, "Knock it off, Sarah."

But it wasn't my little sister. I heard a deep, throaty chuckle. A man chuckle. I sat up so fast I probably pulled something, my eyes not only flying open but expanding to the size of saucers. A little old Dutchman wearing a bowler and leaning on a cane was standing at the end of my bench, tickling my bare feet.

"Bent u genieten van de zon, kleine meisje?"He asked in one of those creaky old voices.
(I realize a fraction of the worlds population understands Dutch, so here's a translation: "Are you enjoying the sunshine, little girl?")

Even at that innocent age when I trusted anyone and everyone, I knew a dirty old man when I saw one. But I couldn't bring myself to run. At worst, I could have been sold into international child sex slavery. At best, I could have been force-fed kaas and koekjes in his living room. I'll never know. My mother emerged from the grocery store and he ambled off, leaving me with a deep dislike of people touching my feet.