As Editor In Chief Of An International Magazine, I Secretly Used My Friends' Razors And Hairbrushes To Hide My Homelessness
Part two... in which things got so bad I was sleeping on a dog bed in a stranger's apartment while partying with Patricia Field and other luminaries to promote my fabulous publication.
Hi Monday (if you celebrate that sort of thing),
I'm excited to let you get right to the piece below, especially since Page Six caught onto the first installment of Jasmine's story and the anticipation and pressure from you all for Part Two has been a lot. (It's OK – I pressure too when I want something – squeaky wheels, unite.)
So here, without any of my usual rambling about how my day is going or what currently hurts or what fabulous person I hung out with yesterday afternoon, is the follow-up. Enjoy! Or feel shock! Or be impressed! Or feel superior (ideally not)! And let me know which of those or any other reaction you have to this in the comments, where I live my life.
Love love always,
Jane
By Jasmine Glass
I almost choked on my oyster.
Sitting at a celebrity hot spot in New York City, my date had just pointed out something that made me wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
“Girl, you need to brush that hair,” he said playfully, reaching across the table to tug on a section of my waves, which—to my horror—had started to dreadlock.
It was hard for me to keep track of these kinds of things at this time. Because what nobody knew — the secret I had been hiding for months — was that I was in fact homeless.
At this point in the longstanding hook up scenario I was in with this guy, I had already lost my phone charger, my deodorant, and my hairbrush—aka the holy trinity of tools preventing me from looking like a total disaster. I’d been finger-combing for days, but the situation had finally spiraled out of control. Literally.
“It’s part of my rocker-chic look,” I said, swatting him off with the kind of off-the-cuff confidence only panic can manufacture.
A studded military jacket and Doc Martens had been a questionable outfit choice for such an upscale venue, especially with Alec Baldwin seated two tables away and a smattering of millionaires sprinkled throughout the room.
But now? Now I was thanking sweet baby Jesus that my outfit could help sell the lie. (Also, that the restaurant was dimly lit, so my date couldn’t see that my cheeks were basically arson.)
I grabbed my champagne and knocked it back like it was Fiji Water and I was on day five at Burning Man. (Which, by the way, would have been a much more suitable setting for my dreadlocked hair.)
“So how’s the magazine?” he asked, switching topics like he hadn’t just eviscerated what little confidence I'd arrived with.
"Good!" I exclaimed, a little too eagerly. "We just booked our first major celebrity cover."
“Oh yeah? That’s great, babe.” He smiled warmly, concerns about my personal hygiene apparently forgotten.
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. A couple more glasses of wine, a couple dozen oysters. He got us a cab back to his place where we did the dirty—then passed out stark naked.
The next morning, he had to be up and at ‘em by 8 AM and kindly offered to let me stay in bed as long as I wanted—just to let myself out whenever I was ready to “head home.” (Joke’s on you, bud. I don’t have one. Technically, you just asked me to move in!)
I answered professional emails from under his covers, drank three hard ciders from his fridge, and slipped out just minutes before I knew he’d be returning from work. At least this time, I remembered to charge my phone with his charger first—so I could figure out where to sleep that night.
You’ll have to forgive me, because I don’t recall where I wound up. That’s the thing about trauma and complex PTSD—it robs you of a lot of your memory. But don’t worry! It doesn’t just take. It gives so much in return. (Anxiety, depression, panic attacks, night terrors, substance abuse issues, intimacy issues, nervous tics… and shockingly, I could keep going!)
On one such occasion, when I’d stayed behind at Loverboy’s place after he left for work, I took a shower. The next day, while meandering around the city, I got a text that made me want to scream and throw my iPhone into oncoming traffic.
Loverboy: Hey, did you use my roommate’s razor?
Fuuuuuck! No no no noooooo!
Me: LOL, no, why?
Forgive me, God. But this is a must-lie situation. I will literally die from embarrassment.
Loverboy: Weird...he seemed pretty sure about it. Please just don’t use his stuff, okay?
Me: Of course not. No problem!
Well, I guess I can add “razor trespassing” to the ever-expanding résumé of rock-bottom achievements.
After that little fiasco, I needed a win.
The next day (or maybe it was the next month… who can be sure?) I was invited to an exclusive event