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Alla begged me to stop, for both of our sakes. She asked me to walk her to her hotel room where Slava had packed her and the other provincial models into a single. They were like Vietnamese migrant workers, sleeping on the floor, chairs, couches, smoking cheap cigarettes. I gave Alla my telephone number, but she didn't give me hers in Belgorod. I figured that was that -- my carriage had turned into a pumpkin. Three weeks later, to my surprise, I got a call from Alla. She was in Moscow. She hoped to see me. She was at Kursky Vokzal after a long weekend at the sugar dyadya's dacha, "modeling" again. She wanted me to see her off. I raced down to the station. It's packed with cars, traffic worse than ever now that they've got that giant white shopping mall there with the multiplex theater and the Sedmoi Kontinent. I finally get into the station, into the Old Russia where people drag giant sacks and reek of papirosi, and look around for Alla, the gazelle from Belgorod. "Mark! Mark, ya zdes!" I looked over, but didn't see Alla. Some older looking woman, beaming a smile, walked quickly towards me. I thought to myself, oh shit, some badly-aging bag from my past is going to fuck up my reunion with Alla. I tried to ignore her, turned away and kept my eyes open for Alla. "Mark! Eto ya, ya zdes!" I turned again, and it was that same oldish, short-haired chick. "Eto ya, Alla!" "Oh shit," I said. Could she have really aged 10 years in 3 weeks? Was I that high when I fucked her? "You didn't recognize me," she said, still smiling. As Ash says in Army of Darkness: "Honey, you got reeeeal ugly." We stepped outside. Under the street lights, she looked even worse. Alla told me that she'd stay in Moscow "if you will entertain me." I should have ditched her right there. But memories of Moe's party were so powerful that I vetoed my own common sense. I kept trying to imagine her with hair again. Why, why, why do women under the age of 30 cut their hair short? Why? Has any woman, ever, in the history of mankind, ever looked better with short hair? Huh? Has any man ever said to a young woman with beautiful long hair, "You know honey, I really wish you'd look like my mother after she underwent intensive chemotherapy for ovarian cancer -- I have a hospice fetish that I can't quench. So why don't you go and cut all your hair off. Please, oh pretty please?! I really want to fuck a cancer patient!"
Look at older women. They all cut their hair short because they know it doesn't make a difference anyway. They've given up. No one will fuck them anyway. That's what short hair means on a woman: "I give up! No one will fuck me, so why bother!" And really, you can't blame them. But for some reason, even young women cut their hair short. Even worse is when 20-something women just beginning their slide from beauty always accelerate the process with a shearing. They get scared and desperate and think that by cutting their hair, they'll alter the rules of the game back into their favor. But it never works. Ever. Just to test my theory, I asked Alla. "I needed a change," she said. "I thought it would change things. My hairdresser told me it would look good, and that I'd feel different." A few months ago, a crazy Chuvash girl whom I wrote about last year, the one who gushed a giant lake of female ejaculation onto my bedspread, appeared at my door...her long dark hair cut into a boyish yellow helmet. Her lip had a massive herpes sore on it. I nearly screamed. And slammed the door on her face. But this was different -- this was Alla, after all, the provincial model who nearly murdered me with sex. The infamous heart-attack-fuck that everyone jokes about, but few actually experience. I was an sucker. I took her out to dinner at Pyramid. She ate a tuna fish salad. I took her out to Poslednie Dengi for karaoke. After she'd chosen her 15th song, I made her stop. I took her home. And she wouldn't let me fuck her.
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