I'm not really sure how it happened.
Sometime after Stevenson Ranch Davidians (best band name in Los Angeles) played a very Spiritualized set and Annie coerced Mark the DJ into playing "Lilian," our favorite song off of Depeche Mode's latest album, for us, but before Annie's request for We Are Scientists was honored, I sat on the patio. I was at the northwest corner of a table, Larry the Promoter/DJ to my right, Dave across from me and Yutaro next to him. We were talking about something, although I can't remember what that something was exactly. I think it had something to do with the lack of weekly Saturday night parties in the city that we might enjoy. There really aren't any of those right now.
I slid a cigarette out of its Parliament packaging, grabbed the book of matches I had laid in the middle of the table and scooted the ashtray towards me. Then I lit the match and brought it in towards my lips.
I saw a bright flash of orange in the corner of my, similar to a streetlight refracting against the car windshield during a storm. Or, maybe not, maybe it was more like...
FIRE!
If the flame and the bacon-crackle too close to my ear didn't tip me off, then the smell of rapidly incinerating hair and acrylic did.
I think I screamed "Oh, shit!" or "Fuck!" or something like that, but maybe I didn't because I don't remember causing a scene. I saw Larry lean over really quickly. I don't know if he put out the fire of if it was just a singe that went out on its own and he leaned towards me to brush off the hair that had now fallen. Either way, I thank him. My hair, honestly a smaller chunk than I imagined, was ruined in much the same way it was when I set it on fire while blowing out birthday candles when I turned eight. I also managed to muck up part of the faux fur collar on my brand new mauve corduroy jacket that my grandmother gave me for Christmas.
It never fails. No matter how hard I try to behave like a normal person, I will manage to make a royal ass out of myself.
Liz: "I guess it could have been worse. Although, that might have been pretty funny."
I tried not to shutter at the thought of what could have happened if the mini-blaze didn't go out, especially since I had just finished my glass of water and the only thing kind of resembling liquid in the area were some ice cubes remaining in what looked like an empty coctail.
Yutaro: "No, it wouldn't!"
Liz: "Funny in a horrible way, I suppose."
Hey, I was just trying to lighten the situation.
Dave: "Think of the story we would have!"
(Yet another in a long string of seemingly unbelievable incidents that mark my accident-prone life.)
Yutaro: "Yeah, we saw Liz set herself on fire."
Larry: "How Liz is like Michael Jackson"
Hence, the title for this entry.
Later on, after Yutaro left and Larry went to play his set, I prepared to say my goodbyes.
Liz: "Ugh, I still smell like burnt hair!"
Dave: "Oh, you probably don't. It's probably just the area that has the burnt smell."
(Dave, you are a my dear friend and a good person, but you were totally wrong about me not smelling like burnt hair. However, I do thank you for trying to make me feel like less of a freak.)
I had to leave my windows up on the drive home on account of the cold. The burnt hair smell permeated the car. I tried to ignore it, tried to become so involved in my new Editors cd playing that I would eventually forget that the stench was there.
I ran into the house, slipped out of my jacket quickly and tried to find something that remedied the hair situation. When I was in college, I always carried an odor-neutralizer in the fragrance of Thierry Mugler's Angel. It was made specifically to get the club smell out of hair and I have to say that stuff never failed me. I wish I still had it.
I grabbed a Bath & Body Works spray in some variation of vanilla and sprayed it everywhere. Alas, it was of no use. I moved closer to the mirror to investigate the section of hair that was now split and the same shade of burnt sienna that it turns after the first of a two-process dye job. I now smelled of burning and warm vanilla sugar.