YAKOV : Russian form of "Jacob", meaning "supplanter"
to replace, to take the place of, to supersede
to uproot, to remove violently*
Madonna, Cher, Pocohontas, Yakov. One sobriquet alone suffices to conjure up a unique personality, one so original, that any additional information would only dilute its power.
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Imagine, if you will, either Matt Dillon, or Mark Messier of the New York Rangers, depending on who you think is cuter. Now create a more compact version with a Russian accent, a Macintosh computer, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Dress him in a black T-shirt, black Levi's, and black Converse All-Stars. Good. Now (this is the most important part) shave his head completely bald.
You now have a picture of Yakov. But perhaps not only of Yakov.
We entered into a May-December relationship. I played the part of a bleak December and he was a lovely May morning. Among other disparities, there was the trichophobia.
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Trichophobia is a fear of hair. This malady is distinguished by a fear of lint, fuzz, towels, eyelashes, and aggressive behavior toward felines. I gave the cats to my ex-husband, moved all of my clothing into the living room and prepared for cohabitation.
We are both graphic designers. Well, I was one before Yakov undid me. The disparity in our personal net worth (due, no doubt, to mere differences of age, experience, intelligence and talent) was such that I decided, albeit subconsciously, to devote the twelve hours a day that I had selfishly reserved for my own career entirely to Yakov's. This included a campaign of public relations that would make Michael Ovitz look like a Vermont housewife, and resulted in several magazine articles, a major book deal, and an impressive client roster that oddly resembled my own.