My hairdresser must cringe when she sees me coming. You ladies all know what I’m talking about. Everyone one of us, at some point, has walked into the hairdressers with a picture in our hands, held it lovingly next to our face and said, “I want my hair to look like that.” What we are really saying is, “I want my life to look like that, please Fairy Godmother, please!” Right now you guys are saying, “It’s just hair!” Oh no, you’re wrong, it’s never ‘just hair’, it’s the stuff of dreams.
Exhibit A:
Every movie involving a female’s major transformation begins with her hair having serious problems. It is usually in tangles, long enough to be in her eyes and flying all over the place. All is finally made right when she emerges, announced by some servant at the top of the stairs, with her hair well groomed and up in an elaborate ‘do’. The fantasy: everything works out with a simple trip to the right hairdresser.
This is clearly a ploy by the hairdresser mafia, a small, but powerful group that has been secretly ruling the world since ancient times: Revealing book to follow.
I have yet to meet a woman who likes her hair. We might have days that we think it looks alright, or moments, when it looks pretty, but it has so much hairspray a tornado could take it right off our heads and on to a cow 100 meters away, without a hair falling out of place.
What we all want, moment by moment, is gorgeous free flowing tresses. We want to rise from our beds in the morning, our hair already in place, our admirers waiting in the hallway with bated breath.
“You should see mom’s hair when she walks, it’s amazing” one slipper toed drooler would say to the other.
“Do you think we should draw on the wall?” asks the one handing out crayons.
The oldest, would shake her head, horrified and say, “No way, mom’s hair is perfect.”
If only it could be. Until then I had better make an appointment to get my hair done. This time I think I’ll just bring a picture of a neat and tidy room and four, squeaky clean, well behaved children and see how far I get.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Wednesday Story: An Architect's Tower Part 2
Antoni shuffled quickly down the hall to the front foyer, doing up the buttons to his best suit as he went. He paused for a moment at a vase of flowers one of his admirers had brought the day before. He scowled at the flowers. The whole thing looked as unnatural as possible. Each flower was perfection and that made it look like a garish copy of life. He yanked out a single flower for his lapel, crushing another between his hands to catch its soft scent. Joan would be upset that the arrangement was now entirely off kilter. Antoni smiled at the thought, that man was entirely too uptight.
His cowlick waved to him in the mirror above the vase. Antoni grunted. “Humph! Ridiculous hair.” He wiggled his fingers into the vase swishing the water into his palm, smoothing out his cowlick. It remained at much the same angle as the fussy flower arrangement. One little flower had been missed at the back. She was inconsistent shades of red to pink and leaned off to one side. “That,” he thought, “is the one Beatriz would love most of all.” He would make sure she took it home.
A small woman sat on the wooden chair by the door. She wore a black dress, neat and clean but worn. Her black hair had threads of silver woven through and was braided, simply, into a bun. She was watching out the window, her hands in her lap stretching in the dappled sunlight. She turned to meet him, her eyes soft and shy, her little nose, whose freckles had begun to blend together; all these things were just as he remembered. The strange sway to her back seemed more in line with her age now and not so out of place.
“Mr. Gaudi. Thank you for seeing me. I do not know if you remember me, but perhaps you would recall my family name …”
Gaudi laughed a long deep rumble that squeaked from disuse. “Beatriz! How could I forget?” He came forward and took her hand gently helping her from her chair. “It has been too long. And as for family names it is I that should be recalling mine, Beatriz, to you I am Antoni. Just Antoni.” He handed her the flower.
“Antoni! You picked the most beautiful.” Beatriz smiled, light dancing in her shy eyes. “I had hoped you would remember me, Antoni. You’ll have to excuse my condition. My nephew brought me in on his cart. The boy hits all the holes. I am afraid I can’t sit for long.”
“Ah, well, that suits me perfectly. I am just going on my prescription now. Do you have time? Would it suit you to join me?”
“That would be wonderful, Antoni. My nephew will not be done market until this afternoon, and until then I am free.”
Antoni slipped his arm under hers, she walked, stilted, leaning heavily into him, his cane supporting them both as they walked into the street.
As they came into the sunshine and the awakening bustle of the streets, Beatriz laughed again. “I never would have thought we would go on one of our walks in Barcelona! The streets are our ocean Antoni!”
“Yes,” he smiled, “at our age we dare not get our feet wet! Nasty undertow here. You’d get buried under the wheels and never get up!” They both laughed together again. It felt nice to laugh. He had forgotten how long it had been, since Guell died probably.
“Do you remember our walks in the sand?”
“Ah, yes,” he smiled. “All the other children were off kicking balls …”
“Or playing in the hills, or swimming…”
“Yes, and you and I we were the only ones not able to play.”
“Hum,” she said. “I’m glad there was someone else. I spent many days on the porch weaving baskets and shelling snails by myself. Everyone was mean but you Antoni. I’ve always meant to thank you. You were kind to let me be your friend.”
“Beatriz, you think I was kind? You moved the same pace as me. You were my friend. My dear friend. I’m only sorry I was not a better one. I must apologize that I never came to visit…”
“No need,” She dismissed. She smiled and walked on, pointing ahead to a streetlight. “Is that one of yours Antoni?”
“Yes, the city commissioned it.”
“It’s beautiful, I could tell right away. The city must love you a lot.”
“Bah, they only want street lights. They ask others for buildings. It was only a bone thrown to an old dog.”
“Still,” she said, “I like it. One can always use a street light.” They came alongside a grand city building with tall Greek columns and severe marble façade. “How about this building?” She asked a playful glint in her eye.
Antoni growled. “Not me, it’s an architect named Mas, on top of Llobet and Bargues’s work, so prim and proper and thoroughly uncreative…” he caught the glint in her eye. “You tease! You knew full well it wasn’t mine!”
Beatriz smiled and didn’t change her pace.
“So, Beatriz, where do you like to visit in Barcelona? Do you have a favorite coffee shop? You choose. You’re the guest.”
“No, no Antoni. You had better choose. I would have no idea. This is my first time here.”
Antoni stopped in his tracks. “The first time in all these years? Why?”
“The trip was always much too hard. And besides I had shelling and work to do, then my nephews to take care of, I did not mind.”
“Then why, why did you come after all this time?”
Beatriz smiled up at Antoni and softly touched his cheek, “For you, Antoni.”
His cowlick waved to him in the mirror above the vase. Antoni grunted. “Humph! Ridiculous hair.” He wiggled his fingers into the vase swishing the water into his palm, smoothing out his cowlick. It remained at much the same angle as the fussy flower arrangement. One little flower had been missed at the back. She was inconsistent shades of red to pink and leaned off to one side. “That,” he thought, “is the one Beatriz would love most of all.” He would make sure she took it home.
A small woman sat on the wooden chair by the door. She wore a black dress, neat and clean but worn. Her black hair had threads of silver woven through and was braided, simply, into a bun. She was watching out the window, her hands in her lap stretching in the dappled sunlight. She turned to meet him, her eyes soft and shy, her little nose, whose freckles had begun to blend together; all these things were just as he remembered. The strange sway to her back seemed more in line with her age now and not so out of place.
“Mr. Gaudi. Thank you for seeing me. I do not know if you remember me, but perhaps you would recall my family name …”
Gaudi laughed a long deep rumble that squeaked from disuse. “Beatriz! How could I forget?” He came forward and took her hand gently helping her from her chair. “It has been too long. And as for family names it is I that should be recalling mine, Beatriz, to you I am Antoni. Just Antoni.” He handed her the flower.
“Antoni! You picked the most beautiful.” Beatriz smiled, light dancing in her shy eyes. “I had hoped you would remember me, Antoni. You’ll have to excuse my condition. My nephew brought me in on his cart. The boy hits all the holes. I am afraid I can’t sit for long.”
“Ah, well, that suits me perfectly. I am just going on my prescription now. Do you have time? Would it suit you to join me?”
“That would be wonderful, Antoni. My nephew will not be done market until this afternoon, and until then I am free.”
Antoni slipped his arm under hers, she walked, stilted, leaning heavily into him, his cane supporting them both as they walked into the street.
As they came into the sunshine and the awakening bustle of the streets, Beatriz laughed again. “I never would have thought we would go on one of our walks in Barcelona! The streets are our ocean Antoni!”
“Yes,” he smiled, “at our age we dare not get our feet wet! Nasty undertow here. You’d get buried under the wheels and never get up!” They both laughed together again. It felt nice to laugh. He had forgotten how long it had been, since Guell died probably.
“Do you remember our walks in the sand?”
“Ah, yes,” he smiled. “All the other children were off kicking balls …”
“Or playing in the hills, or swimming…”
“Yes, and you and I we were the only ones not able to play.”
“Hum,” she said. “I’m glad there was someone else. I spent many days on the porch weaving baskets and shelling snails by myself. Everyone was mean but you Antoni. I’ve always meant to thank you. You were kind to let me be your friend.”
“Beatriz, you think I was kind? You moved the same pace as me. You were my friend. My dear friend. I’m only sorry I was not a better one. I must apologize that I never came to visit…”
“No need,” She dismissed. She smiled and walked on, pointing ahead to a streetlight. “Is that one of yours Antoni?”
“Yes, the city commissioned it.”
“It’s beautiful, I could tell right away. The city must love you a lot.”
“Bah, they only want street lights. They ask others for buildings. It was only a bone thrown to an old dog.”
“Still,” she said, “I like it. One can always use a street light.” They came alongside a grand city building with tall Greek columns and severe marble façade. “How about this building?” She asked a playful glint in her eye.
Antoni growled. “Not me, it’s an architect named Mas, on top of Llobet and Bargues’s work, so prim and proper and thoroughly uncreative…” he caught the glint in her eye. “You tease! You knew full well it wasn’t mine!”
Beatriz smiled and didn’t change her pace.
“So, Beatriz, where do you like to visit in Barcelona? Do you have a favorite coffee shop? You choose. You’re the guest.”
“No, no Antoni. You had better choose. I would have no idea. This is my first time here.”
Antoni stopped in his tracks. “The first time in all these years? Why?”
“The trip was always much too hard. And besides I had shelling and work to do, then my nephews to take care of, I did not mind.”
“Then why, why did you come after all this time?”
Beatriz smiled up at Antoni and softly touched his cheek, “For you, Antoni.”
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Sunday Intellectual Question: Nature vs. Nurture?
What really makes us who we are? Pop-psych talks about Nature vs. Nurture, but shouldn’t there be another category?
Current discussions of genetics are the ultimate example of “Nature”: Are we destined to do certain things? Do our parents and their parents, by their simple existence, make up the sum of who we are? The truth is, while we can identify some of the genetic code, we are still at a loss as to exactly what it means. There is even some question as to whether or not genetic code has the ability to change as a person grows.
To find a good example of Nurture you don’t have to look farther than the many parenting books on the market. A lot of the books require you to do the right things, in the right order, at the right time or else your children will be doomed.
While it is true that you should definitely take good care of your children, and we have to deal with some things in our lives that we can’t change, are we not, on another level, ultimately responsible for our own actions?
I think there should be another category called “Life Choices” or “Self-Induced Torture”. I really think that in spite of everything we are responsible for our own actions, even bad choices. Let me know what you think.
Current discussions of genetics are the ultimate example of “Nature”: Are we destined to do certain things? Do our parents and their parents, by their simple existence, make up the sum of who we are? The truth is, while we can identify some of the genetic code, we are still at a loss as to exactly what it means. There is even some question as to whether or not genetic code has the ability to change as a person grows.
To find a good example of Nurture you don’t have to look farther than the many parenting books on the market. A lot of the books require you to do the right things, in the right order, at the right time or else your children will be doomed.
While it is true that you should definitely take good care of your children, and we have to deal with some things in our lives that we can’t change, are we not, on another level, ultimately responsible for our own actions?
I think there should be another category called “Life Choices” or “Self-Induced Torture”. I really think that in spite of everything we are responsible for our own actions, even bad choices. Let me know what you think.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Here's $1,000,000!
Just kidding! However, here’s what I would do with my million.
Go to an expensive furniture store with my brother. Sit on all the sofas and:
Get an ice cream truck for my house. A real ice cream and gelato truck. I don’t want to gain a ton of weight though, so here’s my plan.
Hire someone to do some of the household things I hate to do.
Time share a jet plane so I could fly the whole family to such exotic locations as:
A tiny, clean house out back that is very, very quiet for writing. And well-insulated. What can I say, with a million dollars I shouldn’t have to feel the cold.
So, as you can see, I would probably not make a great millionaire. However, I would have a lot of fun! Let me know what you would do!
Go to an expensive furniture store with my brother. Sit on all the sofas and:
- Pretend that we are watching a sports channel. Complete with shouting,cheering and ‘channel changing’.
- Rearrange the coffee tables so that our pretend drinks are within reach.
- Make comments like: “Lay down on it, ‘Bob’. Stretch right out and see if it’s long enough for a good nap.”
- Convince the salesman to take off his shoes and sit with us on a three seater sofa. Discuss the fine points of "Does it really seat three people?"
- Purchase the most beautiful, wonderful sofa and say, "Ship it!"
Get an ice cream truck for my house. A real ice cream and gelato truck. I don’t want to gain a ton of weight though, so here’s my plan.
- The driver of the ice cream truck would drive around the block.
- My family and I would chase it.
- When the truck has completed a full curcuit we can all have an ice cream.
Hire someone to do some of the household things I hate to do.
- One person would follow my children around and say things like. “Pick that up. Don’t leave that there. Quit hitting your sister.”
- Another person would be in charge of the bathroom. Someone comes out; they go in and clean up. They would also hand out scented towels and do foot massages.
Time share a jet plane so I could fly the whole family to such exotic locations as:
- My brother’s backyard (wouldn’t he be surprised!)
- A sausage festival in Germany, Lobster Dinner with Anne in PEI, and crème Brule wherever they are famous for that.
- Anywhere there’s a theatre production I want to see. Nothing too weird. Must have good snacks. Every weekend.
A tiny, clean house out back that is very, very quiet for writing. And well-insulated. What can I say, with a million dollars I shouldn’t have to feel the cold.
So, as you can see, I would probably not make a great millionaire. However, I would have a lot of fun! Let me know what you would do!
One Million Dollars!
What would you do with a million dollars? I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Almost everyone I know says “When I win a $1000000 I will…”. We must all think about it. There are ads everywhere, “You’re the lucky number!” “We’ve been waiting for you!” “Congratulations, you’re breathing. You’ve just won the opportunity of a lifetime!”
I suppose they’re right. There are a lot of people out there. Most of them are dead.
What would I do with a million dollars? I must admit, for the most part, I am dead boring. I have a long list of things I would pay off, things I would fix, things I would fix again, investments I would make, and appropriate, well managed, charities to fund. It would be a busy, time crunched life filled with writing check, after check and making agonizing decisions over appropriately named things such as:
Bonds or Mutual Funds: Do I want to be tied up in a box, or make friends?
Open Market vs. Closed: Well, duh! You can’t buy anything when the market is closed!
401k Rollovers: That is one tired dog.
Annuities: Which I would probably go for just because it is so cool to say. Go on, try it!
Who needs it? However, I have recently come up with a list of some more Cara styled fun to have with my million … and to make it more exciting … I will post it tomorrow.
I suppose they’re right. There are a lot of people out there. Most of them are dead.
What would I do with a million dollars? I must admit, for the most part, I am dead boring. I have a long list of things I would pay off, things I would fix, things I would fix again, investments I would make, and appropriate, well managed, charities to fund. It would be a busy, time crunched life filled with writing check, after check and making agonizing decisions over appropriately named things such as:
Bonds or Mutual Funds: Do I want to be tied up in a box, or make friends?
Open Market vs. Closed: Well, duh! You can’t buy anything when the market is closed!
401k Rollovers: That is one tired dog.
Annuities: Which I would probably go for just because it is so cool to say. Go on, try it!
Who needs it? However, I have recently come up with a list of some more Cara styled fun to have with my million … and to make it more exciting … I will post it tomorrow.
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