Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, July 16, 2004
Many of you have probably figured out I'm one of those people who is passionate about things. Not everything. But a lot of things. I really, really, really, really like things. Or really, really, really do not like things. I'll fight to death for truth, the bigger picture and the greater good.
This is why HWNMNBS has been such an all pervading issue for me. I really, really, really, really love him.
Until I met him I had never really, really, really, really loved anyone.
I dated men I liked, and one or two whom I thought, given time and relationship nurturing, I would love. I know. For the passionate person I just claimed to be, this is a rather mediocre stance on romance.
I thought so, too. And the relationships fizzled. I shoulder responsibility for those failed relationships. Even though many of those men were far from perfect, in fact, quite flawed, I have never pointed a finger in blame at many of them. In a lot of cases it wasn't their fault I wasn't feeling passionately about the relationship. Well. In a few cases, actually, it was their fault. But I'm not about blame.
I'm about being passionate about things.
My short list of lifelong passions includes:
Love
Family
Friends
Animals
Art
Music
Books
Scotland
The Bigger Picture
Travel
Cheese
That list is no particular order. My passion for those things is equal. They are always there, on the surface or just under it.
As a gauge, a few things I am slightly less passionate about, things which are there most of the time but if I had to I could manage for a week or two without, are:
Shoes
Caramel Squares
Handsome men (you know, the really, really handsome ones worthy of passion: Cary Grant, Gregory Peck, Bryan Ferry, Roger Moore...)
Vespas/Bikes
Water
Wine
Movies
I am very passionate about the second list, but if I had to choose between my family and shoes, for instance, my family would rate higher on my passionometer. (Yes really.) Us passionate people have to learn to maintain some sort of perspective on things. It's very easy for us to be equally passionate about caramel squares and our best friend. To people not plagued by passion as we are, this can seem sick and wrong. It's not that we value, in this example, caramel squares more than or as much as our best friend, it's that we are passionate about both. Both bring joy and pleasure and sometimes pain so we feel strongly about them. It's not easy to explain this to people who are not passionate about things. Consequently we have to constantly reassess and weigh our passions. Yeah. It's not easy being passionate. A burden, really.
Astute readers will note nowhere on those lists do you see money, politics or religion. Friends and people who know me won't be surprised by those omissions. The rest of you will just have to ponder and sort it out on your own. (Every now and then I like giving you something to think about and reflect upon in your own lives. It makes me feel like I am actually doing something with this blog other than moaning on and on about nothing of any relevance.)
Right.
Passionate.
I am.
You probably know a few people like me. No? Let me ask you this: Do you know anyone who, when they hear a song they like, listens to it over, and over, and over, and over, and over, as if they are possessed by it? Perhaps you yourself have done this. I'm sorry to tell you this: You are passionate.
Back in '95, I was one of the many anxiously awaiting the release of the new Smashing Pumpkins CD. I love the Smashing Pumpkins.
Passionately.
Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, to those who do not know, was a very eagerly anticipated release. There was a lot of talk and press and hype about just what it was going to be and that it would potentially change the course of music forever. I know. You hear that a lot and it's usually not true because it's usually about someone like Avril Lavigne. But since the buzz and hype was about the Smashing Pumpkins, it seemed credible.
I was very lucky. I got the CD in my trembling, anxious hands prior to the mass drop. I caressed the CD. I allowed myself the pleasure of opening it and looking at the art. I tucked it away safely in my bag.
I was patient.
I waited until I got home, opened a bottle of very good wine I'd been saving for just such an occasion, changed into the Comfy Clothes, turned off the phone and assumed the optimal listening position before I even allowed myself to consider hearing a note of the music. Passionate people, I have observed, myself included, are ironically very, very patient people. It doesn't make sense to me, either, but that's what I've observed. Something else for you to ponder.
I was not disappointed.
I listened to the discs non stop for two weeks.
One song touched me beyond all others. One song, one (oddly for me) potentially pop accessible song, struck a very deep chord in me. This song, I knew, would be one of my all time favorites. I always know within two hearings of a song if it will make my all time favorite list. I never know when it's going to happen or why. The all time favorite list is scary, lacks any cohesion or direction and makes me look like a multi-personalitied psychotic. That's how it is with us passionate people. We never know by what or when we're going to be swept away on waves of passion.
Life went on. Years passed.
The Smashing Pumpkins had other releases and a tour or two.
The song remained a favorite.
And then I met a man.
A man about whom I was passionate.
And every time I was going to see him, that song from a few years prior would run through my head and my ears. I'd get all hopped up high on anticipation and adrenalin and that song fed my audio craving.
That song from a few years prior was there waiting for me to meet that man.
Or at least that's the way I've always felt about it.
I suppose lots of other people feel that way, too. It's that kind of song. Maybe you had the same experience. Maybe the Pumpkins are some sort of soothsayers of love (oooooh, another good band name! That's two in one week! I'm on a roll!) prophesizing moments to come by giving us a soundtrack to have at the ready for when the moment arrives.
I listened to this song to the exclusion of most others all this week. I cannot hear another song. When I hear other songs they end up sounding like this song. That's how it is when you're passionate.
A lot of people don't like the Smashing Pumpkins because they can't get past Billy Corgan's voice. Fair enough. It's an acquired taste. Other people don't like bad ass rock and roll. Fair enough. Mega watt guitars aren't for everyone. Other people complain they can't figure out the lyrics. Probably because they can't hear beyond the mega watt guitars and Billy Corgan's weird voice.
So here's a bit of good pop poetry. Not brilliant, but good. (The brilliance of this song is the meshing of the lyrics with the composition, which I do not have the capacity to share here, now, today, so splash out the 99 cents and download the mp3.) It's Friday, we can all use an optimistic start to the weekend. If you're going out tonight, pop this in the mp3 on the way home, play it a few times and I guarantee you will be in the perfect date/going out mood by the time you get home.
You might even find yourself being passionate about something or someone.
Tonight, Tonight
Time is never time at all
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth
And our lives are forever changed
We will never be the same
The more you change the less you feel
Believe, believe in me, believe
That life can change, that you're not stuck in vain
We're not the same, we're different tonight
Tonight, so bright
Tonight
And you know you're never sure
But you're sure you could be right
If you held yourself up to the light
And the embers never fade in your city by the lake
The place where you were born
Believe, believe in me, believe
In the resolute urgency of now
And if you believe there's not a chance tonight
Tonight, so bright
Tonight
We'll crucify the insincere tonight
We'll make things right, we'll feel it all tonight
We'll find a way to offer up the night tonight
The indescribable moments of your life tonight
The impossible is possible tonight
Believe in me as I believe in you, tonight
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Men: Want to please your woman? Learn what not to do and you'll be golden. I know this is a bit out of my usual post realm, but it's such great advice, and in the interest of observing and reporting, I'm offering it to the male readers.
Seven out of seven women polled (of varying ages, backgrounds and, erm, experience) agree with every piece of advice in this article.
From torrid, steamy, curly sprout start, spiraling right on through a painful conversation with Smelly Coffee Woman (had to be the bad hair, brings out the worst in people), on through a disturbingly strange lunch with a vendor (had to be the bad hair, it can make men feel superior), and to the self checkout lane at the grocery (had to be the bad hair, it makes people feel inadequate). (Note to The Universe: If you don't think you are capable of comprehending the concepts of scanning a UPC or using a touch screen (especially if you do not know what UPCs or touchscreens are) do not, I repeat, for the sake of all humanity, I repeat: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO USE THE SELF CHECKOUT LANES AT THE GROCERY.)
Call me old fashioned.
Go ahead. It's okay. I don't mind, really. More and more I'm not bothered by it. I've had my day in the cutting edge sun. I've spent long, lonely nights smugly knowing I knew more, used more and owned more technologically savvy stuff than anyone I knew. Smug technological satisfaction is little comfort when none of your friends or family have computers let alone email at home. (Yep, I was one of those people. First one to have a computer at home and the first of my group to have The Internet and email at home. Go ahead, hate me. I hated myself for it at the time, and even more now. Dork! Loser! Geek!)
All true.
Yeah. Those were the days.
The last few weeks have been technologically challenging for me.
I am hoping I rose to the occasion. That I triumphed with technology. (With age comes wisdom. We've come too far to triumph OVER technology. We can only hope and aspire to triumph with it.)
Okay, whatever Trillian, get to the point. Why are we calling you old fashioned if you fancy yourself so tech savvy?
Oh. Right. Sorry.
Because I really like receiving mail.
Not email (though that's really swell, too) old fashioned in the mail box mail.
The mailbox holds the thrill of the unknown, like an unwrapped package, no email inbox can rival. You always know who your email is from - or rather, more likely who it's not from in the case of 90% of all email, spam - and even the most mysterious "(No Subject)" subject line reveals something about the content. (I have found when there's a blank subject line I'm usually in for a difficult email. The boring and mundane at least have "hi" or some such innocuosity. Blank almost always spells (with a lack of character) trouble.)
But the metal box containing letters. Real letters you can touch.
Well.
Now.
That's a thrill no technology can duplicate.
Most of my family and friends now use email exclusively. Which is fine. It's a necessity and nicety. But there are a few holdouts. My older family members who do not and will not use a computer. My very proper family and friends who send hand written thank you notes (if you don't do this, you should). My niece who sends me original artwork. My mum who sends me clippings from magazines and newspapers. (most of which I actually read, particularly the clippings from the Extremely Local Hometown "Newspaper" which is not online and an hysterical reminder of why I deal with living in a major metropolitan area.)
Usually the trip to the mailbox brings bills, a magazine or two, a missing child flyer and those advertising circulars for stores you've never heard of let alone frequent.
But sometimes, and this is the fun part, sometimes, you never know when, sometimes a big surprise is waiting in there. Or, okay, maybe not a big surprise, but a pleasant bonne bouche.
Yesterday was one of those days. It started out bad, bad hair day bad, but ended good.
I opened my mailbox with the usual hope, but anticipating the usual crap.
But not one piece of crap! Not one bill. Not one missing child. Not one cease and desist order.
Instead: Two of my favorite magazines. I love magazine days.
But wait! What's this?
The magazines are wrapped around letters. (oh darn, probably bills) Hey! Look! It's letter from my aunt! Oh boy! She was thinking of me and took the time to write me a letter! This means a lot because she's 87 and has really horrible arthritis. Receiving a letter from her means two things:
She had a "good" day and was able to write a whole letter, and, on her good day she was able to write a whole letter, she chose to write me! I love my aunt. I love her a lot. I cherish her letters because I like to hear from her, and also because I know what horrible pain is behind each word written. It makes me value and savor each word she writes.
Then another letter. Oh. Shucks. That one's a bill. Darn thought I. Oh well. Two magazines and a letter from my aunt. All in all a good mailbox day.
As I closed the box and gathered my stuff, something fluttered out of the magazines.
A postcard! Oh boy! I love postcards.
What Postcards Mean to Me.
By Tricia McMillian
To me postcards mean: Someone, hopefully someone I actually know, went somewhere or did something. And while they were there or doing it, they thought of me. Me. Of all the people they could be thinking about, or not, while they were somewhere or doing something, they chose to think about me. And not only did they think about me, they took time out from what they were doing and picked up a postcard. They stood there thinking, Hmmmm. I'm thinking of Trillian. Gosh, I wonder what she's doing right now. I could ring her. But I always ring her and besides I'm here, doing that, and it would be kind of mean to call her at work and flaunt the fact that I'm having fun while she's toiling away at that awful job. But I am thinking about her because I know she'd love this, and if she were here we'd be having a really swell time, and I bet she'd say (a very sarcastic remark rated NC17) and we'd go for drinks. I'll send her a postcard. Let me choose just the right one. (Here's where the thoughtful part really kicks in. Oh the postcards I have received. I really should start a gallery. Most are priceless.)
The person then chooses just the right postcard and purchases it (or takes it from the GoCard rack by the bathroom in the bar) and then, then the really thoughtful part begins: They take time to write me. Even if it's just a "thinking of you" or "Hi Trill, you'd love this. I'm here. You're not. Next time you're coming and you're buying." They take the time to put pen to card, stamp it and mail it.
Once, My Very Good Friend traveled to a Very Remote Place in the Universe. She was gone two months. She got home. We talked on the phone about her trip. A few months later I traveled to visit her. I saw photos of the Very Remote Place in the Universe. I went home. Life moved on for both of us. And then one day I received a postcard. From a Very Remote Place in the Universe. Had she gone back, I wondered? She really liked it there, maybe this is her way of telling me she's packed up and moved. I rang her home, got her voice mail. Three days later I received another postcard arrived from a Very Remote Place in the Universe. I rang her, got her voice mail. Genuinely curious and slightly concerned, I rang her office. She was there. The postcards were from her trip six months prior. Two more arrived in the following weeks. (I love that story, by the way.) It was such a great feeling to know six months prior, in a Very Remote Part of the Universe, my Very Good Friend thought of me, and then, there I was, reliving her trip, long after we'd both stopped talking about it.
The postcard I received yesterday was not from a Very Remote Place in the Universe. Well. Unmethaphorically speaking, anyway. The cancel on it was marked Far Far Away over a Dr. Seuss stamp. I'm sure the sender didn't know it would be canceled with Far Far Away, but it was very fitting. The postcard I received yesterday was from (a friend) whom I adore and yet have fallen out of contact. Like most of my family and friends, (this friend) has not heard from me in ages. (Damn this job, damn it all to Hell) And yet, (this friend) bothered to send me a meaningful postcard which brightened my mailbox. Oh sure, the postcard itself was cool enough, but it sent a message of small triumph. (this friend) went somewhere and did something (this friend) had never done, and the postcard was a mark of victory. "See? I did it Trill, I really did it!" Not what was actually written on the card, but what it said to me. I am very proud of (this friend) for going there and doing that. I would very much like to have gone there and done that with (that friend) but I couldn't. For a few minutes, via the postcard, I got to vicariously be there, doing that, with (that friend). (That friend) thought enough of me to send me a postcard, and, can you feel the love tonight?, it touched me via my mailbox and transported me to that place doing that thing. It's a nice place, and a good thing, and I enjoyed my vicarious visit.
That's what postcards mean to me.
When I got upstairs I opened the bill. Which is not like me. I usually toss them in the "to pay" bin. Curious at the timing of its arrival, though, I opened it.
It was not a bill.
It was an interest check.
Okay, not a huge interest check, but a check nonetheless.
This bad hair day was getting better all the time!
I opted to deposit it, I needed some cash anyway, might as well trek to the ATM with the deposit function.
I was in a really good mood, even with my now very bad hair. I jauntily bounced along to the bank around the corner and down a few blocks. My aunt and (a friend) were still very much on my mind. They brightened by bad hair day. "I'm really lucky. Not only do I have a terrific aunt whom I adore, and (a friend) whom I also adore, they must like me, too because they sent me actual mail!"
Ah.
Yes.
That's what this is really all about, now isn't it. You didn't get that?
Validation.
Mail, in the mailbox, via the postal service, stamped mail, offers a kind of validation of our existence and worth.
Anyone with an email account can get loads of email. Heck, you don't even have to be a real person to get email.
But it takes a real person, or at least the ability to have a physical mailing address, to receive snail mail.
I am not just a number, I do matter because there are people who care about me enough to take the time to send me thoughtful snail mail!
Still feeling glib I opted to take the long way home.
I smiled at everyone I met in the neighborhood. Surprisingly, people smiled back at me. (Must be the bad hair. It makes me less threatening. Funny that. I think it makes me look scarier, yet somehow less threatening.) I stopped into the Mega Mart. I needed a few things. I was standing there contemplating my choices of toothpaste when Janis Joplin rang out through the store speakers.
Oh yeah. Here it comes. You knew I've been too silent too long.
I managed to suppress my singing along. At first.
Until that chorus.
That chorus which no one can resist or deny.
Come on, come on, come on,
Take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now baby
Break it
Break another little bit of my heart now darlin' yeah
Come on
Grab another little piece of my heart now baby
yeah, I belted it out.
Well. I mean considering I was in the toothpaste and foot care aisle of the Mega Mart I was "belting" it.
Then what to my wondering ears should I hear?
A male voice from the over the aisle chiming in You know you got it if it makes you feel good, oh yes it did.
Insert Trillian cracking up, yes, literally, cracking up, guffawing and chortling all over the toothpaste.
I peeked around the corner and saw a very, very (very) cute boy air guitaring and sheepishly looking at me.
"Great song." he said to me.
"No one can resist the siren call of Janis." I answered.
"No one." he replied.
And with that we went our separate ways.
I made my purchases and went on my way home.
7-11 loomed across the street.
It was hot.
And humid.
And I just deposited an interest check.
And I got a letter from my aunt and a really swell postcard from (a friend).
And it was two magazine day.
And I sang and flirted with a very, very (very) cute boy.
Yes.
Days like this call for one thing and one thing only:
Slurpee.
The mother of all feeling good convenience items.
Oh sure, Hostess treats are okay, but cupcakes will only get you so far. They're okay for one magazine day or smiling at a kind of cute boy day.
Combos? Two magazine and no bills day.
But two magazines, a letter, a postcard, a check, no bills, and singing and flirting with a very, very cute boy?
Life seldom gets this good on one day.
It's got to be
Slurpee.
Insert closing shot of Trillian, in her apartment, languishing on the couch (with suddenly really good hair) one leg draped over the back, the other propped on pillows, magazines around her, letter on the table, lovingly looking at a postcard while she sips a Slurpee. (make it whatever flavor you like best)
Barenaked Ladies
Another Postcard You can't imagine so many monkeys in the daily mail
All of them coming anonymously so they leave no trail
I never thought I'd have an admirer from overseas
But someone is sending me stationary filled with chimpanzees.
Some chimps in swimsuits, some chimps are swinging from a vine
Some chimps in jackboots, some chimps that wish they could be mine.
Starsky and Hutch chimps, a chimp who's sitting on the can
A pair of Dutch chimps who send their love from Amsterdam.
Another postcard with chimpanzees
And every one is addressed to me.
If I had to guess, I'd say the monkey-sender thinks it's great
He's sending me, maybe she's sending me just to see me get irate
I'm losing sleep - and it's gonna be keeping me up all night
I thought it was funny, but now I've got money on a monkey fight.
Some chimps in hard hats, chimps a-working on a chain gang
Some chimps who love cats, burning rubber in a Mustang
A birthday-wishing chimp, a chimp in black like a goth
A goin' fishin' chimp, a British chimp in the bath.
Somehow they followed me even though I packed and moved my home
No matter what, they come and they come they won't leave me alone
Another monkey in the mail could make me lose my mind
But look at me shuffling through the stack until I finally find
Some chimps in swimsuits
Some chimps in Jackboots
Some chimps in hard hats
Some chimps who love cats
I've got some shaved chimps; that's chimps devoid of any hair
I've got depraved chimps dressed up in women's underwear.
Another postcard with chimpanzees
And every one is addressed to me.
Every one is, every one is, every one is addressed to me.
Every one is, every one is, every one is addressed to me.
Some chimps in swimsuits, Some chimps in Jackboots
Some chimps in hard hats, Some chimps who love cats
I've got some shaved chimps; that's chimps devoid of any hair
I've got depraved chimps dressed up in women's underwear.
Starsky and Hutch chimps, a chimp who's sitting on the can
A pair of Dutch chimps who send their love from Amsterdam.
Some chimps in Mustangs, Some chimps in chain gangs
I got a birthday wishin' chimp and I got the goin' fishin' chimp
I know, I know, but the Lemonheads'Postcard is just so swutting melancholy and I was actually in a decent mood for once and what's wrong with the Barenaked Ladies anyway?
9:58 AM
Monday, July 12, 2004 Stay with Me, This Isn't a Girly Post I wasn’t dealt the best spiral of DNA, but i did luck out with my hair.
It will do pretty much anything I (or anyone else) wants it to do.
It’s very thick.
Which is good because each strand is very fine.
But strong.
Yeah.
Don’t hate me because I have great hair.
Because there are a few days a year when it stages a revolt.
Today is one of those days.
I have an easy fix. I wear it “up.”
But today even “up” isn’t working.
Because it’s very humid.
And those baby fine strands are staging proclamations of their independence.
They do not want to work as a team today.
They want to be seen as the unique individual strands they are. They want to be noticed for their own merits, not as part of a bigger unit.
Ironically, most of them are choosing the same method of individuality: Curl.
Apparently they caught on the other hairs were choosing the same form of individuality. They were no longer unique or individual. What initially made them different became normal.
They had to push the envelope further. They refused to curl in unison. If their neighbor curled clockwise, they would curl anti-clockwise. If the guy they hung with Friday night was caught up in a wave, they would corkscrew. Just to show him what a pack following loser he is.
Yes. There, right on my head, a study in society.
I tried to tame my locks with products designed to control this very issue. Nothing I had at home did the trick. My hairs took my arsenal of products as a challenge. They met each attack with pompous defiance. They scoffed. They mocked. They were all hopped up high on their independence.
I stopped at Walgreens on my way into the office. I bought every product they carry promising to tame errant hairs. I was not alone. There are hair uprisings going on all over the city of Chicago today. Women in scarves, hats and pony tails were scouring the hair care aisle and grabbing anything they could find, believing any promise John Frieda, Charles Worthington or Loreal made.
Oh how the mighty have fallen.
These looked to be the type of women who normally only use “salon” haircare products.
But I dare you to find a salon open at 7 AM on a Monday.
Go on, try.
In fact, try to find a salon open on a Monday.
I’ll wait while you make a few calls.
No luck?
Yeah. It’s a hair stylist conspiracy. They say it’s because they have to work Saturdays so they take Sunday and Monday off as their weekend.
I say it’s a load of bullocks.
It’s all part of a conspiracy to get back at women who work “regular business hours.”
They know 90% of bad hair days happen on Monday. (The other 10% happen on Friday and Saturday nights, around 7 PM, when most salons are closing their doors for the evening, rendering a woman suffering a hair crisis to fend for herself before a date.) They will not be there when we really need them. It’s their smug little ploy to make us appreciate them and tip them more when we finally get an appointment.
Connect the dots.
Hairs stage a revolt when salons are not open.
"Oh sure," you’re thinking, "it sounds like Trillian’s been working a bit too hard, she’s gone beyond her normal paranoia realm here."
I’m just asking you to think about the last time you had a bona fide hair issue.
When did it happen?
I’m not sounding so paranoid now, am I?
And yes, there are much worse things than a bad hair day. I’ll manage, we all will.
I have embraced my bad hair and am using the errant and unruly strands as part of a look. Albeit a rather tousled cross between bedhead and hippie. It’s a look. Not a look I usually employ, but let’s just call this my day to try a new look. I adapt and move on with my life.
But it occurs to me one need look no further than their own scalp to learn a valuable lesson.
Some people, most people, people not happy living in a communist state, want to think of themselves as unique, special, different. Not just a number. Not just one of many comprising a whole. Not just one dot in the picture.
But in their quest for individuality they become just like the rest. So what they think is so different, so going against the flow, is actually normal, with the flow. When enough people go against the flow, they become part of another flow.
Punkers come to mind. Back in the 70’s, the first guy to sport a spiky mohawk was screaming for individuality. His parents were probably a little surprised to see him emerge from the bathroom all shaved and spiky. There may have even been an argument and cross words. This just pumped up his nerve and adrenaline even more. This was affirmation he was successful in his quest to be unique. Special. Different. He was not a number anymore.
He probably showed up at a thrash gig, perhaps a little nervous now because he was facing his peers. He wasn’t doing what they were doing, didn’t look like them. It’s cool to not look like your parents, but it can be a little scary to be the first one to not look like your peers. Maybe he thought about this. Maybe that fact made him feel brave. Unique. Special. Different. He probably got a lot of attention. Not all of it good. But attention nonetheless.
And there was probably one girl who found herself attracted to him. Because her girlfriends all mocked and scoffed at the be-mohawked weirdo. They didn’t want him. So she did. Because she longs to be unique. Special. Different.
She used the standard bait: Coy looks. Bats of lashes. Flicks of hair. A smile (sardonic and cynical in this case). A pass-by or two.
Other guys noticed her noticing mohawk boy.
The next week four guys left their house with spiky mohawks, leaving shouting parents behind, and feeling unique. Special. Different. Until they arrived at the gig and saw the original mohawk guy and three other new mohawkers.
Original mohawk guy protests and claims, “I was the first, you lot are poseurs!” He probably slam his fist in the wall. (The birth of slam dancing) He was just getting used to being unique. Special. Different. And now he’s none of those things. He devised a plan. Pushed the envelope. He colored his spikes. Green or maybe blue. Yes. Blue. He was once again unique. Special. Different.
For a week.
When the other guys showed up wtih colored spiky mohawks. And one guy, maybe one of the more clever guys, pushed it further and showed up with multi-pierced ears.
The next week another guy shows up with a pierced nose.
The next week a guy shows up with bleached hair in with the mohawk going out on the sides instead of up. Whoa!
This punk thing was really taking off! All these unique, special, different kids. With their far out hair cuts and piercings and slam dancing! Look at all of them. They're all so unique! Special! Different! There were thousands of them! All so unique...special...erm, well, not so different, are they?
From slam dancing punks in a thrash club to a Flock of Seaguls video on MTV in just a few short years.
And so it goes.
In life as in hair.
You’re only as unique, special or different as the rebellious hairs around you.
10:39 AM
