Hair affair

Occasionally while growing up I was one of those kids other kids hate: a Good Example. I remember being held up as a Good Example of writing, in third grade, and of good conduct, in fifth grade. (As a note of disclosure, I was never, in all my 13+ years of schooling, used as a Good Example of math.) But imagine my surprise when I was recently used as a Bad Example.

Not in school. Not by a teacher. By my hair stylist.

I do not happen to be in a service profession, but I'm betting that one thing people who are in service professions do NOT learn is this: To attract and retain customers, use them as a Bad Example. But that is apparently what my hair stylist has been doing, unbeknownst to me.

She imparted this bit of information as she was whacking off my winter hair in preparation for the summer months. Casually, she said, "I've been telling my other clients about you."

Really? I thought. Wow. I wonder what about. My silky hair? My smooth skin? My blog?

"Yeah," she continued, "I tell them, 'You know, I have this one client who yanks out her gray hairs, and every time I cut her hair she's got all this stubble on top.' "

Really? I thought. Wow. And did you also tell them that the first time you noticed it you were convinced that I was on some kind of medication that was making my hair fall out, and you kept pestering me about it until I told you the truth?

She has been after me for months about not yanking out my gray hairs. But actually it's not the ones I yank that are the problem; it's the ones that are too short to yank and that undergo a surgical procedure involving scissors to remove them. Actually they blend in quite nicely until she goes and hacks off the rest of my hair, and then they stand up like, well, stubble.

With a haircut and color costing approximately a mortgage payment these days, is it any wonder I take matters into my own hands between hair appointments?

But certainly I never expected that my little secret would go any further. I thought things you told your stylist -- or she discovered for herself -- were kind of like things you discuss with a lawyer, or minister. They just shouldn't go any further. If this isn't the case, they really should make you sign a waiver at the salon, just so you're prepared for the consequences:

"I, being of relatively sound mind (except when it comes to the matter of gray hairs), understand that if I commit an Act of Hair Misconduct, or in any way do show blatant disregard for the natural behavior and needs of my hair or for the diligent labors of my stylist, that I thereby forfeit my right to have such Acts of Hair Misconduct remain private and do consent to being used as a Bad Example so that others may be duly warned of the consequences of participating in such behavior."

But no such waiver was given to me, and now I must live with the shame of not only having stubble on top of my head but also of having complete strangers who have never met me know why. Whenever they come to the salon, they probably look around furtively, half hoping and half dreading to see me lurking there. My stylist has no doubt painted quite a gruesome picture of me. Like children who are warned that a monster will come and bite off their thumb if they keep sucking it, her other clients don't dare raise their fingers to their hair with the intent of yanking any of it.

Which must make her smile, if it results in people paying her more often to take their gray away. I might be a Bad Example, but I am Good for Business.

If movies were like real life

Joe is very moved by films that portray some real-life, uplifting incident, such as an inner-city coach helping his barely literate players transcend overwhelming odds to become state basketball champions, or a little boy from Illinois becoming a millionaire from his lemonade stand proceeds (in Joe's case this was not a real-life scenario, although he often dreamed of it becoming so). In the interest of protecting his manliness, I will not reveal his responses to these types of movies, other than to say that if you watch one with him, it's best to have an umbrella handy.

My favorite movies are ones in which pretty much nothing resembles real life. Someday, for instance, I hope to see a movie in which a male of our species can open a refrigerator, do an intelligent search of the contents, and actually find something without asking the female where it is. But perhaps the movie-going public is not quite ready for that, even as fantasy. Many males, I am sure, would be complaining, "Aw, c'mon, no one really does that!"

Joe does not favor these types of movies precisely because they do not portray what he knows of actual living. He bemoans, for instance, the typical lack of communication between men and women in movies. "If only they would talk," he says despairingly, "they wouldn't have all these problems!"

There also wouldn't be any story. If story lines followed all the relationship advice books, you might hear this when a movie couple is having a difference of opinion:

She: (cries hysterically and whaps the man over the head with a pillow)
He (while dodging the pillow): So, it seems you're upset with me.
She: Yes! (whap) Yes, I'm upset (whap) with you (whap)!
He: Whew! I'm so glad we worked this out!
They: (the pillow is forgotten as they kiss and make up)

And that would be the end of the movie. Good for the characters, boring for viewers.

On the other hand, many things in movies are much better than in real life. I remarked to Joe the other day that my sister's new cell phone is disposable.

"You mean refillable, right?" he said. "You add minutes to it; you don't just throw it away."

I shrugged. "In the movies, the bad guys always have them, and they throw them away." That was my sole experience with such phones.

"Well, of course the bad guys can afford to throw them away," he said.

He continued, musing, "Y'know, those phones always work on the first try for them. If I were to use one, it'd take me 10 tries just to get through, and even then I'd have a bad connection. 'You want me to kill who?' " he mimicked. He shook his head. "I'd get it all wrong, and then I'd be the one getting knocked off."

So maybe real life isn't so bad after all. Even if your lemonade stand doesn't make you rich.

Say yes to drugs

My Bible study group often holds lively and interesting discussions, not all of them on topics directly related to the Bible. Recently, for instance, some of the women were talking about how their imaginative offspring often get around the dreaded task of taking medicine when they are sick. Some appear to take it willingly, only to store it up in their cheeks, chipmunk-like, and dispose of it in some imaginative manner later, generally in a non-sick sibling's shoe. The parent remains blissfully unaware of this until, after it has happened some five or six times, the parent realizes that the sick child is not getting better, and that the non-sick child appears to be having trouble walking.

Other children shut their lips so tightly together when faced with a spoonful of something that they put duct tape to shame. Some boldly spit the medicine back into the parent's face. "Let's see how you like this junk" is apparently their motto.

To my knowledge, this particular topic is not addressed in the Bible, although surely in biblical times children were just as imaginative as they are today. I'm sure, for instance, that during the Quail Days of the Exodus, children who just could not stomach another bird would hide it under their robes. Of course, one imagines that as time went on -- as the pile of dead quails got higher and higher and nothing else to eat was forthcoming -- the parents would have caught on to this. Instead of rebuking their children, however, the parents -- mainly the dads -- would have thought "That is a GREAT idea!" and started hiding quails under their robes. When a wife, seeing her husband's robe start to bulge suspiciously, would remark, "You seem to be getting a little paunchy, dear," her husband would say something like "Ha ha! That quail just goes right to my waistline."

But I admit I was rather shocked to hear what lengths kids go to when they don't want to take their meds. I took plenty of medicine when I was a kid, and it never once occurred to me to try to refuse it. Partly, of course, this was because I was a good kid who did pretty much everything I was told (although I did not really see, for quite some time, the necessity of learning to do without a diaper) and I was not imaginative enough to pretend to take something and then spit it out later. But mostly, I readily took whatever medicine my mom dispensed because -- this is true -- I thought most medicine tasted fantastic.

Really. St. Joseph's Aspirin for Children, in orange-flavored, chewable tablets? Cherry Benadryl for allergies? They were as good as a hot dog or ice cream, in my book. It was almost worth getting sick or having an allergy attack just to get a taste of them.

One exception, of course, even for me, was cough syrup. I'll admit that if I had ever thought about not taking something, it would have been cough syrup. And with all the advances in medicine in the years since I was a kid, cough syrup does not seem to have come very far. Maybe they're just recycling all the cough syrup that has been refused by children over the generations. "Until all of the present supply is gone," scientists are probably warning, "we're not going to make anything that tastes any better!"

But that was the exception. Everything else I just lapped up or swallowed like it was candy, which, due to my mother's tendency to describe things in terms that are somewhat misleading, I probably thought it was. Deceived or not, I didn't care. It might as well have been candy.

So even though part of me secretly admires and even envies kids who creatively fight back against the injustice of having pills and syrups forced upon them, I also feel somewhat sorry for them. They just don't know what they're missing.

Anniversary break

Today's blog entry does not appear due to the Princess and Hero's anniversary. To celebrate the occasion, they engaged in the time-honored anniversary tradition of hitting each other over the head with rolling pins.

Oh, wait, that's a different time-honored tradition. Anyway, we're sure you do not want to hear how the Princess and Hero traveled to a distant restaurant just so the Princess could have her beloved frog legs, and how she found out during dinner that the Hero, who has treated her preference for this delicacy with quite a bit of disdain, has himself eaten frog legs in the past. She was very tempted to get out those rolling pins when they got home, but by that time she was too full of ice cream to really care (ice cream being another of her favorite delicacies).

The Princess will return, after she gets over her frog-leg-and-ice-cream hangover.

Excuse me, are you Chinese?

I am one of those people whom other people feel compelled to ask advice of in public places, such as "What kind of apple should I buy for baking?" and "Do you think I should quit my job and start a commune?" I have been asked, by complete strangers, what a yam is and where to find one, whether it would be silly to put a nice floral rug in one's kitchen, and whether it ever gets any easier to prepare one's house for an impending in-law visit. I do my best to deter these types of questions, using such well-known tactics as avoiding eye contact while walking briskly through a store, wearing a big sign that says DO NOT ASK ME ANY QUESTIONS -- I DO NOT KNOW ANYTHING, etc. But some people are just determined to ask anyway.

But last week I hit a new record in Weird Questions Asked by Strangers. I was idly browsing through some slacks at a department store when I heard a thickly accented voice beside me ask, "Are you Chinese?"

I turned to look at the questioner, a smallish middle-aged man who appeared -- although I am no expert in these things -- to be Chinese himself. He was holding two women's blouses in his hand. I was certain I had not heard him correctly. I stared at him questioningly.

"Are you Chinese?" he repeated.

Still not sure he'd really said what I thought he'd said, but figuring it wasn't going to get any clearer, I just shook my head. My head shaking might have been accompanied by a look that clearly indicated what I thought of the question.

But he wasn't satisfied. "You're not Chinese?" he said, giving me one more chance to change my mind.

I finally remembered how to open my mouth and told him "No" in a tone meant to convey "No, but I might possibly be part Labrador."

Granted, I don't exactly look Scandinavian, but neither do I look Chinese, or any other Asian ethnicity. Of course there is nothing wrong with looking Chinese -- if one is Chinese. But I could not fathom how a person of one ethnicity would not recognize someone else as being or not being of that same ethnicity. I became obsessed with trying to figure out why this man had pegged me for one of his countrywomen.

I went home and called my sister. She doesn't look Chinese either, but if the two of us were standing next to each other, and I was a stranger bent on asking personal questions, I would sooner ask her if she was Chinese than I would ask me.

"Do I look Chinese?" I demanded.

She considered the question for some time, which did nothing to reassure me. "Well," she said hesitantly, "there is that one baby picture of you that's sort of...well, you know, it makes you wonder. Not that I think you really are, or anything," she added hastily.

I called my mom next. "Am I adopted?" I demanded.

She sighed. "Not that again," she said. I was convinced, when I was younger, that I was adopted, and that my parents, for unknown reasons, refused to admit it. My mother, not unreasonably, grew tired of my continual insistence that I had been born to someone else.

I told her about a complete stranger asking me if I belonged to his race. "Do I look Chinese?" I asked her.

"No, of course you don't look Chinese," she said. "You look German, Hungarian, Romanian, English, and Welsh."

This made me feel somewhat better, but I still wasn't satisfied. "What about that picture of me when I was a baby?" I said. "I look Asian in that picture. Are you sure I wasn't --"

"Look," she said, wanting to settle this issue once for all, "I was there when you were born. You caused me a lot of pain, and I threw your father out of the hospital room because he caused me a lot of pain. Trust me, you are not Chinese."

But with my track record with strangers, one of these days someone is going to come along in the grocery store and ask, "Excuse me, are you African American...?"

A rip-roaring feast

We have a delightful culinary tradition here in Maryland. It is best appreciated by those who are native to the state, and after witnessing it recently, I am more proud than ever that I come from the midwest.

This tradition is known as "eating crabs," but could also be described as "making a disgusting mess, and paying a disgusting amount of money to do it." The general gist of it is that one applies a hammer to a dead crab, repeatedly and often with great force, in an attempt to make the crab give up whatever it is hiding in that little shell. Each crab being roughly the size of a full-grown cow's eyeball, there can't be too much in the way of meat hiding in it, but by the way people attack the crabs you'd think they were after the treasure of Tut-ankhamen. You'd get far better results, with much less effort, by banging a refrigerator against your head.

But then you would miss out on all the sensory experiences of eating crabs. During the typical crab feast, for instance, there is a great deal of ripping of crab body parts, cracking of shells, and crunching of teeth. You must wear protective gear, as at any time, without warning, an antenna could come sailing across the table and land on one of your body parts. It is also advisable to keep your drink well out of harm's way, by which I mean in the next room.

To be truly Maryland style, the crab must be adorned with Old Bay Seasoning, which, although billed as a hearty blend of spices, appears to the uninformed observer to be jarred mud. Sprinkled liberally on the crab, it gives the crustacean the appearance of being in its natural habitat, not unlike the appearance of those deceased persons about whom it is said "He looks so natural." There is a great emphasis in this society upon making things seem natural which are nothing of the kind, although it comforts us to think so. 

Joe says, however, that I am ill qualified to judge the tradition of eating crabs. I eat frog legs, and to him that is more disgusting than just about anything. But at least I have never, in all my frog-leg-eating years, been responsible for any frog parts landing in someone else's water glass.

A personal matter

I hesitate to approach today's topic, as it is somewhat graphic, but then that has never stopped me before. And this is really bugging me.

When I took this new job, I knew there would be a lot of adjustments. Actually having to produce work, for one thing. Working in Cubicle City, for another. Not being able to hold a private phone conversation, or even a private conversation with myself. Having co-workers sneak up on me when I am trying to address topics of a serious nature on this blog.

But as bothersome as all of that is, it is not what is really bugging me. I refer to the matter of sharing a multi-stall restroom with one's co-workers. I have never been in this situation before. Spoiled I may be, but my past jobs have all included single-user restroom facilities, which, while admittedly allowing for the possibility of public embarrassment after one exits, at least offer some privacy during Acts of Personal Emittance.

But multi-stall restrooms offer no such privacy. It is like being in a public restroom, only worse, because at least the people in public restrooms -- fellow shoppers, Disney-goers, what have you -- will most likely never see you again. But in a work setting, it is more than a little disconcerting to have your assistant, or your manager, or your manager's manager's manager be present during your Acts of Personal Emittance.

If you're extremely lucky, no one else will be in the restroom when you need to perform these Acts. In my limited experience, however, this is about as likely to happen as getting a raise after working only a week. Probably even less likely. And so some very difficult decisions must be made.

You might, for instance, proceed with your Acts in a manner of supreme indifference, in the belief that, as the popular book for toilet-training toddlers notes, "everyone poops" and that there should be no shame attached to it even when an entire office may be privy to it. At the other extreme, you might forego partaking of anything at work that might cause these Acts in the first place, which basically means no eating or drinking for several hours.

Or you might choose to pursue what is probably the most common course. This is the course wherein you attempt, with varying success, to time your Acts in accordance with a) another toilet being flushed, b) the water in the sink being turned on, c) the hand dryer going, or failing any of those, d) the emission of an extremely loud and prolonged cough -- all in an effort to disguise the fact that you are -- well, you know.

If all these efforts fail, the only way to salvage your shredded dignity is to wait until everyone has left the restroom before you venture out of the stall. When you do, it is best to adopt a manner of innocence, as if Personal Acts were the last thing on your mind at the moment, and make your escape quickly, without looking ashamed, before anyone else comes in and is able to associate you with that peculiar aroma in the air.

And change your shoes often, in case anyone might recognize them later from having seen them under the stall.

No speak Spanish, but I sing

Having finished categorizing my paper clips at my new job and made my final selection of Post-It notes (Neon Fusion, 4x6 lined), I moved on to a truly impressive assignment -- one that, of all the skills I have acquired over my years of work, used none of them. I refer to the student manual of Spanish 1A, which, fortunately, I was not required to actually understand for this particular assignment. I couldn't help, however, becoming deeply interested in the scintillating conversation students at this level are learning. Here is but one fascinating excerpt (shown here only in English, as I forget what the Spanish translation was):

"You like to sing."
"You do not like to sing."
"Do you like to sing?"
"He/she likes to sing."
"He/she does not like to sing."
"Does he/she like to sing?"

To which I mentally added the following:

"Would he/she/you/SOMEONE please sing already, and be done with it??"

They never tell you the really useful phrases in other languages.

Besides singing, the book contained an inordinate amount of phrases having to do with going to the movies, leaving one with the impression that either a) there is little else to do when one visits Spanish-speaking countries, or b) visitors possess an uncommon interest in the movie habits of those residing in Spanish-speaking countries ("Do you like to go to the movies? Do you like to go to singing movies? How do you feel about foreign idiots inquiring about your movie preferences?...Oh, yeah? Well, here's what I think about your foreign country...!").

On second thought, categorizing paper clips isn't such bad work, if you can get it.

I'm stuck on the new job

My first two days at the new job have been very busy, productive, intense days. No easing into this job! No, sirree, they put me to work right away on very important tasks, such as picking out Post-It notes from the supply catalog. My head reeled from all the choices: 1x2, 2x1, 3x3 unlined, 4x6 lined, Super Sticky (guaranteed to never come off the cube it came on), Tropical, Aquamarine, Ultra, Neon Fusion, latte, decaf...whoops. Got carried away there. After poring over 6 catalog pages of sticky notes, I had to go fortify myself with a donut.

So that was pretty much the morning. In the afternoon, I geared up for yet another vital work project: lining up my paper clips in order of size and according to whether they have little ribs on them. You probably didn't know that some of your paper clips have little ribs on them. After this project -- which by the way required an impressive amount of brain power and additional donuts -- I can tell you that approximately 78% of my paper clips have little ribs on them.

I did make one major gaffe on my second day. As I was eating lunch in the company's "cafe" (French for "place where co-workers enjoy watching new employees make major gaffes"), I noticed my co-workers pulling out various sizes and shapes of reusable, environmentally friendly glass or plastic containers with lids. These containers held grapes, tomatoes, and other small, nutritious foods. I had small, nutritious foods in my lunch, too, but I hadn't packed them in glass or plastic containers. Mine were all in plastic baggies. And worse than that, each type of food was in a baggie of its own. I probably had enough to clog up the nearby landfill for a couple of hundred years. No one said anything about my obviously anti-environmental tendencies, but I wouldn't be surprised if someone anonymously puts a Tupperware catalog on my desk sometime, with little Post-It notes on the pages showing the snack containers.

The only question is, will the notes be in Aquamarine or Neon Fusion?

The Prissy Princess gets a job

Ah, well. Life can't always stay the same. Blog entries this week may be a little unpredictable as the Prissy Princess makes the transition to a "real "job, one that involves starting work considerably before her usual 11 a.m., and where the wearing of pajamas is strongly discouraged. But the Princess is happy, because she will have more people than just herself to talk to all day AND because she gets a new wardrobe. The Hero is happy, too, particularly because the Princess will now have co-workers to write about instead of HIM.

So please be patient...if you don't see any stories one day, come back the next. There might not be any that day, either, but eventually there will be.

The Gallant Hero and the Escalating War

Boom-boom! Boom! Boom-boom! The noise thumped the castle in rhythmic waves. After a few minutes, the Gallant Hero asked if it was thundering.

The Prissy Princess cocked her head and said, "No, I think the neighbor is playing video games."

The Hero frowned and tried to apply himself to his studies. But the relentless booming would not let him concentrate.

Finally, he said, "I think I'll go play a video game downstairs."

Uh, oh, the Princess thought. The War has begun.

The Hero and The Man in the Neighboring Castle were not enemies. In fact, when there were no noisemaking apparatuses involved, the two were very friendly, often trading tips for making improvements to their respective castles. But The Man (whose own wife describes him as "very loud"), frequently engaged in activities that caused the Hero to abandon his usually placid nature, setting off a War of Ever-Increasing Decibels.

So for the next half hour, the Princess listened as the booming on both sides of the walls grew louder and more terrifying. Suddenly the noise from her basement ceased, and minutes later she heard pounding. The Hero was at his latest castle improvement project, making bookshelves for the castle's library. The pounding drowned out the booming from next door.

A few minutes later she felt the castle shaking a little, and a different booming issued from next door. His video games outnoised, The Man had turned on his AMP7083462 stereo system.

The Hero stopped pounding and turned on his power saw.

The Man turned the bass louder.

Finally, the Hero came upstairs and said to the Prissy Princess, "It's time. Let's bring It out."

The Princess trembled. "Are you sure?" she whispered, totally ineffectively now that the bass from next door had nothing to dull it. She yelled, "Are you sure? Think of the consequences...!"

"We must," the Gallant Hero said soberly. "The time for diplomacy is over. This is war. We must do whatever necessary measures it takes, though harsh."

The Princess did not remember that there had been any time of diplomacy, but maybe she had missed that part.

And so the Hero and the Princess began preparations. She covered the windows with cardboard to protect them should the glass shatter. He tied down the furniture. Finally, they both donned the Thunder HTX37925 Multiple-Position, Head-Encirculating, Total Noise Control Earmuffs.

When they were ready, the Hero brought It out: 70 pounds, 240 amps, 670 decibels of Hoover WindTunnel Supreme Cyclonic Tornadic Upright Vacuum Cleaner. And he turned it on, opposite the wall where the Man's stereo was still thumping.

Even with the Thunder Earmuffs, the vibrations tore through their bodies. The Hero left the WindTunnel on for only the minimum time needed; to do more would be irresponsible.

When the Hero turned It off, there were no further sounds from the castle next door.

The Hero shook his head grimly, knowing he had done the only thing he could have. The Princess began to remove the cardboard from the windows. At least this time, nothing had shattered.

Epilogue: Sometime later, in a totally unrelated development, the castle next door went up for sale. At least, the Hero and the Princess are pretty sure it is unrelated.

Q&A: Anniversaries

Okay, so the Princess needs more practice than she realized with putting pictures on this blog. It came to her attention that no pictures appeared in yesterday's entry -- or, in some cases, that they disappeared as the day went on -- which was not her intention, although it may have seemed so. Fortunately, the Gallant Hero never met a computer problem he couldn't solve, and he graciously condescended to rescue the Princess from her embarrassing dilemma. So please take a minute to reread yesterday's entry, or at least peruse the pictures, which hopefully are still there.

We now return to the Dear Prissy Princess column, featuring questions that have absolutely nothing to do with either Holly or Joe.

Q: Dear Prissy Princess,
Our anniversary is coming up in, uh, sometime this month. A few weeks. Like the 21st, I think, or, no, that's someone else's anniversary. We'll be married 2 years, or is it 3?
-Married in May, possibly

A: Dear Possibly Married,
Are you asking me when your anniversary is and how long you've been married?

Q2: No, no, I want to know what I can do to make our anniversary really special for my wife.

A2: Well, for a second or possibly third anniversary, I would suggest a treasure hunt. Write out several riddles and leave them around the house for your wife to find. Make each one a clue to finding a gift you have hidden somewhere. (Remember that gifts must not consist of vacuum cleaners or any other appliances.) I would suggest recording some special songs on a new iPod for her.

Q3: Actually, I already did all that for her birthday.

A3: All on your own? Even the iPod?

Q4: All on my own. Although the iPod recordings didn't really record, so I have to do that over again.

A4: Well, I must say I am impressed. Your wife is one lucky woman. Unfortunately, you have set the bar pretty high, and now you're going to have to come up with something really spectacular for your anniversary.

Q5: I know! I'll take my wife to a great sushi restaurant, where they serve things that, technically, are not food, because they're not completely dead yet. And then we'll go home and watch all 977 episodes of "Lost"!

A5: I see we need to work on the concept of "spectacular." Good thing we have a couple of days, or maybe a couple of weeks.