Sunday, March 16, 2008

weekly fly-by

white 3

I don't intend to wait nearly a week in-between blog entries. In fact, I've started several drafts over the last few days, but for various reasons, I get distracted or frustrated by my lack of articulation or bored with my subject and I just haven't finished. Let's you and me pretend it would be all such fascinating stuff. Because the dirty corner truth is that it's the same old soft focus, isolated moment fodder that doesn't mean much of anything to anybody but me. And that's okay, because the whole reason I'm here at this party in the first place is for practice. Not writing practice. Noticing practice. Remembering practice. The practice of sharing. Whatever that means.

Oh, here's something worth sharing. Consider this a friendly public service announcement, all ye who arrive here via misspelled google searches: this blog is called little pitchers. I sometimes share pictures. But pictures and pitchers? Two totally separate things. Pitchers are vessels for holding and pouring. Or, so I've heard, the tossers of balls in baseball games. But pitchers are not photographs or images. Those would be pictures. Here, let's try that again. Pictures. They even have distinct pronunciations. Yes, it's true. Pitchers. Pictures. Not the same thing. Frankly, I'm a little embarrassed for you, and by "you" I don't single out some poor lone poor speller, no, I reference the handfuls who clonk on over here every single day looking for pitchers of teeth, pitchers of lolas (what the heck?), pitchers of any sort of word I've written. But no pitchers of pitchers yet.

And while I'm on the subject of search engine keywords, I'll mention that the number two way random anonymous folks find this little quiet place of mine here is from looking up haircuts. I haven't trimmed mine since I wrote about it in the beginning of December. I'm overdue. I'm a lazy haircutter, it's one of those chores I always procrastinate on for a long old time, but then it's such a relief when I finally get to it. Owing to the number of folks who seem to be seeking out information on d-i-y haircuts, there must not be enough validation out there. So, you! Hey you! With the scraggly hair and the sharp scissors. Just freaking do it already, why don't you? Cut it off. So what if it's a little crooked? It'll grow back. And you'll get better. You've spent more money to look worse before, admit it. And the feeling you get when it's all over? Like Sydney Bristow dying her hair in an airport bathroom. Bad. Ass. Not that here, here's my self-esteem, please take care of it fretfulness that happens at the hair salon. The do it yourself haircut isn't just about saving a few (or a lot) of dollars. It's about being yourself, not some not-quite version of yourself as translated by someone who doesn't watch you flex muscles naked in the bathroom. It's about not hoping to heck it doesn't look like crap or having to buck up and pretend, in the big, swivel chair reveal, that it looks fine when it so clearly, painfully, does not. It's about not having to come home and touch up spots that the stylist missed. It's about never having to break up with a longtime stylist because she keeps giving you the same old lady 'do. It's about doing it your own effing self. I don't know why haircuts have become so specialized. If you catch me in a cynical mood (not hard to do), I'll grumble about how everything has been industrialized and specialized and don't get me started on the standards of aesthetics and beauty in our culture. Must we all have frosty tips and chunky highlights and some fancy style heavy on appliances and product? No. I mean, if that stuff all rings your bell, then do what you must. But when somebody else does it for you? Something changes, some little shift in responsibility, some little erosion of your own self image. And, by "your" I mean "my" but I'm going to be bold and assume that this must apply to others, as well. I don't want to hand someone else the power, even some faint suggestion of power, to influence how I perceive myself. If I do it all wrong, I'll blame myself, but I'll get over it. I blame myself for a lot of crap. But if it turns out fine? Man, the best haircuts I've ever gotten at salons never gave me that feeling. No way.

What do you want to bet that my inclusion of the word "naked" up there pulls in all sorts of gutterminds with questionable spelling skills? Maybe they need a haircut. Ha!

6 comments:

Angelina said...

There is much in what you say about the whole haircut thing. However, I would like to say that going to the salon (on a good day when they don't mess up your hair) is like a treat. It's actually quite nice when it's nice.

That said...I have been given more conservative politician's wife haircuts than I can take at the salon.

I think the same people who spell pictures "pitchers" also spell supposedly "supposably".

Lisa said...

Thank goodness you didn't spell it "nekkid". That would get you a whole lot of visitors you probably don't want.

I think I have mentioned that I've cut my hair before, way back in high school, but I don't think I have that kind of self-confidence with the scissor (or clipper) now. Maybe I will work up to it.

I agree with Angelina that going to a salon can be a treat. Though I must say that what I like the most at a salon is having my hair washed, not the cut, so maybe I could just bring my bottles of baking soda and vinegar and pay them to wash my hair? They'd probably think I was a real nut job if I did that.

april. said...

angelina- paying to get my hair cut is always a drag, not a treat, but i can see and appreciate that you, and others, would feel that way. and, i'm cool with that. in fact, if some folks like cutting hair and other folks like having their hair cut, win win, right? the problem i have is that salon cuts aren't so much considered a treat. they're considered the standard, the expectation. some job that requires a level of expertise and professionalism to accomplish. home haircuts are considered radical. and i think that's weird.

lisa, yes, i think that would be nutty, but may i suggest you'd probably enjoy a massage, then, just as much, or more, than a haircut and wash?

Lisa said...

You're probably right on that count, but it's weird to me to get nekkid (snort) and lay under a sheet and let a virtual stranger touch me.

sj said...

6th grade minnesota history class, it was my turn to read a paragraph out loud in front of the class. no problem. it's not a very long paragraph, i don't mind reading in front of others. i read it. the teacher, mrs. jacobson, scowls and says, "read it again." i do. she says, "again..." i didn't know why she was having me do that. 10 minutes of reading the same short paragraph out loud felt like an eternity....finally some of the other students picked up on the problem and my friend justin whispered, "piCK-chour". what!? i read the paragraph again, "again!!!", she scourned....then i got it. i had been pronouncing 'picture' as 'pitcher'.... i hated that day. i hated those 10 minutes of humiliation. my mom comforted me with her fumble of the word 'brassiere' in early jr. high. since that moment i thought wordy's as quite pompous ass.[including myself to a certain degree....like when i hear someone say, "i was able to *sale* a few things at the flea market and i found this little pitcher that i will put on my window *sell*" i cringe.] my spelling is horrid. i hate reading in front of people. the rest of my schooling days of reading out loud was filled with anxiety and counting obsessively ahead to read and re-read my paragraph to myself so i would know every word. she caused me to really hate words. i lay awake last night thinking of this post and words and this story :) i couldn't get it out of my head. now it's out....maybe i can rest tonight :)

by Johanna Brandvik said...

hmmm. my husband cuts my hair from time to time. we haul a chair into the back yard and i sit still while he takes tiny snips off the ends. nothing major in terms of precision or style. kind of sweet, really.

i'm enjoying little pitchers - flickr, twitter and now blog!