Pen never claimed to be mightier than sword

OMAHA – A local pen is outraged after continually being recognized as stronger than even the most lethally piercing sword. So livid is the pen, in fact, that it filed a petition today to put the well-known phrase, “The pen is mightier than the sword” to rest, claiming it to be inaccurate because a pen could never best a well-made, metal sword.

Pen may beat sword, but kitty trumps pen every time. (Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/malingering/69846518/)

“The phrase is a metaphor for the written word’s ability to wield more power than unsystematic action, and is not to be taken literally,” said Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who coined the phrase in 1839.

“But I thought actions speak louder than words,” the pen shot back emphatically.

“Yeah, that Michel de Montaigne doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Look, it’s more of a testament to how eloquent words, ideas and opinions can outlast us all,  holding the authority to influence others to take monumental action that can forever change the past, present and future. That in itself is incomparable to the fleeting and purely physical use of the sword, with which inflictions can heal in time,” said a matter-of-fact Bulwer-Lytton.

“Because I’m made from plastic and scrappy, shoddy pieces of metal,” said the pen. “I was created solely for promo use at this year’s Chili Cook-Off – face it, the most damage I can do is self-imposed damage to my dignity and mental well-being.”

“I just thought the phrase sounded nice in my play, ok?!” fired back a frustrated Bulwer-Lytton, beginning to stammer nervously. “Besides, I…I always got picked on as a kid from the tougher, more muscular kids. Blasted cricket players…,” he added, rolling his eyes.

“Kids don’t even know proper English these days, man!” shouted the pen defiantly. “They’re not writing on tablets of paper anymore; they’re on their phones or computers and you know what? They’re laughing at you. With acronyms. While playing video games in which they cut off their enemies’ heads. WITH SWORDS! LOL, good sir! LOL, indeed!”

In order to defend its own credibility and to get another double-edged side of the story, a sword was sought to sway accusations that its only skill was brute force. When asked what it thought of all the recent allegations, the sword paused, dumbfounded, and then scratched its hilt, which was decorated to resemble the Incredible Hulk.

Not to be confused with the Credible Hulk, who could probably settle this matter in seconds. (Photo credit: toysrevil.blogspot.com)

“Uuuhhh,” it murmured blankly. “Can you repeat the question?”

The question was repeated, and a pause followed as the sword again lost its single train car of thought.

“Um. Does King Arthur’s sword know about this?” the sword finally asked pointedly.

Bulwer-Lytton blinked before explaining that the Excalibur was purely fictional.

“Get him on the phone, STAT!” demanded the sword.

“You don’t understand,” Bulwer-Lytton said. “That sword is nothing more than a myth.”

“My-th? What the truck’s a myth? Maybe I’m not a sword of many words, but I can still stick it to the man if need be,” said the sword bluntly, albeit also conceitedly as it studied its sheen in the reflection of the reporter’s camera. “Granted, I, too, am up to hilt with that phrase.”

“This isn’t a love handle, after all,” the sword snorted, gesturing toward its hilt before alighting upon a crude joke and laughing deeply. “Check out how hard I can thrust!”

And that settled the credibility issue.

Attention was then turned back to the pen, who upon being asked how the petition was coming along, gave a resigned sigh.

“I couldn’t even get 50 people to sign it. I ran out of ink 15 signatures in,” it admitted pitifully.

“Better put your shades on or cover your eyes – the pen’s demise is going to be graphite.” -#2 pencil (Photo credit: library.thinkquest.org)

Ironically, no one could locate another pen that agreed with and was willing to stand behind the petition. In fact, at one time a ballpoint pen was actually seen shaking the promo pen vigorously, saying, “You’re not inking straight or you’d know you’re ruining this for everyone. This is all we’ve got!”

The pen eventually had to settle for using a #2 pencil, but little did it know it would soon be number two itself in the writing utensil category due to the pencil’s additional power to erase.

The petition died within the hour.

Meanwhile, sources say the sword just won a strongman contest involving the amount of bikini-clad women it could bench lift at once.

(Just for fun, I’ve included some instances from wikipedia.com where the phrase has been humorously used in the past)

• The motto appears in the school room illustration on page 168 of the first edition of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876). The words “pen” and “is” are suspiciously close together leading some scholars to speculate that the illustrator, True Williams, deliberately chose the narrow spacing as a subtle obscene prank.
• In the 1989 film Batman, the insane criminal known as The Joker uses the phrase in a darkly literal sense, after wielding a fountain pen like a dart to wound a rival crime lord.
• British music photographer Kevin Cummins once shot The Smiths vocalist Morrissey in front of a handwritten “pen is mightier than the sword” poster in the background. The writing was styled so that the first two words appeared to be “penis”.
• A recurring GEICO commercial uses the phrase as a question, “Is the pen mightier than the sword?” It shows a ninja wielding and brandishing a sword with elite skills; an amateur defeats him by signing (with a pen) a package for a taser, with which he then shoots the sword-wielder.

iPhone? More like iCry. iHateYou, iPhone. iReallyDo.

I’ll be heading left if you need me. Just follow the trail of bitter tears. (Photo credit: ukhorseracinganalyser.com)

Today, a recent poll from coworkers within my department who also have iPhones revealed that I am the only one stupid enough to regularly (attempt to) update my phone’s iOS software. Always a catastrophe and never an over-exaggeration, the process of updating this software equates to a lifetime in an endless abyss of faulty Internet connections and blank-staring Apple support personnel.

I approach these updates grimly, especially after the first time updating the phone took more than two hours. Nowadays I take care to fit updates into my schedule only upon making peace with the fact it will mind-numbingly erase a few hours out of my life to do so. Today, I’m going for the world record of one whole day! That’s right, bloggers – I haven’t had my phone for almost an entire day. And I’m still functioning. Muahahaha!

Don’t look so scared; maniacal titters are how I always laugh…

It’s honestly unnecessary to back away slowly like that. I’m fine. I’m fiiiiine!

I know I’ve  become overly reliant on technology when I forget how to use old methods of communication. Scarcely will I call anyone, even Clayton (Why should I when I get to hear “Just Another Night” by the Real McCoy if I hold out until he calls me?) when texting is available, and you mean to tell me there’s an actual website for Pinterest and not just an app? Ah, but I have to be near a computer. And here I was thinking all dinosaurs were extinct.

What do dinosaurs and Apple have in common? They’re both dead to me. (Photo credit: geologicresources.com)

Some (all) say I’m on my phone too much, as was the case when we went to South Dakota last weekend. On the drive there, Clayton looked at me cautiously as if approaching a newborn baby before gently (with terror flooding his facial features) saying, “Now, when we’re on this vacation, I don’t want to see you on the phone the whole time…”

Cue my response (“Of course, no problem!”) as horror drained all blood from my face. Quickly looking away, I had to refrain from tucking and rolling out of the car right then and there.

Back to present day. My updating woes began again yesterday when I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. When more than one app has a red dot (or is it a star, oh, GOD, I’m already forgetting!!!) next to it, I slowly drive myself crazy not being able to update, especially if an iTunes connection is needed and I’m nowhere around a dinosaur. Now I know what you’re thinking: Drive yourself crazy? Girl, you hit crazy five paragraphs ago.

Well, then.

Maybe.

If so, that craziness is justified as my latest update went horribly wrong and my phone was unable to connect to the computer long enough to finish before going into an emergency shut-down. I lost everything. EVERYTHING. Cue my fairly reasonable, dignified response: falling to my knees, hands reaching dramatically upward, cursing the sky.

Still I kept my cool (really, I did) and decided to restart the computer and phone, plug them back in and see what the next day brought. I woke up to no alarm because of course it’s on the phone, which no longer provided me anything more than a conveniently flat skipping stone just begging to be thrown into the nearest lake. As we got ready for work, I made certain to passive-aggressively tell Clayton (within earshot of my phone, still pathetically attached to the computer):

“You know what? No, I don’t even want it anymore. That’ll show it. Ya hear me? (slyly glancing in the direction of the phone) Don’t connect with the computer for all I care; you’re nothing to me! Nothing!”

“Is it working?” I whispered to Clay out of the corner of my mouth, pretending to slip on heels without a care in the world, humming cheerfully, even.

“Nope!” he replied back, joy in his eyes but also…was that fear?

I flounced from the room. “Good. Excellent. Why use a phone when I have a computer at work?” I said. “I DON’T NEED YOU!” I shouted in the direction of the phone while viciously attacking my hair with a brush in the bathroom.

Clayton began to look worried.

Taking stock of the situation, I  realized that the relationship I had with my phone constantly fluctuated between a horrible domestic relationship and a parent/child relationship.

“Try getting three bars of reception from the bottom of this lake, jerk! We’re so over!” (Photo credit: catalogs.com)

Here’s why:

Horrible domestic relationship

1. I’m in constant denial. I often find myself thinking I can change it, or that updating is going to be different this time. This frame of thought quickly turns to self-doubt. (Is it something I did? Did I not plug it in tightly enough? I can change; I swear!)
2. I’m pretty sure Clayton thinks it’s the “other guy” in our relationship, which is fair enough because sometime I sneak off with it so he doesn’t see I’m using it so much.
3. Trying to work on the relationship (update the phone) ends with a bad connection every time.
4.  Over-emotional yelling and crying mixed with obscenities and empty threats have become standard.
5. So has immediately forgiving and forgetting once things go back to normal.
   

   There, there – we’ll get you all patched up. (Photo credit: ecohomeresource.com)

Parent/child relationship

1. When my phone refuses to “talk” to my computer, I have to remind it to play nice.
2.  I stay with it when it’s down for the count and unable to update, holding it steadily to the port like a mother would hold her child’s hand when he or she is sick.
3. I say encouraging things to it even though I know it’ll never be good at soccer.
4. As it gets older and stops obeying my commands, I constantly find myself crying “What do you want from me?!”
5. Like a mother sends her kid to school for the first time, I decide the phone will be ok updating itself too early, only to find it won’t ever do so unless I’m in the room. Finally, I find myself making the “stay” motion with both of my hands, cautiously and carefully, desperately trying not to disturb it before saying “I’m just going into the bathroom to do my hair and make-up. If you need me, I’ll be here in a second!”
6. After it’s been bad and won’t update, I tell it defiantly that “No, we are not stopping at Apple now, and no dessert for you!”
7. If Clay tries to approach the phone when an update is in process, I hush him before whispering, “It’s very shy – shhh, you might scare it!” When Clayton says he can fix it, I then tell him that it will update when it’s ready.
8. With my computer ready to crash any day, I’m convinced my phone is hanging out with the wrong crowd.

I’m glad this is a three-day weekend, because I’m sure I’ll be spending at least another day daring, betting, praying and begging that iTunes progress bar to make it all the way to “Finish.”

Until then, I better wrangle myself up a fashionable straight jacket.

Why we’re vacationing in South Dakota

The Babysitter’s Club: Memories, movies and misguided misfits

 My girlfriends and I have had numerous girls’ nights throughout the years, all memorable and predictably filled with wine, cheese, lots of juicy gossip, jammies, and luckily – no arrests. Stealing a friend and whisking her away blindfolded from wedding planning is always a risky situation, especially should you happen to stop at a light next to a cop when doing so. And then wink at him exaggeratedly.

The Babysitter’s Club. And they rap, too! (But they really shouldn’t) (Photo credit: fanpop.com)

However, there’s always been something I felt missing from girls’ night, so when a VCR was brought to last Tuesday’s get together, the final piece of the puzzle also came into play. Like entering the 90s again, I was suddenly tempted to dig out my slap bracelet and stirrup pants and throw my hair up into a crimped, side topsy tail. After silently paying homage to my ancient black, neon pink and teal New Kids on the Block sweater (RIP), I turned my full attention on that bulky electronic box and the night’s main event:

The Babysitter’s Club movie.

Let me repeat.

The Babysitter’s Club MOVIE!!!!

Yup. Circa 1995.

If I had thought to bring my BSC board game, it would have killed the half hour it took to rewind the videocassette tape. Another ten minutes and we were successfully past previews for Matilda and Jumanji. A flash of nostalgia blinded me more than the abusively glaring lines of static plastered across the screen as we rewound again from fast forwarding too far. Anyone who says they’ve ever stopped a tape right at the beginning of the movie is a big fat liar.

The opening credits were just how I remembered videocassette credits to be – modestly devoid of pixels and full of wacky, neon-colored bubble fonts arranged diagonally with absolutely no thought of design. Magnificent. Combined with the occasional jump of the screen as it refocused itself repeatedly and the out-of-tune soundtrack momentarily deepening the voice of some Mickey Mouse Club singer to that of James Earl Jones and  I was certain I didn’t even need to watch the movie anymore because I was in heaven.

The BSC movie characters were similar to the characters in the books I read as a kid, except entirely more embellished. I don’t know how that’s possible, either; Ann M. Martin must have been BFFs with Francine Pascal.

(“That horse isn’t dead yet, Ann – keep beating! You can get at least 500 more miles out of those character descriptors if you just rearrange them slightly per book! Look, instead of “blue-eyed,’ say ‘eyes the color of aquamarine and twice as deep.’  No, don’t use that – it’s mine now. God, I’m so poetic. How about ‘green-blue’? Or better yet — ‘blue-green!’ What’s writer’s block?” – Francine)

To be able to grow a beard – what Kristy most likely wished for in the movie on her birthday as she blew out the candles. (Photo credit: tbs.com)

In the opening scene, Kristy tucks her (some say “tomboy;” I prefer “Al Borland-y”) button-down shirt into her (elastic-wasted) jeans, giving us a clear glimpse of over-sized boxers. What is rapidly becoming unclear is her gender preference. All these years, was Bart …a cover?

Good, I hated him anyway.

Mallory was introduced next, appearing at a coffee joint wearing a bow tie and suspenders, and lugging around a suitcase half the size of her in lieu of a purse or backpack. I’ll give you a moment to fully visualize. 

The poor girl’s already an unathletic redhead!  She can’t even go out in the sun! Give ‘er a break! 

So, we’ve got a 16-year-old boy and an 80-year-old man, which was…unexpected. Then again, watching the movie at 10 years of age versus 26 does wonders in the way it’s comprehended. Overly-affectionate smiles and shoulder squeezes I thought were endearing then leave me still shuddering now.

I’ll spare you a play-by-play by instead listing some of my favorite parts of the movie, in which  we only watched half because much like the 90s, the plot was over almost immediately.

My bad, “sulty she-devil” is just her typical look. (Photo credit: greenobles.com)

• Cokie Mason, the popular, arch-enemy of the sitters, is played by Marla Sokoloff. You’d know her better as Stephanie’s foe on Full House. Why, yes – she does still wear knee-highs. It gets better. In the movie, she goes out of her way to approach stringy-haired, scraggly and awkward Logan, the only male babysitter of the group and long-term boyfriend of the ever-timid Mary Anne, played by Rachel Leigh Cook, no less. (Why, yes, she does still wear knee-highs.) Cokie squeezes Logan’s arm right in front of Mary Anne (How dare she!), telling him he must be working out, all with an R-rated, scandelous smirk on her face.

I suppose there’s really no surprise there. However, I’m pretty sure when I was 13, I was still making beaded necklaces and sand art jewelry, not flirting with boys with an evil plot to steal them away from girls in my class.

And excuse me, but like hell Cokie was cool enough to be into the Smashing Pumpkins. Probably couldn’t even name one song.

• Stacey’s has a date with Luca, a European who doesn’t seem to have an accent…at all. I know this was filmed in the 90s, but trying is still ok every once and awhile.

Their date sequence was enhanced by the song “Let’s Get Busy,” in which those three words were repeatedly and suggestively sang at the end of each scene. Kicker: She’s 13 and Luca is 17. Hey, 90s – you don’t have to be so creepy all the time, either.

• Jackie Rodowsky on a horse? Please.

• Stacey is so nervous before her date that she asks her mom if she should change her socks. Note: if you’re wearing a short skirt with socks, the design or color of your socks is not going to improve your look, of that I can assure you.

• Dawn totally owned the long flowered skirt with a pastel T-shirt and faded denim vest look. My thirteen-year-old self from the past is still trying extremely hard to not be jealous.

• Kristy’s deadbeat dad is pretty cute when you’re watching the movie as an adult. I am so disturbed right now.

• Those girls carry Kid Kits everywhere. EVERYWHERE. To the movies, to get ice cream, to first base with Stacey. Man, they don’t miss a beat. I guess you never know when you’ll need a “Good Job” sticker.

• I applaud the director’s ability to combine about 100 books into one movie. Granted, we didn’t see the end, so who knows how long it actually was. It could still be playing now. A couple movie titles I would suggest instead of the ever-generic Babysitter’s Club would be:

o Stacey’s first pregnancy scare
o Claudia almost learns basic math
o Kristy comes out
o Mallory’s big chess tournament
o Dawn tries nachos
o Jessi…who’s Jessi?
o Mary Anne learns to knit knee-highs
o Logan looks bewildered (again)!

My girlfriends and I spent the remainder of the night arguing over who gets to be whom for Halloween next year. The problem is that everyone wants to be Stacey, no matter who you are. Yes, even Logan. I bet if you took a poll, three fourths of the woman who read these books would STILL want to be Stacey because life didn’t turn out the way they thought it would. Yay, superficiality!

“Of course I’m creative!” *Points exasperatedly to parrot earrings* “I’m wearing parrot earrings.” (Photo credit: artfire.com)

The books sold us the dream, but damned if the movie didn’t make that dream so eerily inappropriate on many levels. Then again, it may have been the slight bitterness of the wine facilitating these opinions that night.  

With my love of candy and artistic skills, I’d most likely be cast as Claudia. If so, I’m going to need some parrot earrings and the ability to make awesome fork wind chimes STAT. Oh, and does anyone have a colorful scrunchie with plastic dinosaurs glued to it I can borrow?

The alphabet? That’s like, literally 26 letters, right? Oh, whatever…

As a communication specialist and writer in general, it’s only natural that the ABCs consume my life. Some days I struggle over letters (granted, usually while playing Words With Friends), while other times I form them into words, sentences and paragraphs almost effortlessly. Almost. Wine helps.

Most days, I arrange these characters into monotonous corporate stories about new miscellaneous billing processes or HR’s latest exercise program. I’m on the edge of my seat, too. On good days I’m here, writing posts and desperately attempting to keep my “real job” at bay, Little Engine style.

“Yes, I’ll take two please.” “Ma’am, you have to win the award, you can’t just..” “..wrap ‘em up!”

On great days, I am presented with the ABC Award for Awesome Blog Content (guess I’m not quite at amazing, huh?). What was just a normal Tuesday for you last week was that great day for me!

Could it be, I thought, that this blog, formerly a means of personal escape, is becoming something of substance for others, as essential as eating or breathing?  (Let a girl dream!) Meanwhile, I’m sure my parents were somewhere thinking, Oh, thank GOD she’s actually sticking with something for once. Not like that time she took up tumbling…or piano…or babysitting.

Honestly, why are kids so sticky all the time?! It’s not right.

So suddenly, monumental value has once again sprung from those mere 26 letters, alongside more friendships and appreciation than I could have ever imagined receiving. For that – and for giving me this award – I thank ya, Miss MJ, Nonstepmom!

If I could ruin this award with one thing – and I will – isn’t the word “awesome” one of the most overused words in today’s society? I’m thinking it’s right up there with “whatever,” “literally,” or “you know,” but then again, you know, what do I know?

Anyway, it’s whatever. I dunno.

As the rules of this award are a little ambiguous to me, I’ll proceed to the next step in the award process – to come up with an adjective that describes me for every letter of the alphabet. 

He’s so good at magic that he disappeared completely from every television network!

AWOL: In college, my nickname was Houdini because I’d leave or show up super late to events and parties on a whim. Your move, Criss Angel.
Blunt: I will tell you the honest truth, but only if you promise to hold a grudge against me for the next month or two. There, that’s nice.
Cheesy: Last week, I slow danced with Clayton in the middle of a bar called Mister Toads. During karaoke. We’re uber romantic.
Dependable: I don’t know when this one happened. It just sort of snuck up on me, like suddenly having to pee when you’re 90.
Empathetic: I cry at tampon commercials. “Look, now she can hike and camp and bike!” *Wild applause*
Feisty: Chances are, I’m about to form tackle you. Out of nowhere. Stop looking behind you like you know when it’s coming.
Great: As in, “The Great Cassie.” I really think this could catch on.
Hopeful: A synonym of “hopeful” is “buoyant.” So, this is a double whammy, as now I apparently double as a floatation device. No, I will not fly with you “just in case.”
Idealistic: I straighten framed artwork in the hallways at work when no one is looking.
Jazzy: I went to a jazz club once. Didn’t hate it.
Klutzy: I’m capable of tripping while standing still. 
Lucky: I just haven’t won Quick 7s because it’s not my TIME to yet. That’s all.
Meticulous: I overthink everything. EVERYTHING. Well, maybe everything is too all-encompassing. Most things? I definitely overthink some things but….

Yearn: it’s like yarn, only cats don’t tear you to pieces, your lover being at sea for 10 years does.

Nostalgic: I’ve yearned a day or two in my time, sure.
Open-minded:  Except if you like bad music. Or orange-flavored candies. Oh, or clogs. Unless you’re Dutch, then you get a free pass. Look, we’re compromising!
Playful: Pillow/blanket fort playful. Yes, you may come over. But call your mom first to make sure it’s ok.
Quixotic:  I may also be a realist, but the best part about being quixotic is I can be both. And that, my friends, is what we call a win-win.
Realistic: Jennifer Aniston will never get married. Boom. See what I did there?
Sincere: I am, I swear!
Tough: But not in a “Built Ford Tough” kinda way, more like in a “Brave Little Toaster” kinda way.
Uncontrollable: Temper tantrums upon not getting my way at the supermarket are not beneath me.
Vivacious: Mostly on Mondays, before the full workweek and after work errands kill my spirit.
White: Exemplified in the way I dance.
Xylophonic: With just a hint of pitchiness.
Yare: Like the fanciest of boats.
Zesty: As in, not in need of any orange or lemon zest, cuz I’ve got my own flava.

Finally, I must recognize five fellow bloggers who I believe have awesome blog content. But hell, you know what? I’m suddenly feeling zesty, so let’s do seven.

1. Bridgesburning – Word-o-wisdom – now 50 percent off!
2. LiketheHours – I guarantee you’ll liketheblog (that was bad; I’m sorry)
3. KayJai – She’s Canadian, but we’ll let it slide this time
4. Silva Gang – She writes about cats, and I like cats, and you should too!
5. Edrevets – Where Snotting Black isn’t cause for a doctor visit, probably
6. PithyPants – Dude. Those pants are pithy as efffff.
7. Maloquacious – Feel good posts, plus, poems – she’s got ‘em!

Have a lovely weekend, everyone! Happy Friday!

How much I love pie charts

This post is a response to my friend, Brandon’s, request for a pie chart on how much I love pie charts. Oddly redundant, yet, OMG let’s start already; I’m so excited!

Wave your scissors in the air like you just don’t hair

Hey, speaking of bad hair stylists, check out what happened to me Tuesday. You know how when your regular stylist goes on maternity leave, it can seem more like eternity leave? There’s an inescapable process of thought that occurs throughout her absence that breaks down the most resilient of us.

You start off thinking, Hey, I’ll just wait for her to get back. No problem.

Then, after a month or so, slight worry sets in. Events you need to look presentable for pop up just like that cowlick that appeared two days ago. You’ve never had a cowlick before. Suddenly, hair you assumed would grow evenly stops growing altogether or grows like a weed. SIMULTANEOUSLY. “Enough hair product will calm this down,” you whisper to yourself, nodding in assurance. This is still doable.

Wedding invites pile up. Your bangs stubbornly decide they don’t want to be a part of your face anymore and revolt by sticking straight up, like they’re about to be mugged (They know before you even do). Lunch dates and vacations are planned. Panic increases as free time decreases. Oh, I’m fine going to anyone – it’s just a trim, after all. You make the call and agree to a woman named Paula. She has lots of vowels in her name. She sounds nice, competent, and like she knows her way around Words with Friends, of which you have recently taken up.

P-R-O-N-E – Used in a sentence: Even as a child, Paula was prone to receiving a check minus on her report card for art class due to her inability to cut a straight line on construction paper. (Photo credit: androidfreeware.net)

Now, switch out “you” for “I” and give thanks that you are indeed not me. Although I tend to wear my naivety blatantly on my sleeve alongside my heart, a bad haircut is still much more noticeable. My former positive outlook on the situation, however, was positively nowhere to be found.

Process, process, process.  

After the deed was done, I found myself looking into a mirror only to discover a wild-eyed, paranoid freak unable to stare back because she was too preoccupied studying her head at every possible angle for the slightest of discrepancies.  

Sure enough, an uneven, ragged trim job stared back at me, daring me to make a move. It was on. First, a frown. Deeper. Deeper.  Then, a slow tilt of my head slightly to the right. And, there! The back of my hair came to a perfect alignment, falling uniformly across my shoulder blades. I could angle my head like this for the next three months and no one would ever know! I thought. That’s when I realized I am officially a cheap ass. Well, I’ve never said I was good at solving immediate problems.

A word of advice – when your stylist says you would be fine going to anyone at the salon? Do not believe her. She is a lying conniver. And sure – it’s not her real nature but more likely the pregnancy hormones doing the talking. Even so, although it is not technically her fault, I am warning you now that you will be pettily determined to think her baby isn’t as cute as everyone else says it is when you finally see pictures at your next appointment. This a side effect of your bad haircut that will recede in time.

On the bright side, she’ll never have to buy a helmet. (Credit: tvrage.com)

My fate that Tuesday should never be duplicated. One horrible haircut in this batty world is enough, but two is just unforgivable. Charlyne Yi’s character on House – I’m talking to you. But honestly – isn’t cutting hair evenly the first thing they teach you in beauty school? I work in the electric industry as a communication specialist, and that would be like me misspelling “public power.” (Ironically, we have had a number of people forget to put that little “l” in “public” from time to time. Yes, as a matter of fact it is always hilarious.)

There’s something oddly familiar about this picture… (Photo credit: lol.world-wide.com)

As irony would have it, I couldn’t bear the idea of going back to my fill-in stylist to correct her problem (I am very much an avoider – why do you think I have this blog?), so I made an appointment with someone I had never met at a different salon across town. (I also don’t learn from my mistakes) This next stylist more or less fixed my hair, and by that I mean she informed me the middle was still shorter than the rest and that she didn’t want to mess with it.

Fantastic. Now I’ll have to walk with my head tilted ever-so-slightly up. Making eye contact with people. Heaven forbid…

I let it go, mostly because I was running out of money.

You see, the relationship between ourselves and our stylists is very fragile at first. Trust must be built and mutual respect striven for. In many ways, this relationship is not so unlike the bond we create with our significant others. Here are a few reason why:

• You consult them for big life decisions.
  Bangs are one of life’s biggest mistakes decisions. Trust me.
• You use the term “we” like you’re the next Brangelina.
  I found myself telling the fill-in stylist that “we were growing out my bangs” last time we met. Like my regular stylist physically stands next to me, cheering them on. Like she wishes really hard and they magically grow. Like she was the one taking the prenatal supplements that strengthen your hair and nails, thus making them grow faster. Actually…
• You seek their approval.
  When the fill-in asked me what I wanted to do with my hair, I desperately wanted to check in with my normal stylist. “I want a trim, but can I just call her and ask if it’s all right first?” The fill-in then recommended cutting my hair dry. Well, I don’t know if my stylist would approve of that…I thought uncertainly. I am going to get in so much trouble when she comes back. 
• You feel lost when they’re gone.
  The pangs within my heart are very real. And very sad. Mostly in a pathetic way.
• After you’ve been seeing them awhile, they want to spice things up.
  A part on the right side of my head? No. No, that won’t do at all. Have you lost it?! Let’s keep it on the left side. We’re comfortable with that. We know what we’re doing with that. Besides, my hair looks good from that angle. 
• You can tell them everything.
  They lend you an ear because there’s a good guarantee they’ll tear yours off when they snag your earrings combing through it. This really doesn’t have as much to do with your significant other as much as it is a cold, hard fact.
• After a long day at work, they soothe you with a head massage.
  Sure, you have to pay for it, but that’s to be expected in any relationship. In the courtship of your significant other, it’s called “sex.”
• You trust them.
  Know how I know my hair stylist is the one for me? I can tell her, “Do whatever you want” and I’ve never been led astray, left crying, or hating men – even once.
• They want what’s best for you.
  That’s why they push the $25 product at the end of your appointment. Right? …Right!?
  

  The real question is, who DOESN’T look good in this much beige? (Photo credit: supershopsite.com)

• They won’t let you leave the house like that. A good hair stylist will gently sit you down and explain why they won’t let you get “chunky” layers. Because it would be as deplorable as your boyfriend leaving the house in pleated khakis.

To close out, how about some hair puns directed passive-aggressively toward my fill-in(s)?

• How hair she!
• She must not hair about me…
• It’s not hair (the hair is in July)!
• She must be hard of hairing
• Man, was she missing an hair of confidence
• My style is now worse for the hair