haircut: a story

(Note: this photo is compliments of the excellent movie-stills blog, Movie Screenshots. It features the wonderful Shirley MacLaine as Ouiser Boudreau, and Daryl Hannah as Annelle Dupuy Desoto, and the color coral.)

The other day Mum and I both scheduled appointments at a member club of the inner sanctum for women's beauty: the hair salon. It's the one my mother's been going to ever since she cut her long, thick curly hair, 20 years ago, from halfway down her back to a smart pixie-like cut. I've gotten haircuts myself from Debbie, starting when I had to sit in a booster seat added onto the normal adult chair. One Halloween when I was maybe 5 or 6, we went to Debbie's and I got my hair poofed right up with hairspray, and then colored green, red, yellow and probably some other colors. I looked like a punk rocker! We took lots of pictures of me in a rock-star-crossed-with-a-feral-cat pose. How I loved that look, and wished I could have it every day.

When I started living in other places besides Cape Breton, from the age of 18, I realized that going to Debbie's -- and other Cape Breton hair stylists -- had sheltered me from the harsh truth of major cities around the world: haircuts are increasingly dang expensive! From Whistler, BC to Sydney, Australia, I routinely paid from $50 to $80 for a good cut. But I liked what I got and I didn't mind paying for it. I never had a great relationship with a hairdresser, like the friendly banter we could have with Debbie, but I figured that was par for the course, the salons I visited being big-city and chic (read: snobby).

Until I moved to Fredericton, and had a hair emergency. I had gotten my hair dyed bright red, at Debbie's, and I guess the dye didn't take in my bleached-out head of hair, because two weeks later Crazy Crimson or whatever it was called had faded to a dull, nasty orange, tinged with light brown. (The one time Debbie let me down!) This coincided with my first week of university in a new town, and I decided I did NOT want to meet new people with a head that literally looked like a pumpkin. So I went to a swanky-looking spa downtown, where I gave the stylist, Melene, a look that said it all: my old shade back, please! She did the job, I was able to relax about my look, and believe it or not, I actually made friends. All through my three years in Fredericton, I kept going back to Sue Lawrence Hair and Spa for Melene's stellar cuts. She seemed to be able to make any growing-out stage look good, and somehow knew how to make my hair (which has the thickness and slight wave from my mother's side, and a bit of straightness from my father's side, but which can easily look like an overgrown, frizzy hedge if not cut right) peaceful. I remember thinking, "Wow, my hair doesn't have to be frizzy, coarse, or bend in weird places when I least want it to?" I know this is a service for which I will be forever grateful.

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless unless she chooses to come forward and name herself, is doing her Master's thesis on the Sociology of women's beauty practices, and especially on what goes on in beauty salons. There is so much to talk about on this subject that I'm convinced one day my friend could write a whole book on it, if she so chooses. I would definitely buy and then actually read that book, as the subject is rather intriguing: a place where women go freely and happily, at least in the best case scenario, to be modified and beautified, a place which supplies us with ritual, gossip, and some of the best counseling I've ever had, including that of professional counselors! Yet, in the worst case scenario, the ideals of beauty can feel rigid, strict, imposed upon us. Also, a visit to the salon can be stressful, not fun, if the hairstylist is demanding, insulting, a bad listener, or downright incompetent. You can easily get to wondering, how much of our beauty rituals is free choice and how much is indoctrination? How much is pleasurable and how much is harmful?

I certainly don't have answers to those questions, but I think asking the questions is an important step. Deducing the exact ratio of these components can be left to the social scientists, like my friend, but talking about the issues, maybe even while you're in the salon chair, makes you aware that there are issues, and that our everyday actions are just the front for the amazing complexity of our motivations. Also, being aware of these complex motivations allows me, as a feminist, to enjoy the time I spend in the salon, knowing that my enjoyment is just as valid as are my qualms about the beauty industry as a whole, and that going in for a trim and a gab may even do a little good for the soul.

If any of you have seen Steel Magnolias, you'll know what the ideal of the beauty salon is: that perfect, if a little frumpy, room at the back where Dolly Parton gabs while she poofs Julia Roberts' hair, where problems find solutions, where anger gets vented, where mothers and daughters can bond over nail polish shades, where neighbors, no matter how "mad hatter", are taken in and given a good hairstyle. Beauty with humility. Even though the movie is filled to the brim with terrible, 80's style dresses covered with giant floral patterns, I love it anyway, because Dolly Parton's hair salon actually does exist in so many places. It may not be recognizable, because it's had a glamour treatment, and calls itself a "spa", complete with trendy mirrors, artwork and workers with asymmetrical swaths of hair dyed literal rainbows, but don't be fooled. If the workers can gossip with you, laugh at their own mistakes and with each other, and turn you out on the street looking fabulous, it's the real thing.

I went back to Debbie's the other day, now that I'm living on Cape Breton again. We all gabbed, vented, laughed at ourselves and our mistakes, swore just a little, and talked about hair. I got my hair washed by a professional (there's something so pleasant about that), cut with the layers re-shaped, rubbed with a bit of shining polish and mousse, then dried and straightened. Mum got her "usual", and we both left looking fabulous, and feeling just a little bit better. I think this relationship just might be the real thing.

all quiet on the eastern front

When I started this blog about four years ago--I'm not certain how long anymore, especially now that my archives have disappeared--I was living in Whistler, BC, on my own for the first time at 18. My audience was only Janice at first, and a handful of other friends who wanted to keep tabs on me. When I travelled back across the country and then made plans to travel to Australia at 19, it was a great way for people to keep in touch with me, and I with them, without having to do the mass-email thing, and it worked out pretty good.

Two things happened: I started university here in New Brunswick, and I became more aware of my audience. The first means that I'm now staying in one place, more or less, and spending a lot of my time writing essays and their ilk, so not only do I have fewer exciting adventures to chronicle, but I also have less energy to do the chronicling with. The second means that I realized more people than I thought occasionally drop by Huminbean's humble address, which has an effect on what I write about, or the content. This means sometimes I think a post is too personal, and sometimes a post is not personal enough. The same goes for political.

I'm not professing that I consider myself and my posts boring; I don't. And I think the level of reader commenting attests that I'm interesting enough that people stick around long enough to read to the end. I'm also not saying I don't like having such interest; I love having you here. I guess what I'm saying is that over time I've realized that my topics have become concentrated, due to either having written about something already or to not wanting to write about it because it's too personal and details will expose the guilty and innocent alike. And we couldn't have that!

Blogdom's an interesting place, to say the least. Where else do you have the confidence and confidantes of a personal journal, combined with the somewhat-widespread publication and the lack of control over readership of an actual publishing deal, besides in an autobiography? And aren't those usually published after the author dies? Yikes!

So if it seems quiet on this eastern front, it's only because I've either written about a form of what I'm doing right now, before, or because the real news is too personal to write about. This is what's going on in my life right now; if you're particularly interested in a subject, leave a comment and I'll see what I can do. And yes, that's a request for your interest.

• University. Third year--lots of work to be done! I'm studying Sociology--Modern Theory, Sociology of the Family, Statistics and Research Strategies--as well as English--American Literature. We're reading Walt Whitman for that at the moment, but I just finished a paper on Chaim Potok's "The Promise", which is all about Judaism in America after WWII. As for the Sociology, I'm gearing up to do my Honours Thesis next year, and I'll be planning the proposal in the Research Strategies class. I want to do it on food and the sourcing of that food, networks, and some other stuff I haven't quite sorted out yet.
  
• My relationship with the "soyfriend", Dan. This one falls into the category of "my own personal business", but I can tell y'all that it's good, he lives here now, and I think it's pretty rad. I get to see him nearly every day and I can't think of anything else I'd want more.
• Figuring out what to do next year/this coming summer, in terms of an apartment (I might have to move because my dear old landlord might need to live in a retirement home) and a job/potentially travel (for the summer). This is all up in the air right now, but I'd love to make it out West for Dan's graduation, and see some of the West coast again, and maybe even spend a little time on a WWOOF farm again. It would also be pretty cool to work with a professor and gain some experience as a paid lackey in academia. We shall see what we shall see.
  
• The Boost Your Eco film fest, being planned by a group of lovely/hilarious students, of which I am one. It's going to be on the 9th and 10th of February, and soon there'll be a website I can point you to.
• Staying balanced and happy and spending enough time on my own, too.
• Being in Fredericton in winter--mornings walking to class with longjohns on, watching your breath make clouds and come out your nostrils like a dragon's, hopping over and around snowbanks, having your boots make puddles on the floor in classrooms.

and now, the moment you've all been waiting for...

...The First Annual Huminbean Pie Chart Awards!

The judges have made their decisions, after a long deliberation in which Bernard Lord and Benoit Lapierre resorted to speaking French so that pesky God fella couldn't understand. Then God came back with some nasty comeback in Aramaic that really pissed the others off. When I finally got them all to calm down and have a few Wildcats, they were ready to deliver their verdict.

We'll start with the runners-up...

In the category of "You Can't Enter, Silly, But Don't Feel Bad!", the winner is.... Leah Noble! And she wins a fantastic CBC mug.



In the category of "Keep Digging, Honey", the winner is...Chris! And he wins this fantastic golden shovel award, for his entertaining vision of women's views towards him.



In the category of "Best Entry to Mention Bernard Lord" (and I'm not saying who wanted this category put in, ahem), the winner is...Marlo! And she wins a date with Bernard Lord and all his friends.



Now for the legitimate categories!

The "Most Crass" inevitably goes to ...Kevin Lionais! And the award is a plaster cast of a baby's bum! Good on you, Kevin. And please, never tell me which parts make up the 18% that has waded through.. your own.. poo.



The "Most Intelligent" goes to... Laura! For dealing with her upstairs neighbours in a calm and constructive fashion, rather than bringing them a big stick and showing them just how to walk softly with it. For her rationality and presence of mind, she wins a big thumbs-up from .. this guy!



The Golden Gumboot is awarded to Andrew, for best mention of gumboots in an entry, because not only is the idea of him wearing only this item of clothing oddly enticing, but also ... gross. We invite him to try eating KD out of THIS gumboot!



And Best Overall... drum roll please...
Janice Fuller!
For her witty and conclusive sociological analysis of the Huminbean readership. I have seen those angry apes in my dreams and it is not pretty! And for her to track down a professor at St. Ehwha University is truly dedicated scholarship. It is for this that the judges gave her points... plus Bernard Lord thinks she's cute.

The award for this category is pretty sweet. Not only do you get a Mr. Bean Pez toy:



...but you also get a visit from me wearing the bean costume:



AND a year's supply of whoopie pies!



I invite all the winners to put on their best gown/tuxedo and make a speech--it's not like the Oscars, we don't have to go to a commercial break. Get drunk! Thank your Mom and Dad! The floor is yours...

i am a piece of statistical data in the pie chart of life

Confession: I am a huge geek.

Wait, you all knew that? Ok. Well. Let me tell you the new depths of geekdom I have reached. After Friday's Research Methods class, during which Dr. Hale told us how on Monday we would start analyzing the data we had collected with our big questionnaire of last week (611 participants! woot!), I did not do what most other students would have done, which is go home at 2:30 in the afternoon because there was nothing else pressing to do. No, instead I went up to the computer lab and logged on to SPSS, and began labelling variables and entering values, making crosstabulations and analytical pie charts and bar graphs to check out things like how many of our participants had smoked in high school or been bullies, or to see if closeness to one's mother might predict things like alcohol use or anorexia. Two hours zipped by! I don't know where they went. All I know is that when Katie sat next to me and stared at me creepily, thinking it was a joke and I would notice, I didn't even see her. Sociology has taken over my heart, and apparently my peripheral vision, too.

So in the spirit of the season (which is clearly not Christmas, not yet, because we're not comfortable with trees in our houses til at least December, right Jan?) I present huminbean's latest interactive game (more evidence that I am indeed a geek) which ought to keep us all occupied until at least Last Class Bash (next Friday!):

Name Those Percentiles!

In the pie chart above, give me your ideas for what it represents, including what each color stands for. Awards will be given for: Most Intelligent, Most Crass, Best Overall, and Best Entry Which Uses the Word "Gumboot".

I'll see you all later. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have some sociological analysis to complete. *Pushes eyeglasses up at nosebridge with finger and snorts*.

Oh and--as a joint production of Huminbean's Department of This Couldn't Wait for Another Post and the Department of Education, Not Pointing Fingers, check this article out. Honestly, I don't know why I don't read Common Dreams more often, there's so much good stuff there!

can u get down with this?

We'll pretend I took this photo instead of stealing it off the Internet. Or, we could dispense with all pretense and just admit that we all steal off the Internet.

Anyway, I'm going to see God Made Me Funky this evening with Lozza and the gang, to get, according to the group's terminology, funkafied. I could use some funk in these here life. I mean, it's already pretty swell, but how could a little funk really go wrong?

I like how the funky people call everyone "U". This is going to take some getting used to! I'm going to have to bone up on the "lingo". Heh. There is nothing guaranteed to make one feel unhip faster than putting the word lingo in quotations.

And already, I feel the creepy cold shackles of university life trying to grab on to me, make me feel guilty for going out on Saturday night, going to funkafy myself. If we can imagine Roxanne Roastbeef Mills (the daughter of C. Wright Mills, an icon of sociology) as a symbol of this sort of nose-to-the-books, no-fun scholarship, she's shaking her strange finger at me. Or would she go dancing too?