Stereotypes: My Nemises

I'm extremely annoyed. Now, I don't usually begin posts this way so I'll explain.
There is something I covet in this world more than money or success or love of life itself. I jealously watch others who are lucky enough to have it and I boil inside. Occasionally I feel like I could actually leap out and grab it, but something always jerks me back and slaps my wrist.
This thing, that I covet so much is......short hair. I'm not talking about a pageboy-cute-pixie-girl haircut, I'm talking about a straight-up, hair generally about four inches long, extremely short boy-cut.

I really and truly hate having long hair. Occasionally I look in the mirror and like the long blond locks, but generally, I detest caring for long hair. I hate blow-drying it after showers, I hate fixing it so it looks like I enjoy having it, I hate dealing with it when it's humid and my hair decides to freak out like I rubbed a balloon over it and then I tried to curl it while simultaneously juggling chain saws. I HATE HAVING LONG HAIR!

However, even though I hate long hair more than I hate clowns, society says I need it. In our day-and-age short hair is allowed for boys, lesbians, and extremely feminine women. If you don't fall into one of these categories, it's not okay. I know this from experience, see in high-school, I was attempting to solve my abhorrence of long hair with an "inbetweener" cut.

That's me, on the left, in highschool. An inbetweener cut is long enough to classify as semi-pixi-cut, yet short enough so I didn't actually have to deal with long hair. As a general rule, I was a social outcast in highschool. Now I'm not blaming this completely on the hair, after all, I matured much more slowly than I'd like to admit, however, I do believe the hair contributed.
Once I started college, grew my hair out, (and matured....a lot) I have worked my way up the social ladder. Nowdays, when I actually take the time to fix my hair, (which is about 2% of the time, the rest of the time it's either straightened or pony-tailed) I get tons of compliments. I have even expressed my lust for a boy-cut to a few of my closer friends, and they are skeptical that I would be able to "pull it off".

See, the problem is that I don't fit into any of the three acceptable boy-cut categories.

1) Boy

Clearly, this is the most obvious way to qualify for short hair......actually being a boy. And obviously I do not fit into this category. 

2) Lesbian

This is another category of people that are allowed to have extremely short haircuts. I, like any teen growing up in the 2000's had to, at one time or another, decide where I stood along the gay/not gay line. I never had any lesbian doubts to begin with, so I also do not qualify for this category of short-hair.

3) Extremely "Feminine/Attractive" or "Famous" Female

Short hair on straight women becomes socially acceptable when:

a) the woman is excessively feminine. As long as the woman is feminine enough (clothes, jewelry, makeup, a boyfriend never hurts) the short hair is considered an accessory and doesn't drag her towards the ambiguous "I can't tell if she's gay or not" line. 

b) The woman is extremely attractive. I'm talking about the kind of attractive that stands out in a crowd and causes car accidents. If a girl is that attractive, it doesn't matter what she does or how she wears her hair, it just ceases to matter. 

c) The woman is famous. Let's face it, celebrities get a free pass. If you're a movie star or singer ect, you can do anything you want to do because society already loves you.  

What a nightmare!!! Social stereotypes are worse than politics! In summary, I'm not a boy, I'm not a lesbian, and I'm not famous, excessively feminine, or extremely attractive. I'm not saying that I'm ugly, I'm just saying that I'm no Kiera Knightly! 

It's awful! I can not successfully pull off a boy-cut without repercussions! If, at some point, I decide that I don't care what people think and I go ahead and rid myself of my labor-intensive locks, I will be stepping into a dangerous area. This area is called, I am cool/original or self-confident enough to defy social conventions altogether! And honestly, I'm not sure if I have that kind of courage.

Someday, my friends, I hope that we can get past these social conventions far enough for people like me, who hate petty guidelines, to live happy, successful, fulfilled lives without sacrificing hair-happiness to get it.

UPDATE:

After linking this page to my Facebook wall I received a large number of comments and emails from friends who felt the same way I did, or who recommended I go ahead with cutting my hair. Because of this, on September 20 I cut my hair. I have also added a new category of woman to the list of women who can "pull off" short hair: 

Author

Feminist: A women who believes in equal rights for men and women, and finds predominately male-established social rules regarding women to be confining and arbitrary.

The Conductor

He stands up slowly. The spotlight dwarfs him, making him a solitary silhouette in a world of darkness. Each bow is frozen in the air, poised above the strings. The spotlight softens and widens, revealing the pit of musicians. Violins, violas, and cellos helplessly lie at the mercy of the hands that hold them. They thirst for guidance. They long for gentle love to coax a melody, sweet and pure, out of their willing souls. The potential for beauty reverberates sharply around the massive room like an electrical shock. Suspense is thick, blinking away sweat and fear, the musicians wait for their cue.

Once again the silhouette commands attention. Time slows to a crawl. The spotlight forces the lone figure to trust that his music will appear in the air, in the darkness. He is alone in the great hall. Caging him into the solitary scene, the spotlight beats him into submission. Running down his back, he feels a single bead of sweat defying his strict orders of courage. Yet, even with his feelings of impending doom, the master of the melody raises his hands with an ease that comes with repetition. The great event is mere seconds away. One………….Two…………….Three……………Four; the hands gain courage with each beat.

The deafening first note raises the hair on the back of every neck. Like a jet passing through the barrier of sound, the colossal sonic boom seems to echo through the hall even after it has been chased away by the next measure. The violins harmonize with perfect pitch. Each violin appears to be playing itself. Musicians have faded away; the instruments take over and form a dictatorship. No pitch unless it is perfect pitch, no note unless it is the perfect note. The sorrow of each chime is humiliating and humbling. Like sweet honey, the violins pick up the melody effortlessly. Swelling and fading, swelling and fading, the violins waltz this dance to the death.

The violas take control of the undertones. The violins may be dominating the tsunami, but the violas kill the survivors in the rip tide. Swift and deadly, the violas grasp the hearts of the audience and torture them into falling in love. Rosin wafts through the air at each abrupt collision of string and bow. The staccato is hypnotizing. Clashes of blue and yellow explode against the black horizon. Melting into one, the violins bow to the violas, enticing them to join the fatal waltz. Each note is unique, a moment in time caged and presented like a bouquet. Each stanza bursts into the present, and then fades quickly into the past without a second chance at perfection. Antagonizing each other in this melodious tug-of-war, the violins and violas support this frail balance called music. 

The cellos suddenly swoop into the fiasco like a powerful explosion. Flirting with the melody, the cellos sway in and out of the way, laying the foundation with pride and bold strength. Accepting the role with grandeur, the cellos pick up the evolving sculpture and mold it into the spherical reflection of beauty it was always fated to become. The low current of the cellos moves effortlessly among the light pattering sunbeams that the violins are scattering throughout the great room.

All of this the silhouette anticipates and prepares. He stands, introverted by the massive floodlight, preparing each trill, catching each note. Caught up in his enjoyment, he not only hears, but he lives the music. No longer is he singled out in the auditorium. Instead, the entire world is engulfed into his light, and his dream. He moves with the music. Directing with enthusiasm, he gives the cellos their courage, the violas their majesty, and the violins their energy. He whispers loving words into the darkness. He swells with the crescendos, he floats with the pianissimos, and he antagonizes the fortissimos. This lone figure, he is one with the beauty.

As the last note fades into silence, there is nothing but empty air. The standing ovation is overdue, but it does not appear. His eyes open slowly; a single tear rolls down his cheek and hits the stage with a resounding crash. The music is over, the finale has been dealt.

They watch him from the door.

“A madman,” they mutter, “a raving lunatic.” The nurses shake their heads as they pass his room. Medication is the answer, some of them hypothesize. The doctors discuss solemnly, “If we just get the right combination of drugs, maybe we can pull him out of his crazy fantasy world and back into reality.” One by one they wander away. As they leave, the ragged conductor sinks down onto the floor. He feels the cold concrete underneath him, and he sighs. The lights start to go out one by one, it’s time for bed. As the last light flickers and fades away, a small voice breaks the silence. Quietly, with only the darkness as his witness, “I’m not crazy, I’m the only one who’s alive……I’m the only one.”

Realist versus Pessimist

I've always strongly associated myself with the title of "realist".
Clinging to the strong, sensible sound it portrays, I've mentioned time and time again that I am, have always been, and will always be, a realist.
I often say, "I see the good in good situations, and I see the bad in bad situations. I don't sugar coat things and I don't blacken the good things in life. I'm right in the center, seeing things exactly the way they are."

However, while I've been saying I'm a realist, I've also been saying that I am a cynic and a philosopher at heart. Both of these things are realities that I can not deny.
Recently I've been wondering, can I truly be a cynic and a realist at the same time? These things seem contradictory.
As I've been examining this more closely, I've come to the conclusion that, even though I don't like the way it sounds, I am more closely associated with pessimistic qualities than those of a realist.
I guess I'm a realist who leans towards pessimism. I see the good things in life, but I don't trust their validity and I don't expect them to last. When I'm enjoying the pleasant things in life, there's a little part of me that I have to ignore.
I guess this pessimistic tendency of mine is something often seen in people who have to deal with depression as I do.
My acquired ability to ignore my pessimistic feelings is a very positive skill.
If I were to listen to my cynical/pessimistic side all the time I would never be able to enjoy positive things.
These pessimistic shades through which I view the world have been a permanent part of my life for as long as I can remember. It's easy to see how a person who is constantly ignoring the silver lining and expecting tornados could develop a sense of despair or hopelessness.

My cynical side looks at love and sees future heartbreak, it looks at my health and vigor and dreads old age, it looks at my successes and weighs them against my failures constantly. My pessimistic side looks at friendship and sees only that everyone leaves. It looks at the joy of owning pets at whispers how foolish it is to love an animal who only lives for a decade or so.

These are the whispers of anger, fear, and despair that I hear every day.
However, as I've grown older, my pessimism has quieted into the background. I've learned objectivity, and fostered a sense of perspective that has smoothed my once rocky terrain of emotions into a horizon of hills and occasional boulders.

I'm sure many a psychiatrist would read this blog entry and comment dryly about the wonders of modern medicine. "Just look at how the vast world of anti-depressants has benefited this once-troubled child and turned her into a level headed young adult!"
Perhaps the wonders of modern medicine did have a part in my emotional development, but I believe there is a lot to be said for self-searching. Meditating on the realities of life, learning how and why you react the way you do, and above all else, embracing your personality, learning how to live with your flaws, and giving yourself the benefit of forgiving and forgetting your own mistakes.

I guess in the long run I inherited some of my pessimism, but I also found a lot of wisdom along the way.

Colorful World

Red, orange, green, pink, blue, purple, yellow, our world is full of vibrant colors. They exist everywhere, brightening our lives in ways we often take for granted.
I've been pondering colors lately.
In their most basic form, colors are a result of the visible light color spectrum. Light hits an object, and various wavelengths of light are absorbed and reflected resulting in the color we perceive.

Color is, therefore, a perception. This conclusion poses a few interesting questions. If color is the product of wavelengths of light, does color even exist in the dark?
Some would argue that the color of a lemon exists even in the dark because darkness is temporary. Every time there is darkness, light is close behind. I disagree. Night is a period of time just like day, one could argue that light is temporary.

In the dark, colors are not perceived. If I stand in the middle of my yard in the dark and I pick up a piece of grass, it doesn't matter how strongly my logic tells me that grass is green, I will not be able to perceive that color unless I take it into some form of light.
Because of this, physics tells us that in the dark, grass is both colorless and every color at the same time.
Without light to help us perceive the color of grass, the color does not exist. Then I have to ask myself, if color is a perception that can be perceived at one moment, then be non-existent the next, is color real?

If I have a five dollar bill that appears and disappears when in different atmospheres, I would be skeptical about its solidity, its existence even.

Not only is color a perception, but it also is the product of the anatomical and physiological makeup of our eyes and brain. Adding further to the shaky existence of color, some people are colorblind. Something about the makeup or function of their eyes causes them to not perceive certain colors. If I look at a green leaf and someone else looks at it and sees no color, does the color exist or not exist?
Also, we have a very limited understanding of how animals see colors. Perhaps a yellow lemon is not a yellow lemon to them. Perhaps to some specific animal, lemons are blue. Who am I to argue that my perception is more accurate or more correct than another person or animal's perception?If three different beings perceive a lemon in three completely different ways, can I really argue to the reality and validity of my perception. Can I claim that color exists and is concrete if it can vary in such extreme ways. After all, each person/animal's perception of a lemon's color is just as valid and accurate as the other person or animal.

Whatever the reality of color happens to be, when I look outside on a gorgeous fall day and I see the colorful leaves, the fresh blue sky, the fluffy white clouds, the flutter and song of a bird passing by, I smile. Accident or purposeful creation, real or non-existent, color is a blessing I take for granted every day.

Forever

Gone is a long time, it kinda sounds like forever. And forever is a strange word, it's hard to imagine.
Sometimes I think I can picture forever. I picture it like this.

Take a laser beam, and shoot it right up through the stars. It would be a special laser beam, of course, one that was stronger than a volcano, and one that stayed strong, no matter how far away you shine it. It would start up like a roar on earth and shoot up past the moon in an instant. It would sail past all the planets like lightning, it would brush galaxies, and streak through astroid belts. And no matter how far and how fast you followed it in a space shuttle, you would never be able to catch up with the end of that red line of light. It would be billions of lightyears away from earth, but it would just keep going and going and going.

Then I picture zooming out on the whole incident. Zooming out and out until the milky way is just a speck in a sea of specks. Then, I watch that little red line growing and growing. Expanding and flying through space like water, trickling across dirt.

I try to picture how big I am in comparison.
Which, when you're talking in terms concerning outer space and viewing thousands of galaxies at one time, is less than microscopic. In fact, if I were doing a scientific experiment in which the results of the experiment were the size of the universe, and the margin of error were the size of human being in the universe, the error would be tossed out as insignificant.

After taking some time to meditate on my relative size, I whiz back down to earth, stand right at the base of that gigantic volcano laser beam....and I look up.

I picture that red light going up and up and up, but never reaching the ceiling. That's kinda how I picture forever. And gone is just as big.

Decapitated no more

For years, people in cultures all around the world have marveled at the stoic statue heads standing everywhere on Easter Island.
All of them are about the same size, and all of them have unbelievably boring facial expressions.
How did they get there? Who put them there? How were they transported to their locations all over the island?

Although few answers have been found concerning these famous statue heads, turns out they have once again taken us by surprise. A recent excavation of one of these heads revealed that the Easter Island statue heads, are in fact, not heads at all, but entire bodies.
The Easter Island statue heads are only heads because they are buried in soil up to their necks.

After the first statue was unearthed, more of the heads were examined only to find more statues with complete bodies.

Here is the link to the most-in depth description of this new discovery.

http://m.now.msn.com/now/0516-easter-island-statues

Unfortunately, this discovery only brings to light more questions. Why were all the statues buried? Was it intentional? Or was it the result of natural erosion or some other natural event?

Whatever the reason, the Easter Island statues remain one of the most intriguing mysteries on our planet.

Chase Noah

There are times when I stare my own mistakes in the eye. Sometimes these experiences make me weak, and sometimes they make me stronger.
This weekend has been an experience with the latter effect.

He was a friend and coworker to me. I remember the first time I met him. He came into the room with the most carefree smile. I chuckled to myself because he couldn't sit still. He sat down for a second, then jumped up to get something, then sat down again and repeated the process all over again.
I still laugh when I think of him spraying air freshener down the hall. "One, two, three, four, *spray*. One, two, three, four, *spray*" he said out loud as he walked. He was convinced that a spray every four steps was the perfect balance for the ultimate freshness.
Every time I worked he insisted on taking out the trash for me. "Hey I'm just gonna take this out real quick," he would say briskly, "It's kinda heavy." He always lugged it out for me no matter how many times I told him that I could handle it.
He was great at breaking things, but it was impossible to be mad at him for long. He loved to eat, and had an unquenchable appetite. He was young, athletic, and fun to have around.

We were surprised when we found out on Saturday that he hung himself.
All of my coworkers at the animal clinic where I work, and myself, have been in a state of shock for the last few days. Clients who come in for appointments have been met with a halfhearted reception.
Talk in the break-room is gloomy and filled with regrets. Most of us hope that he just drank too much, it clashed with his medication, and he went crazy and didn't know what he was doing. It's easier to think of it in those terms.

Either way, our friend Chase is gone.

Now, I've made mistakes in my life, I admit that, but fortunately I've never made any mistakes that had permanent results like the one that Chase made this weekend. In the end, all we can ever really hope for, is that our mistakes will mold us into a person with whom we can be content; a person who has been burned and bent and strengthened by the mistakes they've made.

Seeing the results of Chase's decision, and feeling the grief of his loss, has given me a fresh insight into my own growth. I can say that I am content with my change, and that realization is truly a peaceful feeling.
I only wish that Chase could have given himself the benefit of changing, and feeling the same.

Rest in peace, Chase, we miss you.

Photo Source Emitted for Privacy