What-the-hell hair

There's a certain "what the hell" freedom in being in the latter half of one's allotted lifespan. This week, for example, I paid more for a haircut than I have ever before (and, I imagine, than I ever will again). I won't tell you how much; suffice it to say it was in the three figures, and the last two were not zeroes. And I did it with no consideration or planning whatsoever. One moment I was finishing up my coffee in a Dublin Starbucks (may I just say to opponents of globalization that I would have far preferred to be in a locally owned coffee shop, but Starbucks offered free wi-fi and the locals did not; sadly, practicality trumps principles almost every time) and the next I was bent back over the shampoo sink in the chi-chi hair place across the street.

I had flown off to Ireland a month earlier with what I thought was workable hair--no blowdryer, no straightening rod or curling iron, just wash and go. So I washed and went, for a month, with Really Bad Hair, hair that looked as if it resulted from the mating of one of those string mops and a clown's wig. And the thing is, despite being in the latter half of my allotted lifespan, I have yet to learn to be "what the hell" about my hair.

I have, of course, honed a number of coping strategies over the years, all of which I relied on regularly over the past four weeks in misty moisty blustery blowy Ireland: I reminded myself that I am an intellectual and a deeply spiritual person, someone who is really above bothering with something as trivial as hair. I contemplated barrettes and pondered headbands. I tried different side parts. I applied copious amounts of Product. I combed it all backwards. I brushed it all forwards. I avoided mirrors. I wore my hood a lot.

But still, Bad Hair is Bad Hair, and so, in one impulsive moment in Dublin, I chopped it all off. That is, I gave the incredibly sexy, 30-ish, cutey hairstylist guy the liberty to do with my hair what he would. And he chopped it all off--with the most amazing attention to detail, precise technique, and gentle patience. I mean, if this guy does sex like he does hair, well, golly.

And then he told me what the cut cost.

What the hell.

It's a good cut. I now have Good Hair. And life is better. Of course, I'm also at this moment sitting on a stack of pillows alongside my husband on an enormous bed in an "Exquisite Boutique Bed and Breakfast" (so the advertisement) in a Norfolk seaside village. That helps too.

Younger Brothers

Last night I went to a pub and watched the World Cup semi-final between Spain and Germany--hardly my usual choice of activity. But I was hanging out with two colleagues who are teaching with me here in Ireland, it was what they wanted to do, and I tagged along. Dan and Joe are in their 30s. Relaxed, witty, and smart, they're fun travel companions. (Except when I start talking about things that happened at LSU in the early 90s and they smile politely and I remember, oh right, they were, what, 12 years old when that happened, and then feel old and feeble-minded.)

I imagine that having younger brothers is like the last few weeks with Joe and Dan--hanging out, having a drink, watching sports, laughing a lot. I've never had younger brothers, but they strike me as far preferable to older brothers. They don't hang you upside down and dunk your head in the toilet. They don't nail you inside the clubhouse. They don't tie you to the bedpost with a belt and then leave you there while they go out with friends. They don't tell you that their friends say you're fat. They don't sit you down before your first day of high school and advise you to do with boys whatever boys want you to do so that you'll be popular. Often, when people learn that I grew up with five older brothers, they coo, "Oh, you must have felt so protected." I can only conclude that such people have no experience with older brothers, or at least not with mine.

My sister's husband once asked, after hearing her recount the toilet dunking story (which I confess happened to her rather than to me: I was a chunk of a child whereas she was one of those skinny kids with bones jutting out all over, the perfect size and shape for a quick grab, flip, and dunk),"Where in the world was your mom?" Such a strange question. My mom fed and clothed us. She made sure we caught the school bus. She washed out our mouths with soap if we swore and she slapped us if we spoke disrespectfully to an adult. She tucked us in at night and heard our prayers. She helped us memorize the books of the Bible. She bought our Christmas and birthday presents. She drove us to our various school and church activities. It never occurred to us, or to her, I am quite sure, that she was supposed to do anything more. Making it through the day, surviving the torments that older brothers devised, that was up to us.

I got back at them, of course. I turned to the time-honored survival strategies of the weak: I became a world-class eavesdropper and snitch. I suppose I should thank my brothers for teaching me that words have power and that information, when wielded well, is a powerful weapon. Right after I find some really big guy with experience in toilet dunking.

A walk in Cork

Yesterday, a bracing blustery very Irish day, I sauntered across the Lee River bridge. I was feeling fine, better than fine, really downright fantastic: hey, look at me, at home in Cork after less than 24 hours; here I am, taking command of this city, making this place mine; I am Sophisticated Traveler; I am urban and urbane; I am. . . and then a fart suddenly bellowed forth from my nether regions. I kept walking, but at more of a slink than a saunter.

Clearly, however, the gods had determined that I hadn't been punished enough. Pushing on up the hill to the hostel, I found myself walking behind a small boy dancing alongside of what looked to be his grandfather, who was carrying a new scooter. When the boy turned to glance at me, I smiled broadly and nodded in an effort to signal, "Hey, cool! A scooter!" The boy's face crumpled. He ran to his grandfather, clung to his leg, and gasped out something about "that crazy lady."

Good lord. I am not Sophisticated Traveler. I am Scary Crazy Lady. With gas.

Because we've all been wondering

You know how you get those Pottery Barn or Crate & Barrel catalogs and you think, "Geez, who lives like this?" Well, I've found the answer. Check out: http://catalogliving.tumblr.com/. : "A look into the exciting lives of the people who live in your catalogs.

Exercising

I've been told I must regularly exercise my pubococcygeus muscles.

Righty ho.

These are the muscles of the oh-so-crucial "pelvic floor." Why, wonders I, why does a floor have muscles? Shouldn't a floor have tiles or slabs or bricks or some such thing?

Important Safety Tip: Do not pose this question to your doctor. Doctors--I should qualify that-- American doctors (in my experience, British doctors are a different sort of animal entirely) are not intrigued by linguistic puzzles and will glare at you because you are wasting their oh-so-valuable time (even tho', of course, you've just spent 45-fucking-minutes past your supposed appointment time thumbing through issues of Newsweek that date from the 1990s but God only knows your time doesn't matter)--

Oh geez. Lost track again. Oh right. The pelvic floor. The all-important pubococcygeus muscles. The ones I must exercise several times daily in order to stop leaking.

The problem is that it is really quite difficult to do one's Kegel exercises (as they are called) when one is giggling. And I am always giggling. Because every time I try to do the damn things, I picture my pubococcygeus muscles wearing tiny little sweat pants and miniature athletic bras, working out with teeny weights, cooling down with miniscule bottles of Gatorade, checking out their microscopic pecs in the locker room mirror. And then I start imagining gyms full of pubococcygeus muscles doing aerobic dance moves to 1980s Madonna songs--and God help me, I'm leaking again.