Not Pretending It's Simple

Friday, July 19, 2019

For a course

Friday, August 17, 2018

Morning after rain

The smoky air and the clouds made for some spectacular crepuscular rays. I missed the early, bright-red version because I couldn't stop staring long enough to go get the camera, but there was plenty of beauty left.

Thunderstorm last night.

That was a storm! Thunder, lightning, gusty winds, and finally some rain. Hope there was enough--it's been so dry that it's really scary to see lightning.

There was a lost fawn running and crying in the neighbor's pasture all through the storm; the cry of a lost fawn resembles the cry of a lost kitten, only louder, more nasal, and higher off the ground. At one point the thunder mingled with the sound of raccoons screaming in the neighbor's barn. A screaming raccoon sounds like a lost soul, with an edge of overheated circular saw. Between that and watching the light show, which included three nearly simultaneous lightning strikes off to the north, it was a very stylish apocalypse.

The human soundtrack didn't measure up. When we turned the radio on to listen for fire news, we got Chicago's You're the Inspiration--it really should have been Night on Bald Mountain or Ride of the Valkyries, at least.

Toby felt it was all a bit much and hid behind the pillows on the bed. Jeeves sat in the window with an expression that indicated the management had been remiss and he expected a reduction in his bill. The other cats dealt pretty well. Daisy, despite a hastily administered Composure chew, spent the entire time barking alarms just in case we hadn't heard the thunder.

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Why I don't skydive, with video

There's a reason I don't skydive. Hold that thought.

I keep my hair at around 3/8 of an inch in the winter, 1/4 inch in the summer. It saves fussing with my truly impossible-to-style hair (thick, fine, very straight, yet full of assertive cowlicks), it saves money since I learned how to do it myself, and those who love me say it looks kinda cute.

Yeserday afternoon, I finished taking it to 1/4 inch, as I have every week to ten days for over a year now.

I took off the guard that keeps the clippers a quarter-inch from my scalp, cleaned the blades, rubbed my head, felt a spot I'd missed...

...you know what's next, right?

Yet I didn't. No sense of dread, no ominous music, nothing.

Thinking deep thoughts about the moral universe of Diana Wynne Jones's fantasy novels, I plugged the clippers back in without the 1/4 inch guard and sliced a big bald crescent right across the top of my head. BZZZZZZAAAAP. Hair flew everywhere.

I looked at the guard on the counter.

Looked at my head in the mirror.

Screamed.

Sat down on the floor.

Cried a bit.

Laughed longer than I'd cried.

Had a little chat with myself about why I don't skydive and how to avoid doing this ever again. Maybe clean the blades later--the next day, say. Perhaps I should put on a bike helmet before removing the guard.

Then I stood up, took a deep breath, and shaved the rest of my hair right off. There weren't a lot of options. The bald spot was too big for a Band-Aid and I don't like to wear my fedora while playing the viola.

You know, a quarter-inch is actually quite a lot of hair. Rather, it *was* quite a lot of hair. In retrospect. In fond memory.

It'll grow back. Not soon enough, but it will.

My husband, who helped with the shaving once he was able to stop laughing, keeps telling me to say, "Make it so." While I've always thought of myself as more of a redshirt, with deep apologies to Sir Patrick Stewart, here's my very best Jean-Luc Picard.