Hair Saga, Part 5: The Identity Crisis

I have a confession: I am a hair straightening-aholic. I'm addicted to frying my head and making my apartment smell like burning hair like some people are addicted to alcohol. If I go to class sporting curly braids, or worse, just letting the curls unravel around my face, I'm ready to curl into a ball and die. I will wake up an hour early for the sole purpose of sticking my hair between two hot iron rods. In some cultures, this is sure to be hair torture. After the realization that I've killed my hair, I should be doing everything in my power to revive it. But alas, fashion seems to kill--both my productivity and my hair.

The thing is, I only seem to have this addiction in college. I may not have forced bleach blonde onto my hair, but as much as I pride myself on not being a yoga pant wearing, hair torturing college girl, somewhere between freshman and sophomore year, I've become a sheep in the crowd. Not only that, but I start saying "like" more, listening to terrible pop music, and *gasp* sitting in the back of classrooms. It's as though my summer self is observing me from afar, yelling at me not to become this way, that we're stronger than this, but get that flat iron on me, and all of a sudden I'm quoting Miley Cyrus lyrics.

She did it...

You know how alcoholics' friends and family say, when their addiction really gets to them "you're losing yourself! Your addiction is changing you!" Maybe flat-iron addictions aren't yet classified as a mental illness, but I'm pretty sure it's turning me into a teenage girl. And if that's not the most terrifying thing you've ever heard, I don't know what is.

Going home for the summer, I don't even think about touching that flat iron. Sometimes, I even forget to wear makeup. I'm too busy thinking about humanity and shit, and hiking through the vast wilderness that is Mt. Nittany. Okay, so maybe part of it is the realization that it's far too humid to even bother, but 50% of my refusal to spend an hour on my hair is that it's stupid, life is short, blah blah, sentimental stuff.

Nature-me even goes so far as to sport a bandana 

So which one of my hair's identities is the "real me"? Am I doomed to be a freshman girl forever? It's a known fact that hippies can't have straight hair, so if I'm going to identify myself as one, I can't half-ass it (or half hair it).

I suppose I could just put my hair in braids and be Pippi Longstockings forever.

Namaste.

This is What a Feminist Looks Like.

Whenever I told people I was a feminist, I got one of two reactions: 1) The implication that I should join "feminism anonymous" and "fix" myself, or "But you don't have boyish hair or hairy armpits! You're not a real feminist!"

I had no idea that body hair had a direct correlation with my political views. How wise of you to point it out.

The thing is, it's hard to pinpoint exactly what feminism is, as it takes all sorts of causes and forms. I mean, you could go with the broad definition that "feminism is the shocking notion that women are people too," but what sort of cause does that support? How do you teach such a vast idea? And it's a wee bit condescending to imply that a vast majority of people do not see women as people. As a woman, I have experienced just as much person-dom as my brother, father, and that guy buying milk at the supermarket. In my twenty years on Earth, I haven't come across anyone who tells me "you can't do this--you're a girl."

(I do realize that women in certain countries have it much much worse than a privileged white girl in safesville, PA. I am not trying to disregard their experiences, however, in this particular post I'm talking about how I personally relate to feminism).

The most vocal feminists are often those who share the idea that our gender is terribly oppressed, that men are eating manly ice cream from their silver spoons, and that patriarchy is the worst word you could possibly utter. Because the loudest voices are the most opinionated, feminism gets the image that we're all screaming "down with men! Vagina power!"

As for me, I'd rather not scream "vagina" in a public setting. It's a terribly ugly word.

So if, for the most part, I've experienced equality, people respect me, and I'm not so hot on screaming "down with patriarchy!" down the street, or rocking a short 'do, what exactly am I getting out of feminism?

To me, feminism is the idea that we should not just learn to tolerate women as equals, but we should celebrate womanhood and femininity. Because we've, for the most part, earned basic rights as civilians, we have the tendency to over correct and claim that "women can be just as manly as men! Let me go lift some weights and never show my emotions!"

I don't want to have to apologize for sporting sparkly eyeshadow and crying during The Titanic. That doesn't make me weak. It makes me--guess what--human.

There's still the idea that, to show your independence as a woman, you should ditch the foundation and the kitchen and go and focus on what's important--yet in this attempt to assert our independence, we're normalizing male qualities.

That stay at home mom is doing just as much of a service to woman kind as that lawyer, or that doctor. If there wasn't someone with strong nurturing qualities, we'd all be stuck in that rebellious teenager phase where we wear too much black eyeliner and bemoan the fact that "no one gets us."

And that's just a terrible look for a thirty year old, okay?

I am a feminist. I also like to wear clothes that show off my figure, be complimented on my looks, and fry my hair with a flat iron. This doesn't make me any weaker than the woman who lifts weights at the gym. Well, physically it does, but let's not go there.

Namaste. 

Annoying Things About the Dentist

So clearly no one likes going to the dentist (unless you're five years old and have hopes and dreams of never being banned from that treasure chest), but after having gone to the dentist a total of 6 times (yes, 6 times, count them) in the past year, I realized that there are things about the dentist that make you want to rip your teeth out (#irony).

And yes, this will be one of those full fledged RANTS, complete with all caps and curse words, and general torment. You have been warned.

The first thing about dentist that really kills me is the fact that they're completely silent while they're prepping the chairs, the sinks, the big scary whirly machines, but as soon as they ram that little poky guy and water in your mouth, that's the time they choose to be enraptured by your current grade in school, if you have any siblings, and who your husband is, apparently (Fun fact: having a hyphenated last name will make the dentist assume you're married, which is both terrifying and flattering that he thinks you're not twelve years old).

I mean, you'd think that after those "20 some years of professional dentistry" they all brag about, they'd learn that it is impossible to talk with a bunch of metal shoved up your mouth. Maybe 4 out of 5 dentists don't have adequate social skills.

However, the alternative to yakking at you like you're besties, is when the dentist gets an assistant to come into the office, and all of a sudden, instead of telling you what's about to me jammed up into your gums, they're suddenly bonding over delicious Spring rolls at that great new restaurant. First of all, I'm already sallivating all over your chair, dentist. Do you want me to just get it over with, and hurl my food-talk induced spit all over your face, too? Like, I'm glad you like your assistants and all, but when you are putting a NEW FREAKING TOOTH IN MY MOUTH, I would really love to know like, what's going on. I'm only paying you for your fifth born's new yacht, no big deal.

And hey, if you really want to piss me off, why don't you shove a goop-filled tray in my mouth, tell me you'll be right back, and then disappear for ten minutes? Oh, great. Now I can have my deepest thoughts while I'm choking on my own spit. I mean, how very considerate of you to finish your discussion on spring rolls in my absence, but would it kill you to be like "hey, I'm gonna grab some more [insert overly priced equipment here]"?

I'm not paying for a suspense movie, guys. I'm paying for the ability to chew. Thanks.

The next thing that always happens, no matter who's inspecting my teeth, is they'll poke their heads in my mouth, get all wide-eyed, and say "gee, you have a really tiny mouth!" No shit. Like, out of context, that's just really rude. It's not like you're saying "you have a really tiny mouth, so here, have some mouth enhancer," you're just making, I don't know, small talk? What the hell kind of small talk is that? Like, I'm not about to walk up to you, stare at your chest, and go all "gee, you have really tiny tits!" And even if my ob/gyn did that, I'd smack her. I'm aware I have a small mouth. None of you have offered any solutions to this observation, so until you can physically grow my mouth, please shut up about it.

And for the last time, giving those tools cutesy names like "Mr. Sandy" will not make them hurt any less.

Namaste.