November « 2009 « Black Marks on Wood Pulp / by Corey Vilhauer

A receding hairstyle

November 4th, 2009

Hair is something sacred. It’s often the first thing you notice about a person. It’s a central piece of style; entire industries are built upon hair in a way that other body parts barely touch upon.

The love affair with hair could be scientific. After all, it protects our head, somewhat; that is, as much as your head needs protection from things like extreme cold and extreme heat. That’s what its original evolutionary purpose was, you know. To regulate body temperature.

But to many, it also protects our pride. Which means, to just as many, it’s difficult to change.

A botched haircut or style can’t be fixed easily. It takes time. And with that time comes weeks of embarrassment. A feeling of dread. Some have gotten past this. “It’s only hair,” they say. “It will grow back!”

Others haven’t.

You see this every day. You see this every time you notice an awful hairstyle, and you think to yourself, “Wow. That’s really bad.”

“Did they even look at themselves this morning?”

“Is that hair even relevant?”

But imagine the mind that rests under that hair. It’s comfortable. And quite possibly, it’s scared. Scared of change. And scared of chance.

I know this because I went through it myself. Always at war with my hair, I often wear outdated styles simply because I don’t want to mess with what works. And I’m not alone: look around, and you’ll find people still clinging to their 80s bangs, or their dirty grunge ponytail, or their creepy combover.

I don’t believe these strange hairstyles carry on because the wearers are ignorant. Simply, they are afraid of the change.

Because hair doesn’t grow back instantaneously. And for some, that’s too much of a risk to take.

[Prompt: "Strange Hair" - James Zajicek, who works at a video producer at Good Samaritan Society and seconds my claims that Mason Jennings is both underrated and destined for greatness.]

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Issues Considered: By Request, On..., Vilhauer

On getting sick, and how it faintly and probably incorrectly relates to Hume’s Fork.

November 2nd, 2009

It starts with a tickle, sometimes observed as a scratch, often discovered through chance. Then, the cough, occurring on its own, without the baggage of an entire suite of symptoms. But those symptoms are there: the cough reaches down a little too far, brings up phlegm when it should simply bring up noise.

Then, the coughs show up every few minutes; no longer an anomaly, they now represent a symptom. And there are surely more to follow.

Headache. Puffy eyes. A body that moves as if shackled to the air. Heavy breathing after a walk up the stairs, your lungs kicking into overdrive earlier than usual. Aches.

The aches, oh the aches. Up until this point, you’re running on observation. You assume you’re getting sick, or maybe you’re thinking it will all go away soon, that it’s a frustrating but easily defeated anomaly. But when the aches come – creeping up, revealing themselves after a cough, or after you bend over, etc. – you know that things are shifting into cold hard fact.

Thus, the lifelong debate begins again. Because you’re still decent, and not completely wiped out, you feel like you should go home. Save yourself and your co-workers. Spend the afternoon on the couch watching old DVDs, resting, waiting for it to pass. But, you have stuff to do. And it will still be here when you return.

For a few hours, it’s always the same. Do you wait? Or do you play it safe?

And after those few hours are gone, it’s also always the same. You waited too long. Now you’re sick, and the sickness is threatening to define you, like the top tong of Hume’s Fork.

Up until the point of agony, you’re only feeling sick. You’re rationalizing the senses. You’re trying to force yourself into being well. And then – boom – there’s no longer any rationalizing, as the grays fade away and you’re just SICK. The headaches, the aches, the coughs, the nausea – it’s all defining, at that point, easily substituted for a analytical equation.

1 + 1 = 2. No room for thought or sense or feeling.

You’re sick. And that sickness has become all that you are; no longer experiential, but a matter of cold, hard fact.

In my increasingly confused mind, this works. Then again, I should be lying on the couch, watching old DVDs, resting and waiting for it to pass – not mangling Kant-based philosophy.

[Prompt: "Hume's Fork. Also, if you're interested, Hume's butter knife." - Michael Hall, who I know only through twitter and who is, as far as I know, the Real Michael Hall.]