It all started Monday night. I spent the night with my good friend Anna, whose housemate is a fashionable and posh Griga gyal. They were painting my nails when the housemate started talking about split ends... Now, I had terrible split ends and knew she was hinting. Normally in such an occasion I was throw of my clip, let my hair loose and would have one of my friends, like Anna, trim my ends for me. The smell of the nail polish and the overwhelming, pre-made stylishness of the housemate made me forget the normal me. But I was reminded about the need to cut my hair.
Then Wednesday I was in an artistic mood. I spent the evening turning the huge crack in my wall into a spinach vine with some cheap waxy "pastels". When I was done I went into the bathroom to wash the pastel of my hands (although it was not needed...stupid fake pastel didn't smug...). On the way I grabbed Mom's sewing scissors and gave myself a trim. The end produce was not as interesting and obvious as Leo's last year fashion, but it was uneven and made my lopsided head look more lopsided. When the hair on the right side was just below my chin line and the left side still touched my shoulder I stopped. I was defeated. I can't cut hair. This is why my brother never let my touch his....
If you knew how cheap I am you would realize what a dilemma I was in. I have this organic style (to cover up for my tight pockets) that avoids places like hair salons and hair dressers. Those places usually make me uncomfortable for some unknown reason. Mom rescued me. She knew where to send me. Thank God for Mommies like Helen Garland!
So, Yesterday I rode my bike downtown. As I passed by the green apartments I realized that the bike's breaks were essentially not any good. I didn't think about turning back because I hadn't thought about it and I had to reach the bank before it closes for the long weekend. Those of you who have been to San Ignacio may appreciate how brave (or careless) this was. I would just go with the flow and fly on my bike and hope that there are no un-alert drivers out. I was not brave though that day though. I had to do another errand by the government hospital (big hill) and I politely got off my bike and pushed it down the hills. While downtown, I continued to push the bike. My restless, daring tomboy self was not with me that day and I was not about to be a bump in some one's fender. I went to the bank and stuff and had a good time. Rode my bike up the hill until I discovered I am also out of shape and again had to push the bike. Something was wrong with me... usually I take that hill without breathing hard. Getting my hair fitted had a bad effect on me (or maybe it is because my nails were painted?).
I got to the place that Mom told me go. It was a small place with the shop just off a proprietor's veranda. Homely and nice without out an pretentious hair models on the wall. A quiet and stern Salvadorian motherly woman, who I know as Dona Marie, came out, listened to my explanation and looked at my hair. She never scolded, or laughed or made me feel bad. Instead I was inspired by her. Not inspired to be a chic, neat with perfect hair but inspired to be an artist. This woman is an artist. The way she carefully, thoroughly cut with flowing actions so expressively and naturally was peaceful. She looked my hair over at different angles as she cut and she did everything with such precision that even my lopsided silky, dry hair looked nice. A little short for me, but nice.
Funny how people can be artist in different ways. For example Mom is a sewing artist. She sews with such pleasure and has so much fun mulling over the details. It drives her nuts when seams don't match or hems are not straight. She zooms in on the details I would cared less to have even noticed.
Hence here is my hypothesis based on my observation. Art is not a specific medium or form, but is rather anything done by an artist. An artist is someone who has finds pleasure and expression in doing a thing and can fuss over it until it is exactly how they want it. Quality or name does not make an artist because those are external things. Everyone can be an artist once they have an art. I am an artist when it comes to my writing, as pitiful as it sounds, because I can mull over my words and phrases and rephrase and change things until I am partly satisfied that the words are interesting and my heart expressed as much as possible and that dyslexia allows. In what is your art?
Babies...? Oh yes, on my adventure downtown, I ran into a friend. She is pregnant and expecting a little boy! I think that it is baby season again because I know five people expecting little ones within the next three months. Just think. If everything goes well, there will be five new little people in my life before the end of June! I love babies.... but why is it that they are born in seasons(groups)? I hope my children are born out of season... just for the principle.