Wet Feet

Sports (I'll never write about this again)

You probably don't care, but this is a historic day in Philadelphia. The parade that's set to begin in 30 minutes looks to be one of the largest in our nation's history. There's no fan like a Phillies fan, and yes, Santa was famously booed (wasn't there a good reason? I'm sure there was.) but you can't beat Philly for passion and loyalty. This is a city that lives and dies with its sports teams. "Heartbreak" is a term tossed around liberally at every disspointing end of every losing season. And it's been nothing but heartbreaking losses since 1983.  I remember a few vividly: that Red Wings sweep of the Flyers in 97? I cried. And when the Sixers faced the Lakers in the 2001 final, I thought the city would throw a parade because we won one game (the first), even though we lost the four that followed. And then the Patriots beating the Eagles in 2004? I didn't cry, but the dejection hung over the entire city for days.

Judging from that first paragraph you'd think I'm a person who gives a rat's ass about sports. You'd be wrong. I'm very fond of saying that i'd rather rip out my fingernails than sit through another live baseball game. And my sportswriter brother rolls his eyes when I ask him if the sport he covers is the "one with the funny shaped ball". (I have no illusions about that joke being funny to anyone except me). The only major sport I'll get into is hockey; I am a Flyers fan in hibernation, waiting for fairer weather. (some would say this disqualifies me from being a "real fan". Whatever. I don't have time and energy to waste on a losing team. When you stop firing good coaches and trading good players, I'll start watching again).

In a family of sports fans, I'm not a sports fan. Black sheep. What a shock. I trace this back to the 1980 World Series, when a gem usurped my 3rd birthday party. One of my earliest memories is of hiding under a table while everyone screamed at the TV, wondering how long it would take them to notice I was "missing". (Just the other day I told this to Damon, and he was like "yeah, that sounds like something you'd do". He's got me totally pegged. Turns out I don't do "mysterious" all that well).

But this Not-A-Fan is ready to celebrate, because you know what I am a fan of? Philadelphia, Philly people, curse-breaking, winning, and parties. I love all those things. The baseball part is over, and other than listening to a few innings on the radio and being present at a local watering hole where the game was on, I was subjected to little actual gameplay. And for this city to win a championship, I can tell you for certain no city wanted it more. And it pisses me off when I see the bias against us. Of the seven other people who actually watched the series (being the lowest rated ever, wasn't it?) roughly five of those poeple wanted us to LOSE. (You people BLOW. I'm sorry, but you DO. How's that for sounding like a Philly fan?)

The curse that has hung over this city since a builidng taller than Billy Penn's hat was opened and the Flyers lost to the Oilers in 1987 has finally lifted. The cold, wet storm that caused the two day delay was the death rattle of Billy Penn's anger. He's at peace now, with his figurine atop the Comcast center and his view unobtructed, it might not be City Hall, but it's something, it's enough. Today it's clear, cool and sunny, a perfect day for ticker tape.

I don't know jack about baseball, whether the Phillies team this year was really good or just lucky, but I do know this city deserves a win, and deserves a fucking parade. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some celebrating to do.

I love Amanda Palmer. And I LOVE this video. (NSFW)

beauty comes from love. so does mothering.

my favorite thing about being a LLL leader (breastfeeding counselor, for those who don't know) was the phone calls. What would start out as a technical breastfeeding question would inevitably evolve into a therapy session.

A woman would call me, usually panicked, and I'd give her pointers for the problem (usually a referral) and then we'd start talking about the universally complicated transition from one's own self to one's mother.

A question about storage and pumping would become about the mother's fear and trepidation about returning to work, and about the conflict she's never thought she'd feel. a mother's doubt about her milk supply would reveal her anxiety about being an adequate guardian of her baby's unbelievable helplessness and trust.

I'd often spend an hour on the phone with a new mother, listening, reassuring, offering information without judgment along with the experiences of other mothers. I'd direct them toward books and websites*. someone would call me scared out of her mind, and by the time she hung up the phone she'd be restored and ready for the next challenge.

* (i've sent more people to ask moxie than i could possibly count and one of these days i'm going to print out her archives and hand out copies to new mothers because i think she's the best thing going as far as parenting advice goes. Yay Moxie!!)

i relished those phone calls. i miss them now. new mothers are so raw and vulnerable. i loved to watch them rebuild their personal scaffolding and find themselves, anew, as mothers.

i see haircutting the same way. someone might sit down in my chair feeling unpretty, and through listening i can find out what she needs and give it to her, and leave her feeling like a new person.

a haircut can have tremendous power, i have seen this in myself.

in early 2005 my hair reached the middle of my back, straight and limp and light brown that would go slightly golden in the summertime. it would usually be in a ponytail. sometimes i would braid it into pigtails.

i'd been resisting cutting it for years; my hair is delicate and hard to grow. i couldn't bear to part with a single hard-won inch. cutting it off represented a wasted investment.

but i got tired of the constant ponytails and the split ends that could entrance  me. it was a habit i picked up in high school which flourished into something more like an obsession after having ellie. i could become so absorbed in inspecting and picking at the ends of my very breakable hair that i'd drop out of reality entirely, missing whole conversations and sometimes even trailing off mid sentence when a strand ripe for picking would catch my attention.

so one day early in 2005 i sat in a salon at the mall and told them to cut off my hair. all of it. with nothing more to go on than my vauge ideas about what might look good, this stylist gave me one of the best haircuts i've ever had. it was short and fluffy, longer in the front, and angled parallel to my chin.

the change was so striking that people i'd known for years failed to recognize me on the street.

and also there was nothing for me to pick. the social wall i'd built around myself with my anti-social little habit began to crumble. without the opportunity to hide in my hair the persistent sense of isolation began to recede.

i felt good; i held my head up high in public, and thus engaged with people much more often (it didn't hurt that they'd usually be complimenting  my new look). i made actual eye contact. i became a part of the world again.

with hindsight i can see this as the first domino falling in the sequence that would lead to the eventual disintegration of the marriage. stepping outside our unspoken fear-based boundaries i upset the balance that maintained us through all our years together.

as it happens i never got another good haircut at that cheap salon and eventually resorted to the self-cutting i do now. it didn't matter so much; the transformation happened with the first haircut. it fundamentally changed how i interacted with the people around me, and set off a chain of events that altered my life and others. cutting it all off represented freedom.

being someone's hairdresser is to participate in an intimate dance of self-image, much like coaching a woman through her transition to motherhood with breastfeeding as a flashpoint. i look forward to showing people their beauty, just as i loved showing new mothers their capacity for  resilience.

beauty is in everyone. beauty comes from happiness and satisfaction, not from a certain set of physical characteristics. just like the good mother can be found in all of us, no matter what our socioeconomic status, our skin color, our dress size, or our mental health history happens to be.

one day i'd love to combine the two: start a business where i'd go to the homes of mothers who've been in it long enough to feel disgusting but still unable or unwilling to leave the baby in another's care: give her a haircut, a facial, a pedicure, a good talk about motherhood, breastfeeding expertise and babywearing tips and books. all in her home with her baby in arm's reach. leave her feeling beautiful and confident and strong. because every mother needs to feel that way.