obsessions, hair, and fall

Today I drove through winding streets lined with cloud-strewn, bare branches of turning trees, watching the world prepare for winter. Many shops in these small towns were once houses, making a search for places of business a bit of a hunt. I spent far too long pondering the qualities of Claire Fontaine notebooks in a beautifully stocked art supply store on Main Street in Camden. There was an entire rack of my new favorite line of books with blank pages, and I think I touched nearly all of the notebooks on the circular rack in two passes round, testing out how flat the pages lay down, how springy the binding is when folded in half, how thinly the lines are printed, whether there were any without any lines at all (there weren't), whether it would be better to have fewer pages (so I can fill it up quicker and feel a sense of completeness sooner), or more (so that I feel quite substantial when I'm only half-way through), how large the pages should be, what color the cover is.

You can see that unless you have a fond obsession with notebooks (and pens, for that matter), as I do, this would be horrifying tedium. But this is my idea of fun. One of 'em, anyway.

I figured giving myself some leisure time browsing notebooks and pens (I did end up buying one horizontally lined, left-hand spiral-bound, green covered, 6x9 inch notebook at last) was a good way to take care of myself after having, only a few minutes beforehand, gotten a lot of hair tenacious ripped out of my skin. Not only that, the esthetician had a surprisingly difficult time getting the edges of the hard wax (a new kind for me) up so she could pull the whole strip off. Translation: prolonged pain where there is usually one quick rip and then a few seconds to recover for the next one. She was very cheery and apologized for whatever it was she was doing differently that created this rather awkward scenario. I usually give a tip, but decided it was perfectly fine not to.

I have perpetually mixed feelings about body hair. On the one hand, I'm theoretically pro-naturale. On the other, I prefer bare armpits to go with sleeveless dresses and most tank tops, and bare legs with skirts and most shorts. And I don't appreciate how socks feel on hairy ankles. On the other hand, sometimes I feel silly with bare armpits. It's like there's something missing. Especially if I have on an ass-kicking tank top and am doing something like, say, lifting weights, or standing with my hands on my hips, supervising meat-grilling. I like to feel burly. And as those of who who know me know, I have the biceps to back it up.

After at first joining the adolescent ranks of shaving legs and underarms, I swore off for years. It was a high school pact I made with three of my cohorts in Track and Cross Country. I hated shaving anyway, particularly under my arms. When one of those 3, still a dear friend, whom I consider to be more au naturale than I, told me she had her legs waxed recently, I was taken aback...and encouraged to try it out myself. It was sort of a wake-up call that I didn't have to stick with this hippie hair thing just because I had committed to it so long ago, or because it was part of my identity. I realized I was a little afraid to change in front of people who know me well. And I was afraid I would automatically be making some sort of blanket statement agreeing with mainstream TV-culture that it's gross to have hair and be a girl. I think the first time I had my legs waxed was just before our wedding 2 years ago. While the experience is rather unpleasant, at times more painful than I bargained for, the result of weeks with soft skin and no to very little sparse and soft hair is quite wonderful.

So now, I either grow it all out, or I have it waxed. No in between.

I think an Ani lyric is appropriate at this point (thanks danah!):

their eyes are all asking
are you in, or are you out
and i think, oh man,
what is this about?
tonight you can't put me
up on any shelf
'cause i came here alone
i'm gonna leave by myself

Well, this is interesting. I intended to tell you about the trees reaching toward the sky, the brilliant yellow maple next to stands of barren wooden arms, brown and papery leaves clinging tenaciously in the winds that sweep the world endlessly, moving the clouds about the blue, making a new glorious picture of the world every moment. I notice these things more when I'm moving through the land on wheels. When the scenery rushes toward me, over my head, into my eyes and heart, like dogs drink in scents with their plush, wet noses out the car window. Looking out the glass door at the lake and the changing face of the hill beyond (it's name is Dodge Mountain, but it looks like a hill to me), I get a just glimpse of that glee that surrounds me when I'm out in it, breathing the sharp, cold air, gazing at the brilliant stars, whose brightness tells me how cold it will be each night. These are some the things that will stay with me, in my bones, when we leave this beautiful place our dear friends call home.