Friday, June 18, 2004
What is it with Holmes Bangs?
I went to an art opening with A this evening. I was nervous about spending so much time one-on-one with her, given our history of strained and not so restrained debates on the subjects of facial piercings, punky colored hair and bisexuality. An art exhibit is not like a movie, where we could sit together for two hours without exchanging one word. Art is very interactive, no matter what the setting. I feared the magnetic lure of bringing up the controversial subjects that we both irresistibly become ensnared in when in the presence of one another.
A's friend Mari had artwork that was being shown in tonight’s exhibit. I’d met Mari a few times before – always when with A - and I have been curious about her. Every time I’ve met her, we have been amongst a crowd of lesbians. Though Mari’s live-in boyfriend Rick is always with her whenever I’ve seen her, she always works a reference to her lesbian past into the conversation. Her desire to fit in and find connection is apparent and I sympathize. Though each time this reference to her woman-loving herstory is made, a certain sadness and pitifulness rings in my heart. No doubt; the lesbian community can be elitist.
The desire to find commonality with others can be astoundingly strong. I struggle with this with Mari, wanting to somehow work into the conversation that despite having been married to a woman for the last seven years, I am actually bisexual. I want to reassure her that her heterosexual relationship is no more an offense to me than my lesbian relationship is to her. Unlike her resourceful and creative mind, I have yet to be able to find a relevant point in conversation in which to bring this detail up.
On an aside: In writing about friends publicly (like in chapbooks or in this blog page forum), I struggle with not wanting to offend people by what I write about them. So I leave little details out here and there and wonder why my writing isn’t as good as my favorite authors. But if I paint a more realistic picture of my friends, I find that there is a loving in the honest descriptions – a love for humanity in its complexity and its weaknesses. An admission of my own imperfections. But how many people can handle such a candid reflection of an image of themselves?
Suddenly, I am recalling an evening at a coffee shop back when I was in college. Ed Trippel (I will never forget him for this) sat down next to me and out of the blue said, “You really need to stop hiding your forehead. So you have a high forehead; that is nothing to be ashamed of. But your hiding this detail of your face is unattractive. The high forehead itself is beautiful and you should be proud, but the hiding of it is weak.” I was so pissed off at him for tearing away my cloak. I was shocked to realize that anyone would notice this Achilles’ heel of mine.
My entire life my mother had encouraged bangs and had discouraged any hairstyle that might reveal my hideous hairline. Even when bangs were out of vogue, I had a thick layer of hair trimmed across the top of my face. Lovers would gently raise a hand to affectionately brush the hair from my eyes and like a mountain lion, my hand would leap out from behind blankets or other cover to tackle the offending lover’s limb. Out of paranoia, this fear of being revealed grew to the point no lover was allowed to touch me anywhere on my face. Even my chin, as far as it was from my forehead, became off limits. Having my ears touched would put my shoulder muscles into a hyperalert rigidity, preparing to send my hands out for the strike should my lover's phalanges advance their attack.
Despite spending the next several days pissed off at dear Ed, I got over it. And by over “it,” I mean both the anger towards my friend as well as my phobia of my forehead. I immediately began growing my bangs out. They grew and grew until they were long enough that I could wear the hair, not only out of my face, but severely slicked back. This will show him - meaning Ed - or was I really wanting to prove something to my mother? In either case, I have never been good at half-assed rebellions.
So I guess I could handle this level of frankness in the end. Bangs or no bangs is finally up to me. My forehead no longer controls my fashion.
Now I want to try to create more sincere and loving descriptions of friends and family. That’s going to be my new goal with my writing. Not that I want to change any of my friends or force them to face their weaknesses, but I want to portray a more realistic and deeper reflection of life. So, watch out. I hope y’all can handle it.
Did I mention they served damn good martinis at this art opening?
A's friend Mari had artwork that was being shown in tonight’s exhibit. I’d met Mari a few times before – always when with A - and I have been curious about her. Every time I’ve met her, we have been amongst a crowd of lesbians. Though Mari’s live-in boyfriend Rick is always with her whenever I’ve seen her, she always works a reference to her lesbian past into the conversation. Her desire to fit in and find connection is apparent and I sympathize. Though each time this reference to her woman-loving herstory is made, a certain sadness and pitifulness rings in my heart. No doubt; the lesbian community can be elitist.
The desire to find commonality with others can be astoundingly strong. I struggle with this with Mari, wanting to somehow work into the conversation that despite having been married to a woman for the last seven years, I am actually bisexual. I want to reassure her that her heterosexual relationship is no more an offense to me than my lesbian relationship is to her. Unlike her resourceful and creative mind, I have yet to be able to find a relevant point in conversation in which to bring this detail up.
On an aside: In writing about friends publicly (like in chapbooks or in this blog page forum), I struggle with not wanting to offend people by what I write about them. So I leave little details out here and there and wonder why my writing isn’t as good as my favorite authors. But if I paint a more realistic picture of my friends, I find that there is a loving in the honest descriptions – a love for humanity in its complexity and its weaknesses. An admission of my own imperfections. But how many people can handle such a candid reflection of an image of themselves?
Suddenly, I am recalling an evening at a coffee shop back when I was in college. Ed Trippel (I will never forget him for this) sat down next to me and out of the blue said, “You really need to stop hiding your forehead. So you have a high forehead; that is nothing to be ashamed of. But your hiding this detail of your face is unattractive. The high forehead itself is beautiful and you should be proud, but the hiding of it is weak.” I was so pissed off at him for tearing away my cloak. I was shocked to realize that anyone would notice this Achilles’ heel of mine.
My entire life my mother had encouraged bangs and had discouraged any hairstyle that might reveal my hideous hairline. Even when bangs were out of vogue, I had a thick layer of hair trimmed across the top of my face. Lovers would gently raise a hand to affectionately brush the hair from my eyes and like a mountain lion, my hand would leap out from behind blankets or other cover to tackle the offending lover’s limb. Out of paranoia, this fear of being revealed grew to the point no lover was allowed to touch me anywhere on my face. Even my chin, as far as it was from my forehead, became off limits. Having my ears touched would put my shoulder muscles into a hyperalert rigidity, preparing to send my hands out for the strike should my lover's phalanges advance their attack.
Despite spending the next several days pissed off at dear Ed, I got over it. And by over “it,” I mean both the anger towards my friend as well as my phobia of my forehead. I immediately began growing my bangs out. They grew and grew until they were long enough that I could wear the hair, not only out of my face, but severely slicked back. This will show him - meaning Ed - or was I really wanting to prove something to my mother? In either case, I have never been good at half-assed rebellions.
So I guess I could handle this level of frankness in the end. Bangs or no bangs is finally up to me. My forehead no longer controls my fashion.
Now I want to try to create more sincere and loving descriptions of friends and family. That’s going to be my new goal with my writing. Not that I want to change any of my friends or force them to face their weaknesses, but I want to portray a more realistic and deeper reflection of life. So, watch out. I hope y’all can handle it.
Did I mention they served damn good martinis at this art opening?
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