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Hair, 'Hoods, and Loyalty

Today I visited my hairstylist in the epicenter of hip, also known as Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I used to live in Williamsburg, but in the last couple of years, I rarely go there except to get my hair cut. I'm on my second stylist in the hood—this one at an unlikely (for me) setting called "Hair Metal." They wear black, play Black Sabbath, and have a very messy bathroom. The first time I went in, at the suggestion of a friend, I had not thought about what the "metal" in "Hair Metal" was all about and had trouble keeping my jaw off the floor as I worried about what kind of cut and color I might walk out with. But as it turns out Christy understands my hair quite well (it's just like hers) and gave me a very good cut.

So I went back. A good haircut is totally worth sitting through two hours of my least favorite kind of music. Christy and I had warmed up to each other even more by this time and we traded stories about her dream of moving to Charleston, South Carolina and about the fact that my name is the second most popular dog name in the world.

As we reviewed the holidays, it came out that she had stayed home on New Year's Eve. "I go out EVERY other night, so I don't need to go out when the rest of the world is." I nodded in understanding and asked her where she usually goes out—is it usually in Williamsburg? "ALWAYS. ALWAYS in Williamsburg." I was impressed by her fierce loyalty to her hood, which sure is something when you're going out EVERY night. There was definitely a hint of "why would I go anywhere else?" in her voice. So perhaps that's not loyalty. Perhaps it's provincialism. In any case, the enthusiasm and commitment with which she seems to engage with her home turf was admirable. Even if some day she wants that home turf to become Charleston, South Carolina.

It made me think about LIVING where one LIVES. Really LIVING. LIVE it up. Let LIVE. About being so excited and focused on the place you're in that you ask, "why go anywhere else?" And with that, I settled into the sweet sounds of Judas Priest, letting the contentment wash over me.

A Blog Re-entry Program, aka Release the Creativity Hormone!

Twice in the last couple months, I have seen references in the news to oxytocin, the hormone of intimacy, bonding, and close relationships. First, an interview with Dr. Louann Brizendine in the NYT Mag included a discussion of her findings that when women talk to each other intimately, their brains release oxytocin, which makes us feel good. I took this to mean that gossiping is good for us women. And this affirmed the way I have long felt after I huddle closely with a good friend, sharing bits of news, feelings, things heard and seen. It gives me a little lift. I started to talk about the concept at work, where we, who are 95% women, do our share of chatting. Soon we were requesting “oxytocin sessions” with each other.

Then, in the Times last weekend, there was an op-ed about Bush’s deputy assistant secretary for population affairs at the Department of Health & Human Services. This guy, an OB-GYN doc, is part of the Abstinence Squad, it seems, and has come up with a handful of cockamamied arguments to back up his anti-choice, anti-premarital sex position. He claims that premarital sex reduces a woman’s ability to generate oxytocin. He say that like duct tape applied repeatedly to an arm full of hair, which over time loses its adhesive qualities and the ability to remove hair, a woman’s brain loses oxytocin-generating capacity with each additional sex partner. [First of all, I’m wondering what kind of complex this guy must have had as a child with overly hairy arms that led him to come up with this strange analogy. In my family, my sisters and I had what we considered to be hairy arms as kids, of which we were self-conscious. One day, my oldest sister complained to my dad about being teased by boys at school (I think they called her an ape). My dad encouraged her to fight back. “The next time they say that, just tell them: ‘If you think my arms are hairy, you should see my dad’s!’” I don’t know if she ever used this quip, but in any case, she certainly never resorted to duct tape and somehow overcame her hairy-arm complex--and I’ll bet some oxytocin was produced in the process. But, I digress...]

As I was reflecting on my recent level of stress and anxiety (induced by a good development at work, but anxiety nontheless), I thought about activities I might engage in now that would generate GOOD FEELING, ala oxytocin. I remembered my blog, abondoned months ago when my arm was in a sling and typing was saved for vital messages to friends along the lines of: “Could you please come over tonight to help me fill up my cold-therapy unit with ice, and while you’re at it, could you please do the dishes that have accumulated in my sink?” I have missed it, but have been fighting a big bowl of inertia in getting back to writing regularly. Yet here I am, stuck on a plane, conducting a metaphysical search for GOOD FEELING. And I remembered the good feeling I get after writing, or being creative in general. The creativity hormone, which I see as a first cousin to my good friend oxytocin, is stimulating and sustainable. It not only makes one feel good once, but offers the possibility of multiplying, if nurtured. So, I’d like to toast oxytocin, her unnamed cousin, and her entire extended family as I unlock the door from my prison of creative inertia, collect my plastic bag of belongings (HTML, wit, courage) and prepare to re-enter the blogosphere. Cheers.