25 November 2019
This morning I decided to search online for instructions on creating a French twist. Yikes!
There are portions of entire Lifestyle websites devoted to the art of hair-dressing, now that real hairdressers are a quaint memory of the pre-government-regulated hair-salon past. And the instructions are weird. I mean, how does a gal know, looking in the mirror in front of her, what is going on correctly, behind her, at the back of her head?
A 360-degree mirror would only complicate the matter for me; everything is reversed, and I already have a hard enough time telling my left from my right hand. Even if I use my “non-dominant hand” (my left hand!), I cannot capably and neatly line up and insert all of those bobby pins. Ergo the plethora of directions for the Sloppy French Twist, as well as for the Messy Chignon. Which kinda defeats the entire idea of neat-as-a-pin!
Creating the French twist is, I quickly realized, a fine art best performed on the head-of-hair by someone else. (The French braid might, however, be mastered on one’s own.)
A current crop of girls trying to instantly be women has nonetheless nose-dived into the concept that Any-Hair-How can be shown online, in pix, with videos, slide-shows and, while you are being bombarded by requests to Join the Club (it’s so simple and easy), through step-by-step steps that really do not add up to the Pulled-Together-Look of a French twist or a “chignon” — the good old bun of the Old Maid of olden times.
It’s hairy-scary to me.
These new Old Maids do not realize they are woe-begone girls, imitating women inhabiting a world that those girls not-too-secretly and savagely despise. Replete with garish makeup that overflows their hardened young faces, they believe that a twist of the hair at the back of the head, with enough bobby pins and hair spray, will transform them into Chic-Woman. And then they are good to go!
How very sad.
The cherished but requisite accretion of countless years of living life that go into the making of a Woman becomes instantaneous in their world of Instagram. Such crass marketing is, for me, a solemn statement about how wretchedly neglected these girls have been, and will continue to be, while they crave attention as if that vapid sensation equates to love. We now have the Zoomers, the split-second-adults who feel they must pell-mell make up for the lost time and money of the recession that seemed to never end. Most symbolic among that group is The Congress-girl, Class of 2018, nasally pontificating to anyone the deluded dogma from the Marxist Classbook of 1918. She commie-cons no one but herself.
Where is the softer sensibility of the female warren, that exclusive secret place where only a mother could teach her daughter how to create a hairstyle that belongs to her? Where is the child who learns from Adults, instead of bossing them around? Where is the sensuality of feeling life, instead of forcing existence into a boring brouhaha of harangues and screeching screeds and obstreperous ultimatums?
When did mimicking a treasured reality become preferable to striving to attain that reality? When did the charade of a person supplant the real person? How did counterfeit vigor displace the élan of real life? When did faking it = making it?
Don’t blame the Internet or Soche Media. Phonies have been with us since the dawn of time. It’s the omni-present peddling of these putrid imposters that appalls me.
The other day I was treated to an email survey sent by a university that is alarmed at the rising tide of socialists among the younger generation. Just when did the alarm bell ring at that Institute of Higher Learning? When its cash flow got low?
Another email got plunked into junk.
Is there any mystery as to why a child, warehoused in Daycare from cradle-days until kindergarten, and then shuttled off to Institutionalized Schools, where the inmates were running the asylums, from K-12 all the way up to the Master’s Degree, would, now, as a chronological adult, demand Socialism as the answer to all of the problems and wants and needs of humanity?
This group of juveniles has been a cash cow for any and every cash register for the past thirty years — beginning with Merryhill Pre-School, right up to #MerryMarxistsUnite! These children learned not the womanly art of the loving touch but the con-artist game of crowd-funding. They quickly lost any innocence that they’d brought with them into the world once they entered the clinical setting of Nanny-World.
Twenty years later, too many of the girls among this day-care supply of the Future Generation would cash in, online, with their Save-the-Date (note the piggy-bank terminology), go-fund-me shakedown to amass an on-the-spot dowry. Having become commodities themselves, these girls skillfully mastered the ruse of treating other people like commodities. The crude merchandising of a self began young with these jaded socialists. The experience of witnessing the dissipated cynicism of a matron of 40, as voiced by a girl of 20, has a nightmarish quality to it, a hairy-scary feeling.
Innocence was once a precious endowment for both girl and boy in an America that believed in the unlimited potential of its own freedom. With cruel irony, too much of the magical wonderment of being a child has been replaced by the exploitation of children by amoral adults, and by the inability of too many amoral children to mature into anything beyond enfants terribles.
There are no websites to fix that tangled mess of hairy scary. There can only exist the refusal of more and more people to engage in the false face that purports to be real while, in actuality, that image is eons away from the truth. Time and distance help correct that distorted vision.
The truth, in this instance, is that you can’t create a French Twist by yourself. That nirvana requires the help of loving hands. Loving hands are not downloadable or for sale.