I turned a corner...

Guys, I'm just coming out of an infatuation recovery phase, and it's not cool...

Let me explain.

For this to make sense, you have to understand that I generally have the emotional range of a pineapple. A coworker once called me "Queen Stoic," which is a scarily accurate description. It takes a lot to get me excited (although generally anything Disney will do it) and it takes even more to make me angry. (Although once I'm angry I'll remember it forever and get angry all over again when I think about it — stupid girl who made the disgusting claims about American soldiers in Iraq or nutty BYU professor who wouldn't stop emailing me...)

So basically, my emotions are flatlined most of the time, like this:

(Unless I'm driving, in which case I generally look like this:)

Of course, my road rage is an entirely different story...

But then sometimes, unexpectedly and unavoidably, I get infatuated. When that happens, my emotions start going like this:

Those, folks, are a whole lot of emotions for someone who was quite possibly born without them.

Like I've mentioned before (here) I tend to get obsessed with things. Over the past couple of months I've been obsessed with the TV shows "Top Gear" and "Primeval," along with a movie too embarrassing to name. I also went through a brief bracelet phase for some reason, and I'm on the verge of falling into a steampunk/industrial chic phase. (Although "The Guild" is helping me stay on the straight and narrow... must... avoid... the Eurotrash of nerdom...)

Anyway, you'd think with my habit of obsessing, infatuations would be par for the course. Unfortunately, that's not true. I can count maybe five times I've been infatuated over the last five years, and most of those lasted about a week. This infatuation lasted almost an entire month, which is a big deal. When it comes to relationships, it turns out I have the attention span of

 SQUIRREL!

Ahem.

Like I was saying, I spent the better part of September being infatuated. It doesn't matter with whom (although a couple of you will know) it just matters that I was. That happened. And it was glorious while it lasted. You see, I embrace being infatuated because there's a huge gap between the imaginary relationship and the factual reality. From a safe distance, I could imagine the guy was perfect. In my mind, the object of my infatuation wasn't creepily obsessed (P), wasn't controlling (H), didn't insist on touching me all. of. the. time. (CC) and didn't think that my life's ambition was to cook him dinner and wash his socks (J).

(Gee. When I look at the boys I've dated in such black-and-white terms... well, no wonder I prefer to be infatuated from afar... Bunch of winners, there...)

After all, like Marguerite says in "The Scarlet Pimpernel,"

"Ah, but my prince, if you can't be as sweet as you seem
I'd rather dream." 

After the infatuation ended (out of necessity, not because I was ready for it to happen, I assure you) I decided that — as depressing as the post-infatuation period is — the weird emotional swings associated with my silly infatuations are worth it. Why? Because infatuations are fun! Like one of my friends said, my infatuations (as odd as they tend to be) are good because they allow me to feel real, human emotions once in a while.

When you're infatuated with somebody, suddenly life becomes more exciting. In my case, it gave me excuses to dress up, to curl my hair, and to feel my heart give that “thump-thump” people write about in cheesy romance novels. I spent more time downtown in the vague hope that there would be a chance meeting. There was always that sense of anticipation — of hope, of wondering — if the next corner I turned could lead me straight into his arms. It was an eternal quest for an orchestrated “meet-cute,” and it was a blast.

I’ll admit, there’s a reason my favorite Beatles song begins like this… 

I’ve just seen a face, 

I can’t forget the time or place

Where we just met, she’s just the girl for me

And I want all the world to see we’ve met 

Na na na na na na 

And there’s a reason my favorite song from “Thoroughly Modern Millie” happens to include… 

Thousands of people

Way down below

Wandering to and fro 

Tireless people

No time to lose

Crowding the avenues and parks 

On their marks

Racing fast; quite a cast

Millions of people, pick any two 

They could be just like 

You and me used to be

Way back when, strangers, then – 

I turned the corner

And there you stood

Your smile like home to me 

Your heart familiar

No use pretending, not that I could

I turned the corner when I met you 

You see, somewhere deep down in this cold, hard heart of mine, I’m 100% a romantic. (Albeit a cynical and therefore confused one, of course.) I find the whole concept of love fascinating — possibly because I’ve seen so many of my friends get married off. (Dang friends.) Think about it — we spend our whole lives waiting to fall in love. And then, unexpectedly, with one chance meeting, one cheerful conversation, or one enjoyable date, your life can be turned upside down. Now that's power.

Infatuation's not quite that powerful, but I suppose it could be considered a warm-up. Although...

It would probably be more powerful if I were actually brave enough to say hello to the target. Hmmm.

A political problem

I've been interested in politics for a long time, most likely because I was raised on a steady diet of talk radio. Yes, this means Rush Limbaugh. I know, the very name is enough to make some people recoil in horror. If it offends you... I've got more...

Michael Medved!

Sean Hannity!

Ann Coulter!

(Who, incidentally, is one of the funniest people I've ever met. People need to stop taking her and other talk radio personalities so seriously and — as Herman Cain says — get a sense of humor.)

I thought I was pretty politically aware in high school, but working in Washington taught me more than I could have imagined. That's where I gained my real political knowledge. In the process of learning about hearings, bill markup sessions, and legislation, I became a political wonk.

This is a problem.

Why is it a problem, you might ask?

Because once you become politically aware, suddenly everything becomes political.

AAARGH.

For instance, I recently went to the touring Broadway production of "Mary Poppins." (Which I highly recommend, by the way. If you go, watch Bert, because Nicolas Dromard seriously steals the show.)

Witnessing a crime in action: Shameless scene stealing!

The first time I saw it (yes, I went back more than once...oops...) I was unexpectedly hit with politics during the first act, which jerked me straight out of the feel-good Disney-ish experience. It wasn't the musical's fault — or intention — it was mine. The culprit was a song called, "Precision and Order."

To most people, it's probably just a song about the stodgy Mr. Banks and his job at the... well, bank. But I heard so much more! If my "Mary Poppins" visit hadn't been on the same day as President Obama's "Pass this bill" jobs speech, I probably wouldn't have thought much of it, but the unfortunate circumstances made the political comparison hard to ignore.

During the song, Mr. Banks has a conversation with Mr. Von Hossler, who wants a loan:

VH: "Eh, Banks, what objections can you have? My securities are more than adequate and Latin America is an expanding market. What's the matter? Have you no courage?!"

B: "But Mr. Von Hossler, what I haven't been able to grasp is, what exactly is your final product?"

VH: "What do you think?! Money, of course!"

B: "But making money out of money? Is it enough?"

POLITICS! BAM!

During Obama's speech, he called for more government spending as a way to increase jobs. Never mind that the first stimulus was a bust — he wants a second one, and he wants it NOW! The president seems convinced that he can create jobs (and money) out of money.

It's a little South Park Underpants Gnomes, if you know what I mean.

Phase 1: Collect underpants.

Phase 2: ?

Phase 3: Profit

The musical continued with a visit from a man named Northbrook, who was also seeking a loan:

N: "Have you come to your decision, Mr. Banks? There's a town and good people whose future depends on you."

B: "I know that."

N: "Give us a chance. You won't regret it. The factory could be running in weeks. (Singing) My men have dreams to earn an honest living; a wife and kids, a home to call their own."

In the end, Mr. Banks chose to give the loan to a "good man" rather than what seemed like a good idea 

A man with dreams that life hasn't broken

A man with hopes, ambitions to fulfill

A man you're certain at first glance deserves a chance

Of course, the first plan — making money out of money — failed spectacularly, while the second plan — betting on individual ingenuity, willingness to work, and a real business plan — succeeded.

Who could've seen that coming? (Oh wait — I could have. And so could anybody with an appreciation for the innate human desire for self-sufficiency and honest labor.)

Politics tend to ruin my movie experiences too. For instance, I will never see the movie "Avatar" because you're supposed to cheer when U.S. Marines die. Don't believe me? Ask James Cameron. Maybe I'm being too sensitive (although Nile Gardiner and the Marines don't think so) but I've already seen "Fern Gully," "Pocahontas," and "Dances with Wolves" anyway.

I haven't seen "G.I. Joe" for political reasons either — the filmmakers pandered to a global audience by removing the American aspect of the G.I. Joe franchise. It reportedly only made $100 million overseas. "Captain America," on the other hand, has made $178 million overseas so far. Go figure.

Aside from seeing politics in Hollywood (ugh), there are additional problems as well. There are loads of political jokes that are absolutely hilarious, but you have to be a "special" sort of wonk to understand them. For instance, I once stumbled across this comment string on a political website:

"Sheila must have forgotten her meds this AM."

"Rumor has it that Sheila Jackson Lee is actually Cynthia McKinney on meds. This is as well as she gets."

"You should have seen her when she was Maxine Waters."

Hilarious. But you know those jokes that become un-funny when you have to explain them? Yeah...

In other cases, people see a car commercial:

I see political commentary: "You drivers are idiots! Your highways are underfunded, so pay more taxes! Check your tires, moron! You're too stupid to drive! Let us take care of you, simpletons!"

It seems odd that Audi is trying to sell cars by insulting buyers, but maybe I'm just imagining things.

If Audi REALLY wants to insert politics into ads, they might want to take a cue from Ford.

Better.

Sometimes, the curse of seeing politics in everything — music, TV, Tweets, video games, movies, interviews with celebrities, advertising campaigns, etc. — is enough to make me long for the good ol' days when I didn't know anything. Sometimes it makes me envious of friends and family members who blithely ignore everything political. One of my younger brothers is so averse to politics that he'll change the subject, leave the room, or shut out the discussions when political topics come up. 

Sometimes I wonder which one of us is happier — although I never wonder which of us is better off.

ADDENDUM: Get this - Ford pulled the ad. There are all kinds of rumors out today that the White House pressured them to do it. But this is the modern age - once it's out there, it's not going anywhere. Haha! Particularly not if the actual guy in the commercial has anything to say about it...

An additional and unrelated note on kitsch

I've been reading a lot of rubbish, kitschy period romance novels recently. Why? Because I got them for free and I feel like I should read them before I throw them in the trash.

(Well, technically the recycling bin...)

Anyhow.

I've come up with three pieces of advice, should you ever feel like becoming an author and delving into the ridiculously stupid and absurd world of heaving bosoms and ripped bodices:

1. Always send your characters to the ton.  

Despite being an Austen/Gaskell/Bronte fan and having seen almost every period piece film ever made, I had never heard this term before. Apparently it's pronounced "tone" and is used to refer to Britain's upper class during the Regency/Georgian era. At least, that's what Wikipedia says...

Either way, your characters must spend time talking about the ton and attending parties with the ton — and you'd better always italicize it, like a good little Chicago Manual of Style user.

2. Always, always, always make your characters idiotic. 

They should never behave like people at the time really did. (Although, let's face it, books where the characters are true to the time period can be MAJORLY boring... a la Fanny of "Mansfield Park"... Poor Fanny was the most dreary character ever written until Bella Swan came around...)

They should always be beautiful and exotic looking. (How can a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes look exotic? A real romance author can make it happen!) The main male character should act like a fop and be a complete skeeze while the woman is always innocent and pure. ALWAYS. And they should never have a conversation before falling in love. Instead, they should proclaim their love and pine away before finding out anything — anything — about the other person.

And finally... (This is my favorite, by far.)

3. Make sure your impossibly perfect main character has a loyal older servant with a 100% improbable name. 

I'm not making this up — the last two books I read had loyal older servants with the names "Crookshank" and "Wigglesworth." Because those are the sort of last names you encounter on a daily basis, right? Britain is just chock-full of Crookshanks and Wigglesworths.

There you go: three easy steps to getting a vulgar period piece romance novel published.

Or you could just write any old book and make your characters vampires. That also seems to work...

In which I slept through a big palaver

Disclaimer: I've been watching too much "Top Gear," so beware of random British slang...

Either there is something magical and amazing about the locks on my house, or those of us who live/visit the house are total idiots. I've locked myself out before (as noted in an earlier entry), which was embarrassing enough. However, I also managed to break in, which means I'm not a complete loss. Various other roommates haven't been so crafty and therefore resorted to calling for help, etc.

When it comes to getting locked out in style, though, my roommate's unnamed boyfriend, however, takes the cake.

(He's not unnamed because this is the Internet and I don't want to make fun of him — he's unnamed because I really don't know his name. Heck, I don't even know what he looks like. I just know that he stands on my porch and blows his cigarette smoke into my room, that he smokes weed in my roommate's room, and that he and my roommates often do things which I — a little Mormon innocent — don't want to know about. But I digress...)

(Here's another disclaimer: Although the house IS supposed to be LDS standards — no smoking, no boys, no alcohol, etc. — this roommate hasn't quite grasped the concept.)

So occasionally I work night shifts. They're not real night shifts where I get home at dawn, though — they're more like semi-night shifts. However, if I work more than two in a row, my bedtime gradually gets later... and later... and later... By the end of a long stretch of night shifts my internal clock is so screwed up that I'm convinced day is night and night is day.

So, as this story begins, early one Saturday morning I found myself coming home from a night shift feeling completely, totally awake. As I am wont to do, I therefore began wasting time.

2:00 a.m. - Ah-hah! Time for dinner!

2:30 a.m. - I'll just finish this episode of "Top Gear."

3:00 a.m. - Ice cream sounds super good right now...

3:30 a.m. - I should brush my teeth

4:00 a.m. - But I've only got two chapters left in this book...

You get the picture.

As I was brushing my teeth — around 4 a.m. — I heard someone come out of my roommate's room, walk out the front door, get into her car, and drive away. I found the early-morning drive a little odd, but I didn't dwell on it. Going to bed was more important, so that's what I did.

BUT

At 7 a.m. I was awakened by furious pounding on my front door.

"Girls! Wake up! Wake up right now!" someone shouted.

You know that moment of confusion where you can literally feel the individual brain cells firing up one by one? That's what I began to experience. I cracked opened my eyes and tried to orient myself as the room came into focus.

The pounding and shouting continued.

"We know you're home! Open the door! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

My poor, overtired brain began to function a little further, and I suddenly started to panic about my car. I had parked it in front of the neighbor's house (since boyfriend was in my normal spot, dang him) and I was suddenly hit with a wave of panic. What if they were towing my car!? Oh no!!!

But then — through my open window — I heard the pounding stop and a conversation begin.

"I know she's in there," someone said. "Her window is open."

 "Where is she?" a girl asked.

"In this front room. I know she's home." the first voice answered.

With those sentences, my concern about my car disintegrated and I began to feel far, far more concerned about my safety. Who were these yelling, pounding strangers standing on my front porch and talking about me?! AHHHHHH!!!

Even though I still didn't know what was going on, I climbed out of bed and peeked out the window to see police cars parked in front of my house. My brain did this: 

WHAT THE HECK!!?!!?!!! 

In reality, there were only three (THREE?!) squad cars, but to me, it looked like this:

And yes, in case you're curious, police cars really do park at odd angles. The movies are right.

Now feeling completely freaked out, I threw on some clothes and ran out the front door. Three cops were standing at the end of the driveway and chatting. They turned when I came outside.

"Are you (roommate's name)?" one of them asked.

 "No," I said. "Uh...what's going on?"

According to the police, my roommate's boyfriend had locked himself outside, and one of our neighbors had gotten suspicious and called the cops.

"Oh," I said.

"You are a REALLY sound sleeper," an officer said.

"Er, yeah," I said. "I got off of work late..."

Technically that wasn't true — I had gotten off late, but I had also wasted eons of time faffing around. However, the police didn't need to know that.

Then I went back inside and — naturally — updated my Facebook status before going back to sleep. It's the 21st century — that's what we do. I should've tweeted about it too, but that was too much of a leap for my overwrought mind.

(I also didn't take a picture of my house surrounded by cops, and I've been berated for that by a number of people. Next time YOUR morning is interrupted by three (THREE?!) squad cars and a lot of door-pounding, see how YOU react! Ha!)

In the wake of the whole adventure, I subsequently got to hear different versions of the story from a bunch of different roommates. None of them match up. Funny how that works. 

My version: Boyfriend left the house at 4 a.m., got in my roommate's car, and drove off. Later returned to the house, greeted the cops, pounded on the door, and eventually was allowed into the house, where he ran to his girlfriend's room with an incredibly frustrated, "Babe!"

My version is clearly the most boring, seeing as how I slept through the majority of the fun.

Roommate/Boyfriend's version: Boyfriend left the house to have a cigarette on the porch. He smoked his cigarette and then went to come back inside, but I had locked him out. (EH?! ME?! Uh, no. Our door locks automatically when you close it, thanks very much.) Boyfriend therefore decided he'd be stuck outside of a while, so he climbed into girlfriend's car to spend the rest of the night there. But then nosy neighbor called the police, who swooped down on him. Boyfriend tried to explain that he had locked himself out by using his bare feet and lighter as evidence, but the mean cops still searched and interrogated him. Finally they pounded on the door to try to get someone to come and identify him.

(I guess it's a good thing I didn't open the door first, since I don't know what he looks like.) 

Downstairs roommmate's version as related by other roommate: Boyfriend blew lots of smoke into downstair's roommate's room before discovering he had locked himself out. Then cops came and pounded on the door and shouted. Then downstairs roommate and visiting boyfriend went upstairs to see what they wanted. Cops asked them to identify boyfriend, which they did. Then they allowed boyfriend to go into the house. Cops said neighbors in the area had reported a theft, and boyfriend fit the profile of the criminal, which is why three (THREE?!) officers came to the scene.

All in all, it was a giant mess that could've been avoided had boyfriend not been struck by a sudden urge to smoke (or drive the car) at 4 a.m. Of course, it could've also been avoided had boyfriend not stayed the night at our house in the first place, but that's an outrageous suggestion, I'm sure.

On the upside, it did make for a fantastic Facebook status and it did make downstairs roommate angry enough to lay down the law with roommate and boyfriend. No more stinking up my room with his cigarette smoke, no more marijuana, no more sleepovers...

Yes, the whole mess was a good thing. You know what would've made it even better, though?

Not sleeping through most of it. Daggnabit.

The secret life of an American Jackie

I don't get embarrassed easily. In my four years of pageanting, judges would often ask, "What's your most embarrassing moment?" and I'd have to really struggle to come up with something.

There was that one time the clown at Lagoon proposed to me, and then clung to my leg and howled when I told him I was too young to get married.

"NOOOOOOOO! JACKIE, DON'T LEAVE ME!!!"

But that was more flattering than embarrassing, really.

Or there was that time when I somehow got a plastic bag stuck to my ballet slipper right before going onstage in "The Nutcracker." Having the bag stuck to my foot wasn't as embarrassing as having my ballet teacher ask me afterward if it was toilet paper, though, if I'm honest.

See, my philosophy is this: Embarrassing things happen, and then you move on.

But, in case you were wondering, there is one thing that can make me blush and — to use a young adult fiction phrase — writhe in embarrassment.

(Well, as two boys from high school may recall, if you grab me in a giant bear hug and then and jump up and down while singing happy birthday, I will also blush, but that's a bit of a tangent...)

No, the one way to actually embarrass me is to talk about my writing.

As you may be able to guess (from the size of these posts, for example) I like writing. I like it a lot. My mom once told me that I started out life writing. If my parents made me angry, I wrote them a note. If my brothers ticked me off, I wrote them a note. If I then felt guilty about being ticked off, I wrote yet another note. The written word has always been my friend; during my last finals week in college I wrote 26 essay pages in two class periods...and it was fantastic.

The thing is — my coworker and I were talking about this the other day (he gets his kicks out of analyzing my twisted mind) — I don't mind letting people read what I write EXCEPT when it comes to creative fiction.

To be honest, it doesn't make any sense. I always wanted to be an author. The highlight of fourth grade was when my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Drake, told me she thought I had the talent to get published. One summer I wrote a piece about my hometown for the local newspaper and won tickets to Lagoon. I vaguely remember winning a short story contest in my town's summer festival, too. (Of course, that's something of a miracle, considering I can't write ANYTHING short nowadays. You should see me try to text...or use Twitter...ugh.)

Along that line, the best memory of my seventh grade year was winning the "On-Site Writing Competition" that was part of a region-wide arts competition between schools. They ushered us into a room, gave us three pictures to look at (a blackboard with writing on it, a covered bridge, and I think a spider) and told us to write a story. I remember being intimidated by the whole process. I was surrounded by eighth graders who were constantly praised for their writing, I was going through my awkward "gee, I don't think I'm pretty so I'll dress like a boy" phase, and my best friend (who I always competed with, especially in terms of writing) was sitting right next to me.

During the awards ceremony for the arts competition, to my utter, total, and complete surprise, my name was called as the 1st place winner and I got to stand up in front of the entire school to claim my prize. That was brilliant. I'm still proud of that, ten-odd years later.

Writing-wise, everything changed during my sophomore year of high school. After registering, I soon discovered that my "creative writing class" was actually a newspaper writing class. Even though I didn't want to take a newspaper class — at the time I was still too shy to talk, make phone calls, or converse with adults — I've never been the type of person to give up. My teacher probably made some comment about how hard the class would be, and all I need to get fired up and angry is that exact sort of a challenge. Before long I learned how to be a newspaper reporter. After two years as editor-in-chief, I decided to pursue journalism in college as well.

So what does this all have to do with embarrassment? Well, I'll tell you: I've written a book. Wait, scratch that. I've written three. Er, scratch that, too. I've finished three and I've got three more in the working stages... The problem is, only a few people have seen them, and unless I suddenly become significantly less embarrassed, it may stay that way forever.

See, when it comes to journalism, I don't mind if people read what I write. Here are some examples: here, here, here, here, here, or here. (That last one was particularly brilliant, because KSL stole my information and did a broadcast news segment on it the next day, leave me torn between annoyance and pure pride.) And obviously I don't care if people read what I blog. (But since nobody reads this anyway, I'm safe there. Whew.)

BUT when it comes to my creative writing...the thought of people reading that is embarrassing with a capital E. Of course, I've let a few people read my books, but each time I include a list of apologies. This is part of the actual email I sent my best friends along with a copy of my first book:

"Basically, the story is a retelling of the Cinderella story (as if there aren't enough of those in the world). It's mushy, and predictable, and kitschy (which means "content created to appeal to popular or undiscriminating taste." Poetic.) In other words, the "real authors" in my BYU creative writing class would hate it. I thought it was charming when I was writing it, but reading over it so many times has convinced me that it's mainstream mediocre fiction. But don't let that cloud your judgment...bwa-ha-ha-ha...

If you have time to read it someday, I would be really happy, even though I'm going against my better judgment by sending it to you in the first place. (Nobody reads my work - I like it better that way.) Let me know how you feel about it, and what I could maybe do to fix it...and all that..."

That's not even false modesty. That's really how I feel. After many days of soul-searching I've decided that I don't particularly like to talk about my writing mainly because EVERYONE thinks they're a writer, and I fear (deep down) that I'm just another face in the crowd. (Or would it be "pen on the page"? "Manuscript in the mail"? "Author in the bread line"? Hmm.)

Someday, though, I'll get over it. At least, I intend to get over it. Really. I'm serious...Yeah. 

I have to get over it for three main reasons.

One: I crave praise. Who doesn't? It's a human characteristic, and I'll admit that I'm infected. If Stephanie Meyer can get published (c'mon, folks..."Twilight"? Really?!) surely I can as well.

Two: Shan, I turn green when I remember that you're going to be a published author, and although green is one of my better colors (heh) it's not a color I enjoy being on a regular basis.

And three: My poor characters are rotting away with no one to appreciate them. I've got enough material in my head to write...how many books? Quick count...

1. Brianda. Royal. Jeremy.

2. Richard Jones and Cassie. Oh, and Owen!

3. Channer, Brian, Richens, and about 20 students who need renamed...what a chore.

4. Triad!

5. And the sequel to that...

6. London. David. C & S. Bugs!

7. Taylor and Jace. And Dutch, the coolest character ever.

8. Wait, going back with Kiff and company, too.

9. And their sequel as well.

See? It's getting outrageous.

Until I get brave enough to let lots of people read my creative stuff, though, I'll have to continue letting people read my books one individual at a time.

And then when other people ask me to tell them what my books are about, I'll hem and haw, and then change the subject... 

And then I'll crack jokes to distract them the next time it comes up... 

And then I'll invent flimsy excuses about how "it needs editing still" when they ask to read it... 

And then when Shan's mom starts gushing about my book in front of lots of people, I'll continue blushing and "writhing in embarrassment" while I secretly eat up every bit of praise she hands me.

And then in the end, I'll still wish for more.

Ah, the confused existence of an embarrassed writer.

How I learned to stop worrying and love the cowlick

The title is a lie — I will never love my cowlick. It was just too good of a title to pass up.

So I've got this cowlick. My mom says it's hereditary and everyone in my family has one, but guess what? She lies. Nobody in the family has one quite like mine.

For those of you who might not know what a cowlick is, let me explain. Or better still, let my handy-dandy Google skills explain: "A cowlick is simply a shock of hair which looks as if the big, wet tongue of a cow has licked it. It grows in a different direction from the rest of the hair around it, so that it might look as thought it is sticking up or out. The term dates from the late 16th century, when R. Haydocke used it in his translation of Lomazzo: "The lockes or plaine feajes if haire called cow-lickes, are made turning vpwards." 

That's clear as mud, right? 

Apparently a cowlick occurs when hair "streams" form a spiral pattern. And, apparently, (this was new knowledge) most cowlicks swirl in a clockwise direction. 

My Google definitions, therefore, have taught me that not only do I spend each day walking around looking like a cow licked my head, but I also do it while sporting a cowlick THAT GOES THE WRONG DIRECTION. Ugh. 

See, the problem with my cowlick isn't that it exists. It's the location. And as any realtor will tell you, it's all about location, location, location. 

Most people think of cowlicks as being like this:

As my ever-so-helpful and oh-so-professional arrows point out, those cowlicks all appear to be at the back of the head, which would naturally lead you to ask, "So, what's the big deal?" A cowlick at the back of the head would not be a big deal, and are, in fact, quite common. For a girl, the sheer weight of her hair ought to weigh down and hide the cowlick, right? So I shouldn't whine.

Wrong. 

Because my cowlick isn't at the back of my head. My cowlick is more like this:

 

Right smack at the front of my face. And going counterclockwise. And therefore you can't possibly understand what sort of trials my cowlick has put me through... 

The problems with having a cowlick front and center began to emerge early in my youth. A short study of my childhood pictures will quickly inform you that I had the strangest hairstyles around, courtesy of my cowlick. I didn't know how to do hair anyway, but having to wrestle with a cowlick magnified the problem. And being the only girl in school unable to carry off any of the popular hair looks through the years was quite wearing on my self-esteem. 

Remember this popular 1990s poofy-bang look? 

 

Impossible. 

Braids? 

Not happening. Middle parts were out of the question, and braids (and pigtails) look ridiculous when off-center. 

Swoopy bangs?

Yeah right.

Blunt bangs?

 

Keep dreaming. 

The best I could manage was a mix of blunt bangs with an inadvertent poof in the middle (circa. 4th grade) or an ill-conceived attempt at swoopy bangs as a college freshman. It has been a never-ending struggle. 

Up until I turned 12, I allowed my mom to cut my hair. She cut all of our hair — it was the totally normal thing for her to do. The only problems were (a) she didn't really know how to cut hair for a girl (she's brilliant at cutting hair for boys — having five sons will do that for a mother — but for a girl? Not so much...) and (b) no matter how much you cut, bangs with a cowlick will NEVER END UP STRAIGHT. 

Still, the day before I was due to graduate from primary and move into young women's, my mom gave it everything she had. She WAS going to cut my bangs straight, even if it killed her. 

And the result? 

It was something like this:

Obviously I never let my mom cut my hair again. 

Years after this traumatic experience, I've had to admit that even going to professional hairstylists isn't the answer when it comes to dealing with my epic cowlick. They don't know how to cut it either, mainly because they always think they do. Our conversations go like this: 

Jackie: I've got this cowlick right here. It's impossible to work with.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah, I see it. 

Jackie: You have to cut it less over here and a little more over here, and then you have to make sure it's this specific length. Any longer and it starts to swoop here.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah, I see it. 

Jackie: No, seriously.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah. 

Jackie: I don't think you're really listening.

Hairstylist: Oh yeah. 

Jackie: Okay... 

Luckily, my cowlick grows at a Harry Potter-type pace. The hairstylist can cut it in some bizarre and terrible way (I'm talking to you, girl who tried to feather it) and their fruitless efforts will be covered up within a day or two. Now I let them do whatever they want and then fix it myself afterward. It's a good system. 

There are times when I start to feel cocky, like I have some measure of control over my cowlick. I have, for instance, learned the proper way to cut it — shorter on the left, long in the middle, longest on the right. It's a science, really. But the last time I started to get cocky I attempted, once again, to grow swoopy bangs. Unfortunately, the left side began to stick straight out while the right side just poked my eyes. Surrendering to the inevitable, my bangs quickly met my scissors. 

Enduring 24 years of failure has helped me learn to stop worrying... But I will never love the cowlick. 

I'll just whine about it instead.