Do No Harm

It's not always easy being good.  It seems to me it should be, but there are times when I find it hard to not to offend or hurt someone.  This morning is an example whereof I speak, and the reason I write this now.  I had an appointment for a haircut, even though I had it cut just over a week ago, when I went purple.  The fact that I had my hair coloured is obvious, but the cut was not.  I didn't get my money's worth, because it wasn't what I wanted, and honestly, I didn't really want all that much, just a haircut.  Maybe the guy who cut my hair was afraid of cutting all the purple out, but the final results looked as if he hadn't cut my hair at all.  So after a week and a half of being angry about it, I went back to the hair salon and asked for a proper cut.

I know this is a problem only a person living in a developed nation complains about. (It's real hell, let me tell you.)  It certainly isn't the sort of thing I like to dwell on because it's such a consumer-based issue, but it presented a very real moral dilemma for me this morning.  Nick, the nice, older chap who cut my hair, was working there today, and that was the problem.  The manager of the salon had booked me with another younger, hipper hairstylist.  I fretted that Nick would see me getting it cut again with somebody else so soon after he'd done it.  I mentioned my concerns to the manager when he booked my appointment, but he told me not to worry, it happens all the time.  It's part of the business.  Nonetheless, I had misgivings.  I simply didn't want to hurt Nick's feelings.
As I walked to the salon I kept praying that Nick wouldn't be anywhere around to see me.  But of course he was.  I wore a hat (purple hair is easy to spot) and kept my head low.  When I arrived at reception the manager was there and greeted me.  I told him I felt awkward about Nick seeing me.  The manager told me to chill and keep my hat on.  So I did, keeping my head buried deep in a book.  Joanna, who was the replacement hair cutter, arrived shortly afterwards, fully apprised that she was there to reshape the cut of a dissatisfied customer.  Joanna is young, funky, and urban.  I knew she'd give me the cut I wanted the first time around, and I got it.  But I had to leave the premises walking right by Nick.  By that time he'd seen me, even though I hadn't made eye contact with him.  I left in a hurry, whizzing by his chair as if I had no idea he was there.
I know he was hurt and offended.  And that really bothers me.  I also realise the situation didn't look good with his employers.  Dissatisfied customers don't go over well with businesses trying to meet the bottom line, and in a consumer, capitalistic system I have every right to ask for my money's worth.  But I felt crappy anyway.  Aye me.
So what does this have to do with the opening statement of this little blurb?  It means I really do have a modicum of compassion.  It means that I'm aware I might be hurting people's feelings, even when I don't want to.  And even though I feel really bad about what happened, I'm glad to have learned something good about myself.  I guess that proves that valuable lessons are similar to being good - they aren't always easy.
- G.P.

Purple Power

I've gone purple - not all of me, just my hair.  I know that's not unique or original any more - like you know, it's so last week - but this is my first foray into purpledom.  I spent three and a half hours at the hair dresser's, and a scary amount of money to do it.  But it was worth it, because I really like it.  And it seems other people do, too.

The day after my dip into the purple pool I was taking a stroll in my neighbourhood.  As I passed a couple of women who looked to be about my vintage, one of them raised a friendly fist in solidarity and shouted "I love your hair!"  A few hours later I was walking by a high school where numerous adolescents lay strewn across the school yard, and suddenly one of the the guys hailed me with "You've got cool hair, random lady."  Random, indeed.
The longer I live the more I'm attracted to the colour purple, and consequently, the more purple things I acquire.  (N.B.  To keep what I own to a minimum, I always liberate at least two items for every new one I acquire.)  Anyway, this purple habit of mine is not happening consciously just to play out a popular poem from the sixties that begins When I am an old woman I shall wear purple.  But I can't help noticing that it's happening, consciously or not.
Purple is the colour associated with the top of the head - the crown chakra.  (Each of the seven chakras has a corresponding colour of the spectrum.)  It's the most spiritual of the colours and associated with wisdom, insight, creativity, and clairvoyance.  It's also regarded as a colour of royalty, whose members supposedly have the wisdom and insight to rule.  (hmm...)  As a result of the aforementioned attributes, purple is seen worn by the Crone in numerous images, which is a nice departure from her more traditional black.
Now that I'm officially ensconced in cronehood, both chronologically and physically, I find it very curious that purple has now supplanted green as my favourite colour.  It's happened gradually and I swear I didn't do it on purpose to join some fashionable trend.  If anything, that would be a reason for me to avoid it.  All I know for sure is that purple makes me happy these days.  It's a small, silly pleasure.  When I'm feeling a little blue, I google "purple" and look at the images that come up. It lifts my spirits.
So for my legion of lovely, faithful followers - purple is also associated with loyalty - I've included a couple of cool images that evoke the power of purple.  Enjoy.
- G.P.

The Road Home

At last I can say I'm a traveller.  I came to this realisation very recently, and only after a lot of thought on the matter.  However, my definition of "traveller" isn't what most people mean when they use the word to describe themselves.  I define myself as a traveller in the sense that we're all travellers - journeying down the road of life.  (Now that's a cliché if there ever was one! I should be embarrassed to use it, but it's exactly what I mean to say.)
I've written about my views on travel before ("A Grain of Sand," 9/5/12), and I still feel pretty much the same way.  Travel is a privilege much more than a choice.  Sure, there are people who have the wherewithal to travel and choose not to, but they are greatly outnumbered by the vast global majority who are unable to do so due to personal and/or political circumstances.  Travel is a privilege enjoyed by a fortunate few.
I've been reluctant to think of myself as a traveller because there were many years I was unable to get out and around due to financial constraints.  I felt imprisoned by my physical and monetary conditions, and was jealous of my successful, well-travelled friends and acquaintances, which only engendered more bitterness.  My life was in stasis, both physically and spiritually.  And the longer I stayed still, the more l was left behind, which made me feel as if I were moving backwards.  
Most of the movement I experienced was inward, and it wasn't always to a good place - full and diverse, maybe - but not where I'd deliberately choose to visit.  Eventually, in one of my more misanthropic moments (and there were many) it dawned on me that everyone's inner journey ultimately leads to the same destination - Death.  That came as a comfort to me, and not just because I thought like a depressed person.   I realised that even the happiest, most successful people end up dead, just the way I will.  Death is the Great Leveller.
My penetrating glimpse into the obvious still didn't compensate for my lack-lustre personal journey to meet the Grim Reaper, but it gave me moments of sadistic pleasure when I was forced to endure mean, disagreeable people by reminding myself that one day they'd be dead, too.
What can I say?  I was just as miserable and mean in my own way as they were.  But not anymore.  I'm still glad that we all die - natural cycles and all that - but I don't dwell on it with the same bitter relish that I used to.  Now I focus on living a large life, rather than a petty, small one.  And getting to this point has been the longest, toughest part of my path.
Now I feel as if I've travelled a fair distance, but it's neither the route nor the destination I had imagined for myself when I first began.  Finally I can say that's okay with me, and it's probably the best thing about what I once would have thought was failure.  Although I still have the bad habit of comparing myself to others, I understand that just because I may not have travelled as far and wide, maybe I've travelled just as deep.
- G. P.

Wear Purple and Walk Tall

I was addressed as "Miss" this morning.  That's unusual these days, because I've been hearing "Ma'am" for many years now.  On the odd occasion, as happened this morning, I do get Miss, and it always makes my day.  I consider myself a feminist (and yes, despite the fact that it's out of fashion, I still like and use the word), so I ought not to be concerned with appearances, especially in regards to my gender.  At my age I'm supposed to be above and beyond all that.  But I'm not.
I know this makes me sound shallow and vain, but right now I don't care, and what's more, I admit to feeling that way more and more as I get older.  However, my vanity does serve to keep me looking as good as I can, which isn't such a bad thing.  My obsession with my looks keeps me healthy by practising yoga and eating well, balanced by frequent indulgences in things that aren't so good for me.
I also become conscious of my looks when I see people carrying themselves poorly (read unattractively) or being unaware of how their deportment doesn't just look bad, it's bad for them.  So what's that to do with me?  Well, it makes me aware of how I'm looking.  Am I slouching? Schlepping?  Dragging my feet?  Picking my nose?  You get the picture, and so does anybody else who happens to be looking.  Fortunately for me, but unfortunately for the person I'm observing, when I see someone who's moving, standing or sitting in a way that's detrimental to their health, I'm pulled right back into my own body and make an internal check on how I'm looking.  It happens a lot, because there are a lot of people out there who don't seem to notice their bad physical habits.  As a result, I'm constantly realigning myself, which, as I've already mentioned, is good for me.
Look at the people around you, especially older ones.  Their youthfulness, or lack thereof, isn't determined so much by their wrinkles or loss of muscle tone, but their carriage.  In yoga, the measure of a person's age is determined by the condition of their spine.  So if I'm feeling and looking with-it enough to elicit a "Miss" from someone, rather than the usual "ma'am," I'm flattered, not offended.  I don't immediately assume I'm not commanding the respect of a mature, experienced woman, but have given the impression of being youthful rather than young.  It usually happens when I'm wearing vivid colours or prints, which might be considered slightly eccentric or cute.  Even old people can be cute without being gaga or in their second childhood.
So yes, this blurb is about something as ostensibly superficial as appearances and obsession with youth.  But I wanted to have my say on this topic because I couldn't help noticing how a one-syllable word changed my mood.  It proved to me that even when my energy's low, I can still walk tall. 
When it comes to lifting one's spirits, artifice isn't always superficial.
- G.P.