In Defense of the Pixie Cut

I own a rare model of Barbie dolls from the 60’s with a short bubble cut hairdo. Normally, the only short haired Barbies involved your little sister, a pair of safety scissors, and some generally bad decision making skills.

When I was young there were three haircuts for girls: long; pixie cut; and pixie cut grow-out. Mid-length hair was just the shameful recovery period for large-skulled girls who thought they could look like Twiggy if they cut their hair short.

Someone forgot to tell my mom that pixies are delicate little creatures, who are seldom referred to as “sturdy.” My mom decided that my sisters and I would look adorable in pixie cuts. She regretted her decision immediately. It took years to undo the damage of that day, and she can still get me to take out her garbage by threatening to cut my hair, and I’ve been living on my own for over 30 years.

I was going to rock long hair till the day I died, … then I hit menopause. It turns out that hot flashes trump vanity. I generally have to do my hat shopping in the melon-head section next to the extra large scarves, and the faux alligator skin handbags. Fortunately, hard hats are adjustable, so when I ordered the one size fits all, success! I’m preparing to find a large equipment rental place so I can take a picture of myself with a bulldozer, so I needed the hard hat for the photo. Yes, I’m going to go kick the tires on a couple tons of steel, pretending to be a serious shopper. I thought that short hair would be more convincing. Surely, by now my face has thinned out a bit with age, making my head look less lumpy.

Now that the deed is done, I’m surprised that it’s not awful looking. It’s actually kind of cute. Where fiction writers need to suspend disbelief, I just need to convince myself that there is such a thing as lumberjack pixies who drive bulldozers.

Twiggy has nothing to worry about.

A technological goober on the internet

Two hundred thirty-four years ago our forefathers founded a new nation, establishing my 1st Amendment rights to fumble around aimlessly on the internet. I’m currently trying to link my Facebook page with my web page, my Twitter address, and my Writer’s Digest community page. If you google my name, you’ll find several pages of listings, including one for Burton SC Booty Call, which is a total mystery to me.

These entries are a testament to my awkward attempts to join some groups, enter some contests, and get some pension administration credentials. The latter allows me to cite chapter and verse of the Internal Revenue Code until your eyes glaze over. §410(b) is one of my favorites.

Now all I need to do is learn to use a digital camera. Yes, I said it. I still use cameras with 35 mm film, exposures, f stops, etc. My assignment for this weekend is to successfully take a digital picture and upload it to my computer. I have a camera, an instruction book, and something called a USB cable. What could go wrong?

I could hold down the shutter button while trying to figure out why the flash is not working.

I could try out the zoom function on my freakishly bony ankles.

In all, I took four pictures, and got them all to my computer. My brand new batteries are showing that they need to be changed, and I haven’t even tried it in daylight.

Did I mention that this particular camera came out when the technology was in its infancy? I bought a package of batteries so I can take a couple pictures of the 4th of July festivities.

All in all, mission accomplished. The founding fathers would be proud, as long as they don’t find out about the Booty Call thing.