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Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Gashes in your Lashes
It's quite possible that you've never noticed missing patches of hair on someone where it should be. I’m not talking about receding hair lines or overestimated waxing. The Mayo Clinic describes Trichotillomania (trik-o-til-o-MAY-ne-uh) as an irresistible urge to pull out hair from your scalp, eyebrows, eyelashes or other areas of your body. It is thought that around 1% of the U.S. population experiences the disorder.
Of all the possible places from which to pluck your natural layer, one area in particular might invite the most attention. Your WOTD:
ceja [say-hah] : eyebrow Listen
Of all the possible places from which to pluck your natural layer, one area in particular might invite the most attention. Your WOTD:
ceja [say-hah] : eyebrow Listen
What causes this strange compulsive disorder? The most trying for individuals who suffer the symptoms is the fact that those who have never experienced a similar peculiar comfort cannot come close to relating. Who on earth would want to knowingly damage his natural symmetry? Some loved ones go so far as to put tape across the cejas of their poor picking person. An unfortunate individual with this habit will often lie nonchalantly when asked. “Oh, my waxing lady messed up.” Yeah right. Or, “Oh, I accidentally shaved that part off with a razor.” That’s about as believable as a stammering 16 year old swearing that the plum-colored hickey is a curling iron burn. Come to think of it, even that’s hard to say these days as I have this notion that curling irons are not quite used by masses of women as they were 10 to 15 years ago.
Discovering this particular type of compulsive behavior makes me wonder how many of us suffer from concealed self-destructive actions. It seems as though something’s not right. Is it possible this particular disorder, even if not identified, existed a century ago? What about eating disorders, self-mutilation, etc? I’m not so sure we can blame all this on global warming.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Gauchito Gil
"How 'bout them cowboys?" Not the Dallas Cowboys (not that they resemble anything close to the real thing) or the wild west cowboy, but the:
gaucho [gow-choh] : herdsman, or cowboy of the South American pampas Listen
As in Texas, this special character is not as easily found in Argentina as in the 19th century, but their historical reputation keeps them alive and breathing. Picture a Texan cowboy, now take away the 10 gallon Stetson, replace it with a lower, broad-brimmed black hat, tuck a knife in the leather belt at the back and you’re on the right track. In case your imagination is betraying you:
Gauchito Gil (the diminutive form of gaucho used in a loving way) was an unruly Argentine gaucho in the late 1800s. In his Robin Hood adventures he served the poor by spreading the riches of the wealth. After refusing to fight his fellow brothers in one of the country's civil conflicts, he was held at knife point by a police sergeant who paid no heed to Gil's proclamation that he could cure the officer’s ailing child. With a flick of the wrist, Gauchito Gil was left dead, but the officer prayed nonetheless and the child was indeed healed. Ever since then, Gauchito Gil has been the channeled recipient of many prayers and requests from those just knowing that he can work another miracle.
On a late spring day not oh so long ago, I found myself on a road trip through the Argentine countryside. Every now and then along the two lane highway, we passed a little red, wooden, doghouse-looking structure propped against a lonely tree trunk. Red flags and banners waved outside the entrance of the little house; some big, some small. As we passed this curious scene, the driver would yell, “I’ll Cheeto here!” I wondered if the little red doghouses held sacred bags of cheesy Cheetos puffs, but that didn’t seem quite right. After the fifth “I’ll Cheeto here!” I had to ask.
“What on earth are you saying?”
“It’s Gauchito Gil! Don’t you know Gauchito Gil?”
No, at that time I didn’t. And when I asked the driver to slow down as we approached the next eye-catching banners, I saw that there was in fact a little gaucho standing inside his private shrine. He was surrounded by everything from flowers to used car parts – offerings and personal tokens from the road. There were no Cheetos in sight; perhaps that could be my contribution the next time around – a little inside joke between GG and me.
Gauchito Gil (the diminutive form of gaucho used in a loving way) was an unruly Argentine gaucho in the late 1800s. In his Robin Hood adventures he served the poor by spreading the riches of the wealth. After refusing to fight his fellow brothers in one of the country's civil conflicts, he was held at knife point by a police sergeant who paid no heed to Gil's proclamation that he could cure the officer’s ailing child. With a flick of the wrist, Gauchito Gil was left dead, but the officer prayed nonetheless and the child was indeed healed. Ever since then, Gauchito Gil has been the channeled recipient of many prayers and requests from those just knowing that he can work another miracle.
On a late spring day not oh so long ago, I found myself on a road trip through the Argentine countryside. Every now and then along the two lane highway, we passed a little red, wooden, doghouse-looking structure propped against a lonely tree trunk. Red flags and banners waved outside the entrance of the little house; some big, some small. As we passed this curious scene, the driver would yell, “I’ll Cheeto here!” I wondered if the little red doghouses held sacred bags of cheesy Cheetos puffs, but that didn’t seem quite right. After the fifth “I’ll Cheeto here!” I had to ask.
“What on earth are you saying?”
“It’s Gauchito Gil! Don’t you know Gauchito Gil?”
No, at that time I didn’t. And when I asked the driver to slow down as we approached the next eye-catching banners, I saw that there was in fact a little gaucho standing inside his private shrine. He was surrounded by everything from flowers to used car parts – offerings and personal tokens from the road. There were no Cheetos in sight; perhaps that could be my contribution the next time around – a little inside joke between GG and me.
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