Sometimes scissors are too much of a temptation.
1. We are going on a little adventure tomorrow. I'm ready for a way out of here for a few days. It's true that we live in India, (which is adventurous) but it's also true that we rarely venture beyond walking distance, and if that, only to buy paper, go to the tailor, or get some cough drops. (Though sometimes we drop in at the local Korean restaurant.)
Tomorrow our jeep will pick us up at the nearby road. We will walk along the stony path, down the stairs, by the creekbed, and up the hill, and then off we go in the jeep to Manali. I think the journey takes 7 hours, but I don't think that's calculated for children.
2. It was quiet, today, in the Stage Carriage, until Cate asked if I had heard that Michael Jackson died. She was sitting in front of me, beside a Tibetan woman wearing the traditional chupa. The Stage Carriage is a jeep for public transportation. It has three bench seats, and doesn't drive for anything less than four people per row. It's a cozy ride, to say the least. (And it's really called a Stage Carriage.) For 10 rupees, you can hop in the Stage Carriage in McLeod Ganj and ride to Lower Dharamsala, where you can find a tailor to make you yet more children's clothes which your children will grow out of in six months.
Anyways. Suddenly the jeep was alive with discussion. The Tibetan woman beside Cate shook her head. "It's because he was trying to make himself whiter," she said. A Polish Buddhist nun in maroon robes was sitting next to me. "His music was so so beautiful. Did you like him?"
"I liked his music very much," I said. "But I think his story is very sad. He got too famous, too young."
"Yes," the Polish Buddhist nun continued, "he gave all of himself away, and had nothing left for him."
Cate was still talking with the Tibetan lady up front. "Yes, he was very young, it's very sad," she said.
"Everyone, everywhere, is sad," said the Tibetan lady.
"And did you ever see his dvds? He was such a great dancer," added the Buddhist nun.
And I shook my head. Reminiscing about Michael Jackson in India in the Stage Carriage with these two ladies was almost too much for my grip on reality to handle.
I popped over to my friend Carrien's blog to see if she had written about one special afternoon, many years ago, when we sat outside Michael Jackson's gate on top of our van, singing worship songs with gusto. (She had.) My best friend Dori had such a strong sympathy for him, and she desperately wanted to try to tell him that God loved him. We weren't allowed in, so the four of us sang with the rolling hills of Los Olivos swelling all around us. Dori also wrote him a letter. I do hope it was delivered.
3. I should have known better.
Sometimes when your husband is away and you are tired and not getting a lot of sleep and you live somewhere far from where you have lived before, you might have a small crisis and cut your hair.
But the good news is, you only cut off the bottom half. You emerge from the bathroom with a handful of dreadlocks that have been with you for almost seven years. Your neck is much cooler, but you need it cleaned up, made the same length, so you head to the barber.
You should have known better.
What part of "I just want it tidied up" sounds like "Go ahead and shave it."
I couldn't really find a good after pic, probably because it only looks different from the very back.
I should have known better, but at least I can say I've been to an Indian barber. And it's SO much cooler.
(First 3 pics taken by Becca, and the last one was taken by Chinua)
Tomorrow our jeep will pick us up at the nearby road. We will walk along the stony path, down the stairs, by the creekbed, and up the hill, and then off we go in the jeep to Manali. I think the journey takes 7 hours, but I don't think that's calculated for children.
2. It was quiet, today, in the Stage Carriage, until Cate asked if I had heard that Michael Jackson died. She was sitting in front of me, beside a Tibetan woman wearing the traditional chupa. The Stage Carriage is a jeep for public transportation. It has three bench seats, and doesn't drive for anything less than four people per row. It's a cozy ride, to say the least. (And it's really called a Stage Carriage.) For 10 rupees, you can hop in the Stage Carriage in McLeod Ganj and ride to Lower Dharamsala, where you can find a tailor to make you yet more children's clothes which your children will grow out of in six months.
Anyways. Suddenly the jeep was alive with discussion. The Tibetan woman beside Cate shook her head. "It's because he was trying to make himself whiter," she said. A Polish Buddhist nun in maroon robes was sitting next to me. "His music was so so beautiful. Did you like him?"
"I liked his music very much," I said. "But I think his story is very sad. He got too famous, too young."
"Yes," the Polish Buddhist nun continued, "he gave all of himself away, and had nothing left for him."
Cate was still talking with the Tibetan lady up front. "Yes, he was very young, it's very sad," she said.
"Everyone, everywhere, is sad," said the Tibetan lady.
"And did you ever see his dvds? He was such a great dancer," added the Buddhist nun.
And I shook my head. Reminiscing about Michael Jackson in India in the Stage Carriage with these two ladies was almost too much for my grip on reality to handle.
I popped over to my friend Carrien's blog to see if she had written about one special afternoon, many years ago, when we sat outside Michael Jackson's gate on top of our van, singing worship songs with gusto. (She had.) My best friend Dori had such a strong sympathy for him, and she desperately wanted to try to tell him that God loved him. We weren't allowed in, so the four of us sang with the rolling hills of Los Olivos swelling all around us. Dori also wrote him a letter. I do hope it was delivered.
3. I should have known better.
Sometimes when your husband is away and you are tired and not getting a lot of sleep and you live somewhere far from where you have lived before, you might have a small crisis and cut your hair.
But the good news is, you only cut off the bottom half. You emerge from the bathroom with a handful of dreadlocks that have been with you for almost seven years. Your neck is much cooler, but you need it cleaned up, made the same length, so you head to the barber.
You should have known better.
What part of "I just want it tidied up" sounds like "Go ahead and shave it."
I couldn't really find a good after pic, probably because it only looks different from the very back.
I should have known better, but at least I can say I've been to an Indian barber. And it's SO much cooler.
(First 3 pics taken by Becca, and the last one was taken by Chinua)