Hair Today, Gone Tonight

I freely admit to my addiction for making jewelry.  Even after an extremely stressful day at the office, I hole up in my studio to unwind and let the creative juices flow.  Before I know it, I’ve gained my second wind and blissfully worked two hours beyond bedtime.

However, even though I am a self-proclaimed jewelry junkie, there are some aspects of the creative process that I don’t particularly enjoy.  While performing these processes, I sometimes zone out.  My mind will wander to the pressing issues of how I would word the obligatory birthday card for someone I don’t like, or why Hobby Lobby can’t open for just a couple of hours on Sunday, or why “Harry’s Law” was cancelled, or why I can’t seem to be satisfied with my hair color.   Important things that my mind needs to process.

One especially mundane part of working with polymer clay is sanding and polishing the baked pieces.  I love experimenting with color and texture and different design techniques, but to call the finishing process interesting would be akin to folding underwear for three hours.

Last week I had a particularly hair-raising, or perhaps I should say hair-curling, experience while performing this tedious task.  I tend to amass a pile of polymer pieces to be sanded and polished.  My logic is that if I allow them to accumulate, I’ll suffer through and have it done all at once.  Then I can return to the more stimulating designing/creating activity.  This is the way it was done before Ford created the assembly line, and you can see the mess that Detroit is in.  I use this same reasoning when I schedule medical procedures.  Get everything done on one day, if possible, and enjoy the rest of the year.

So, I diligently wet-sanded about ten pieces of polymer clay to a shiny finish using no less than four different grades of wet/dry sandpaper on each piece.  Messy doesn’t even begin to describe it.  Afterwards, to get that stunningly gleaming finish, I moved everything to my work bench, where one of my most useful pieces of equipment – the Flex Shaft – makes its home.  We call this tool a Dremel on steroids.

Replacing the drill bit with my one-inch buffing wheel, I began the laborious process of polishing every square millimeter of the newly created pieces.  Ho-hum.  I could have used the bigger, super-duper grinding wheel with the polishing attachment, but that thing scares the bejeebers out of me.  It can grab your hand or an article of clothing faster than a shopper can grab an iPad on Black Friday.

So, picture me standing there with the Flex Shaft polisher in my right hand and the polymer clay cabochon in my left, day-dreaming about the best way to cajole my husband into taking ballroom dance lessons or buying me a chocolate diamond for Christmas.

This will seem off-topic, but it’s very relevant.  I’ve been growing my hair out for the last three years or so.  It’s finally at a respectable length.  I know all the safety rules about long hair and power tools, and I am especially careful about not allowing my hair to get too close to my work.  Before my last haircut, my bangs, which I am also growing out, were long enough to stay behind my ears.  After my last haircut, they now, annoyingly, tend to fall in my face.

This is my recollection of what happened as my mind wandered to where I would park the Mustang convertible that I would surely find in my driveway with a huge red bow on it when I retire.  The errant strand of hair fell between my eyes, and I instinctively reached up to move it back…with the hand that was holding the 26,000 rpm (according to my husband) Flex Shaft polishing wheel going at full speed.

The rest is kind of a blur.  The room spun for a moment as my mind blanked out the pain.  My foot eventually came off the pedal that made the polisher go; I may have actually stepped down harder on it as all this was happening.  I remember that when I dropped the tool, it continued to spin for a few seconds as it dangled from its cord, minus the polishing wheel.  I’ve never taken drugs, but I think I now know the feeling.  Wow, where did that wheel go, man?  I actually was looking around the studio for the polishing wheel; I probably had a stupid grin on my otherwise numb face.

When I finally did reach for my head, my first comment was, “Oh crap!”  I found myself with a massive dreadlock over my left ear.  My face hurt under my left eye, and my skin tingled all over.  I was shaking just a bit, but I managed to get to the bathroom and look in the mirror.  This called for another “Oh crap,” a personal scolding, and a few other choice words.

Ironically, I had a hair appointment in 45 minutes, so maybe she could figure out a way to get the dreadlock undone without cutting too much of the hair.  Wait a minute!  No!  No one is cutting this hair!  I’ve worked too hard getting past that point of no return to cut it off now.

I went downstairs and told my husband that I needed his help – PRONTO!  He followed me into the bathroom.  When he saw my hair, he looked incredulous.  “What the (expletive) did you do?  You’re going to have to cut that, you know.”  “No way, mister.  Just see how bad it is and start untangling.”

What do they use for chewing gum in the hair?  Butter?  Peanut butter?  Mazola oil?  I had all three and I’d try them until I found something that worked.

I told him I couldn’t find the power polishing wheel.  It had broken the shaft right in two and must have flung the wheel across the studio.  He seemed pretty impressed by that.

Patiently, he worked on the dreaded dreadlock, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh.  I’m glad I could provide his humor for the day.  He looked as giddy as a puppy getting his belly rubbed.

“Boy, that thing is in there tight,” I said as he untangled.  “That’s because the wheel is embedded in the middle of your hair,” he said.  Oh, great!  “Do we have another shaft that I can use with a new power buffer,” I asked.  At least I had  my priorities in order.

Finally, the wheel came out, looking kind of like a gigantic Q-tip but nothing like its former self.  “You’re going to have to cut your hair,” he said.  “No way, buster!”

I moved to the other bathroom where I kept the conditioner and began spraying it on the dreadlock, which felt like curled-up steel wool.  With my wide-toothed comb, I slowly and gently began working the hair loose, alternating spraying and combing.

Finally, it smoothed out.  I was surprised to see that there were only a few strands of long hair on the comb when I finished.  Whew!  I dodged the bullet on that one.  I pulled the hairs off the comb and threw them away.  Then I turned around and saw it on the floor at my side.  That curled-up hank of hair.  I looked in the mirror, and there it was – the place where it was yanked out of my head.  Fortunately, it’s barely noticeable because it’s close to the hairline and my long hair covers it.

The left side of my cheek stung and looked like I had suffered rug burn, and there was a scrape on my nose.  I guessed that it was probably the Flex Shaft itself that got my face while the polishing wheel was wrapping itself around my hair.  Eventually a bruise formed under my eye, but fortunately it was barely noticeable, and no one suggested that I move to a shelter for abused women.

I’ve learned another lesson the hard way.  It seems like that’s the only way I learn lessons.  I can’t say that I was not following safety precautions because my hair was not hanging too close to the tool.  Oh, no.  I brought the tool to my hair.

I’ll do what I can to protect myself from future incidents like this.  I wonder if my safety goggles will fit under a football helmet.

Organized Chaos? It’s All in the Eyes of the Beholder

When I enter my studio, my sanctuary, my hiding place, my atelier, as the French would call it…I wonder how in the world I manage to find anything.  The truth is, I spend a lot of time looking for things.  My tools mysteriously move from one work space to another.  I can’t find that perfect bead that I know I have – I saw it three months ago.  Sometimes when I’m trying to find a misplaced jump ring or tape measure, the search leads me to some little treasure that I had forgotten I had, proving that a morsel of joy can indeed come out of being disorganized!

Barry's Tidy Workbench

My husband, who I definitely wouldn’t classify as a neat freak, is organized just enough to be annoying.  He keeps his workbench nice and tidy.  He even organizes his garage, for Pete’s sake!  Who does that?!  But when he loses something, I am usually the one who finds it.  He never, ever moves anything to see if the elusive object of his search has somehow managed to crawl behind a box or scoot behind a can of peas.  Nope, if it’s not right out there in front screaming at him like a drill sergeant, he can’t find it.

Torch, Kiln and Hammering Stations

I read somewhere that artists are messy by nature, so I use that excuse a lot.  It sounds good.   It makes me sound more, I don’t know, “artistic?”  Truth is, being disorganized drives me nuts.  It’s the total opposite of the way I am at the office, where organization is essential in a hectic environment.  Maybe my disorganization in the studio can be attributed to my rebellious alter ego.  Every time I have good intentions about cleaning up the studio, which is just about every time I enter the room, I end up at the workbench making something.  I just can’t help myself.  My torch speaks to me – “I need you.”  My kiln says, “Turn me on.”  My husband says, “I don’t know how you work in here.”  Is anyone else seeing role confusion here?

When we planned the studio, I read everything I could find on the subject.  I looked at magazines showing my favorite artists’ studios and made notes about storage systems, lighting, work surfaces, and flooring.  Did you know that they actually publish two magazines dedicated solely to artists’ studios?  Who would have thought!  I diagrammed the layout.  I selected pretty, themed wall hangings to get me in the creative mood.  (They’re still in their boxes.)  We (Barry, with my supervision) painted the walls just the right colors.  I planned out my work stations – this one will be for beading, this one for metal working, this one for the kiln and related materials, and so on.  That worked for about a day and a half.  Then all the pliers started walking around on their own.  Sometimes they even made their way to the kitchen!  My bead boards multiplied like rabbits on steroids.  My silver jumped into the copper drawer.  My chains slithered off their spools.  Has anyone seen my paper towels?  My sandpaper?  My glue?  I purchased great storage shelves from Ikea that seem curiously close to being full already.  Could it be that I have too much stuff?  Never!

Metal Forming and Beading Stations

On the other hand, I AM meticulous about certain things.  My trusty marking pen always goes right back into the beautiful vessel made by artist and Charleston, Illinois, native Patrick Hutti, along with several other small tools that I reach for quite often.  My hammers always remain with my bench block, which is the only obvious place for them.  My attachments for the Flex Shaft are stored close to that multi-purpose gem of a tool.  And so far, the toilet paper has stayed in the bathroom.

The Torch Speaks

I work at a community college, and one of the many good things about that is that we are closed during the week between Christmas and New Year’s.  I generally set goals that I want to accomplish over that period of time.  Studio cleanup is right there at the top of the list this year.  My busy show season will be over, so I should have no problem setting creativity aside while I get into organization mode.  Still, I have a feeling that the torch will be whispering in my ear, “Come on, baby, light my fire.”  Who could resist?