In a letter published in the magazine, The Sun, Norman Fischer writes, “We judge ourselves by our intentions, and others by their actions.” That is, seeing someone’s actions, we assume we know their hearts and minds and understand their motivations, but we don’t.
“Dear, dear, Susan,” begins a letter I recently received in the mail, with a photograph of yours truly attached, published in The New Yorker. “What a terrible little photo. Haggard, sloppy hair, and a tight mouth. But of course, it is the real you isn’t it and if people don’t like the real you, too bad aye (sic).”
The writer is right: I can’t do much about the tight mouth, but since my cat chewed off portions of my hair, I am overdue for a haircut. The real me, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, books an appointment at Salon J with Jamie in Sidney-by-the-Sea — Jamie has been my entrusted stylist for the past three decades. He warned me, last time I went for a trim and asked for the “haggard, sloppy look” that while it was au courant in Paris and Rome, the look might not have caught fire on Tow Hill Road, where I reside.
The critic continues. “Then sit and think how unfair it is that you are not getting anywhere. You can’t understand it. Your looks cannot matter can they.” If she had only left an address, I would be able to give her some instruction on the correct use of commas. It can’t hurt, can it? If you want to write critically, you must know how to punctuate.
“A quality look assumes some intelligence and balanced thinking. The damn jeans, T-shirt, runners, no make up (sic) says: I do my work well enough, but complain a lot about how unfair everything in my life is, not too light hearted, rather thick headed and the socialist angle of “God forbide (sic) if one wore a bit of lace or a frill and never any jewelry. I mean a string of beads….one may actually look pretty and we can’t have that.”
(The critic could use further instruction on hyphens and compound nouns, not to mention spelling.)
In one of my more useful self-help books a therapist suggests the best way of dealing with criticism is to agree with your critic, but stand your ground. When you agree with them, it leaves them defenseless. For example, “You are right in saying I am not too light hearted and rather thick headed, but of course this is the real me isn’t it and if people don’t like the real me, too bad aye.” Furthermore, those damn jeans, T-shirt and runners are good quality and comfortable to wear. I could make more of an effort I suppose and add a bit of lace when I go to purchase a new garbage can at the Co-op or a frill when I buy cat litter at the Ranch.
The writer suggests I take a closer look at the photo in the paper. She also suggests a makeover. “Hair dark and shorter. Just to the neck, a slight rinse to darken for the next ten years if a little grey showing.” There follows an exhaustive description of how I should correctly brush my hair, concluding with the helpful tip that I use a slight bit of hairspray where my hair divides in front (I’ve never noticed that it does). She recommends Clairol FINAL NET regular, “a very light spritz type”.
On to my eyebrows and eyelashes, and then my tight mouth. “Purchase a couple of darkish lipsticks in red only, do your lips a little fuller than you do. A darkish raspberry tone.”
My lips have never been the killer bee-stung type. They are thin, the sign of a great intellect and good breeding I was, growing up, frequently told. Red lipstick looks funny on me and my sloppy hair sticks to it, so red is definitely out. How about black? Not black: I see she has written NO BLACK next to NEW FRIENDS in important upper case.
She goes on. “As for being blond. Forget it. We all were. It does not look that good on you at all now.”
I am crushed. I paid over $100 for Jamie to add those highlights and she tells me they don’t look that good? Finally, someone is telling me the truth. My mother, my daughter, my brother, my sister, they all said they loved my hair. Oh, yes, but my critic wants me to get rid of my family, too. I should go away for a year or more, on my own, “well dressed and mature to Saskatchewan or Australia, and develop some new interests with depth. Upon return a couple of years later take on a position on a school board, for a lift up in life.”
Two pages, single spaced, typed. “I don’t know you, nor anyone that does, nor do you know me. I only started this because of the photo that was all, but got carried away…GOOD LUCK.”
Susan Musgrave’s photo has never been published, to her knowledge, in the New Yorker. She made that up, to make herself appear more important than she really is, for real. The photograph in question appeared in a weekly giveaway called The World.
