By Amy Neswald, author of I Know You Love Me, Too
At twenty-eight, I was older than most of the other students
in beauty school when classes started. A few girls had just graduated high
school, others already worked in salons. And then there were a few like me,
people looking for a different way to make a living. I’d tried being an actor
in New York City for eight years, to no avail. I’d found myself stuck in the
dream machine, feeding money to the shady industry that dangled vague promises
of success in front of hopeful actors like a carrot.
The first day, we received our kits including two mannequin
heads, a set of plastic rollers, cheap scissors, a comb, a brush, a jar of
Queen Helene green gel and another pot of cholesterol. There was a smock with
the school acronym, LIBS, and a
cutting cape - everything a beginner at
beauty school might need. The teacher, Ms. Evalyn, said in her Staten Island
accent: “If you finish this course you’ll never be without five dollars in your
pocket.” To this day, I’ve found this to be true. I finished the course. I
earned my license. And I don’t think I’ve ever been without enough scratch to
buy myself, or someone else, a cup of coffee.
I didn’t feel it at the time as I suffered through getting
lost in a haircut on the school’s salon floor or lumbering through a poodle
perm, but taking the chance on beauty school not only changed the trajectory of
my life. It allowed me the space to be as uncomfortable and bad as I needed to
be as I embarked on learning a skill I had no talent for and no earthly idea of
how to even start. But it did present the tools I needed to learn how to learn.
Each new step launched a new challenge and with each new challenge, I found
myself a perpetual beginner again, caught in an endless loop of pushing forward
and circling back. Every long journey was comprised of a series of
mini-journeys reliant on my willingness to listen
not only to my human teachers, but also the materials I was working with, who
were the real teachers.
The benefits of the beginner’s mind are well documented. The
absence of expectation is a boon to the human experience, an open mind is key.
But aside from all that, being a perpetual beginner has other benefits as well.
A life of learning keeps things fresh. The connections between disparate ideas
and skills become apparent. And when a hopeful beginning ends in abject
failure, as it did when I earned my motorcycle license, despite driving a
scooter into a ditch, one not only learns about the benefits of failure, but
that a whole new beginning lays in wait.
Some beginnings are simple. Learning to bake bread. Hiking
Maine mountains. Reading a book in a genre you’ve never read before. Some are
more complex. Adopting a pet. Learning to drive. Getting married. Starting a
new profession. And other new beginnings are thrust upon us – the times in life
when a person doesn’t choose the beginner’s path, the path chooses them. The
new experience of having a child, for instance. Or ushering a loved one into
death – the sort of new beginning that occurs when something else ends. What if
the practice of beginning and of learning is also practice of humility? What if
living life as a perpetual beginner teaches us to weather the hardest
beginnings with a little grace, a little kindness, and maybe, even within the
pain of loss, a tiny, perhaps nearly invisible, glimmer of hope?
It might not seem logical but stepping into LIBS that first
day of classes released a chain of events, beginnings, endings, and middles
that forked like rivers or cracks in glass. It led me to working backstage on
Broadway, a whole new world that I explored for over fifteen years. Working in
theater is one of the very few places where working on a different job every
year is an asset as opposed to liabilities. Every new show was a new, new
beginning and required new ways of thinking, new strategies, new experiments,
and new subtle and surprising teachers. I suspect this practice and profession
of beginnings and endings led me to graduate school, which led me to writing a
book, which led me here, writing this article, another new beginning, for I’ve
never written on being a perpetual beginner before.
Ms. Evelyn knew the
score as she led us through unpacking our kits, counting our rollers, and
setting up our mannequin heads that first day. In my memory, she had a slightly
mischievous quirk at the corner of her mouth as she watched us struggle to comb
our mannequins’ knotted hair. None of us were good. All of us were beginners.
This moment, she knew, would be the beginning of things we never saw coming.
This New Year, dare to become a perpetual beginner. Learn a new skill, start a new hobby, pick
back up the instrument you played in high school. It doesn’t matter if you’re
good at it. You’ll become a better
listener...with a more open-mind...who isn’t afraid of failure. And with those
evolutions, you live and see a brighter life.
***
Fiction writer and screenwriter Amy Neswald was awarded the
New American Fiction Prize for her debut novel-in-stories, I Know You Love Me, Too (New American Press, October 2021). Her
work has appeared in The Rumpus, The Normal School, Bat City Review, and Green
Mountain Review, among others, and her screenplay The Placeholder was awarded a Best Screenplay award at the Rhode
Island Film Festival in 2008. When she is not writing, she teaches creative
writing at the University of Maine and continues plugging away at her animated
short films about monster children.
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