I don't smoke. If I did, I'd like to think the warning labels alerting me to the dangers would give me incentive to quit. In fact, I'm surprised so many people continue to smoke even with the horrific images that some countries print on packets of cigarettes. Some warning labels do, of course, work. The old Mr. Yuck stickers from my childhood immediately come to mind. Seatbelt chimes also work most of the time (more likely because they don't stop beping until you click your belt). Fire alarms, too, typically do their job. Warnings help us to be better prepared for what is to come. If you do smoke, you surely have read that smoking causes cancer, lung disease, and emphysema. It won't help you get better; but, you knew what was coming. Theoretically, you are better prepared to face the consequences.

I don't smoke. I do, however, read. Although I'm not a fast reader, I consider myself a voracious one. I savor the paragraphs I ingest, chewing on each word. I swish sentences around my brain like a sommelier does a 1904 Boudreaux. I especially enjoy reading Smithsonian Magazine and National Geographic. I've come to appreciate several of the regular writers, and I look forward to articles by Abigail Tucker, Richard Conniff, and Joshua Hammer, to name but a few authors. I typically start with the front cover and read each page as I come to it. This builds the suspense since I don't know what's coming next (I generally skip the table of contents to enhance the anticipation). I get a little thrill when I turn the page and see a byline by one of these regular contributors. I know that I'm in for a genuine treat. I settle in and enjoy the journey upon which these wielders of the mighty pen take me.

There is, of course, a downside to this way of reading. I have no warnings. I don't know what's coming or what to expect when I flip the page to go on to the next article. There could be a story about drones that are ready for takeoff on the next page or a piece on Hadrian's Wall. Perhaps there is one about Otters who, apparently, are picky eaters or human edibles like Hanoi's ultimate Pho. There could also be more sinister stories. The biggest problem is there could just as easily be a full-page image of creepy, crawly things—like spiders—that could potentially spark a fit of hysterics in an unsuspecting arachnophobe. It's not a pretty sight when you're sitting on the Metro, reading about tattoos of the world, and you're about to turn the page when suddenly: three seats ahead of you on the left, you hear another passenger utter a blood-curdling scream. At almost the same moment, you see the magazine that the passenger was reading go flying through the air. Just as it crests the arc and begins to descend toward the floor, you catch a glimpse of several enormous, hairy legs. Yes, this poor passenger unsuspectingly turned the page, an innocent enough action, and landed on a life-sized—or worse, larger-than-life-sized—picture of a tarantula.

I don't smoke. But I do read. I have read the warnings on cigarettes that tell me that smoking may result in fetal injury, premature birth, and low birth weight; that cigarette smoke contains carbon monoxide; and that quitting now greatly reduces serious risks to my health. If I can read, and more importantly heed, these warnings, then I believe that like the cigarette industry, the magazine industry should be legally obligated to place warnings on their products as well. Any magazine that contains disturbing images of eight-legged creatures should come with a warning in big, bold letters right on the cover of the magazine that states:

WARNING: This Periodical Contains Images Of Spiders And May Cause The Heebie-Jeebies, Hysteria, Or Possible Fainting.

I'm not a fan of haircuts. I never have been. I don't remember crying or throwing tantrums when my mother took me to the barber to get my locks shorn. But, I do remember feelings of dread as I climbed into the chair. I would look in the mirror and try to imprint that image into my memory. That was me staring back at me. I knew once the barber did his duty, I would no longer be me. Not that I would turn into someone else, but I would be a different me; I would be reinvented, and I would have to start over in becoming comfortable with me. Hair is a part of who you are; it is part of your identity. So, you can't be you if you change your hair.

I'm still like that. I know I need to get my hair cut; yet, I put it off as long as possible. On the other hand, after two years in Catholic school, I'm reticent to let my hair grow too long. Once it's over my ears or my collar, I usually make an appointment at the salon. Although I don't like to get it cut, I don't particularly like it long either. It's just one of those dichotomies that make me me.

So, it's significant that this October marks one year since my last haircut. The last time a pair of scissors touched these tresses, I was in the Holy Land. I went to Chezie, a friend of the family and profession stylist. It was a nice haircut. Still, it took getting used to because it was very different from what I usually get. As it grew out and lost its shape, I watched it grow and did nothing. As I took note of losing sight of my ears, I did nothing. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore; I was beginning to look like a Beatle, and still I did nothing. Then, about four or five months after Chezie, I realized I still hadn't gotten a haircut. I also realized it had been almost six months. My record for not getting a cut was seven months. Now I was on a mission. I had to break my personal record.

When I was in graduate school, I knew a student who had long hair. One day he came to class, and his hair was short. I asked what happened, and he told me he had donated his hair to Locks of Love. I thought that was great and said one day I, too, would commit this act of charity.

Charity seems so easy. Drop a few coins in a donation box. Write a check and mail it off. Give a homeless person your leftovers from the restaurant. Yet, when you think about it, charity is about sacrificing so others don't have to. Although a few pennies in a pushke won't affect most of us, we are still giving up something for other people's happiness. I believe the more you sacrifice, the greater the charity.

I had no idea how much I would sacrifice when I started down this road. It seemed so simple when I began: don't cut my hair, no biggie. It never occurred to me I would be going through so many awkward stages along the way. It never occurred to me I would look so scruffy and unprofessional. It never occurred to me I would whine and moan about it so much. Yet, here I am, a year into it and going strong.

All of this to say that I'd like to thank everyone for their support: my management for giving the go-ahead even though I am a spokesperson for the agency; my colleagues for their encouragement (even if it comes in the form of teasing); my friends for their hair advice; and Sarit for always talking me out of cutting my hair.

Thanks!

I received this email on my work account:

I'm writing this with tears in my eyes,I and my family came down here to London,United Kingdom for a short vacation unfortunately we got mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed,all cash,wallet,credit card and cell were stolen off us,but luckily for us we still have our passport back in our hotel room.

We've been to the embassy and the Police here but they're not helping issues at all and our flight is leaving in few hours from now but we're having problems settling our hotel bills and the hotel manager won't let us leave until we settle the bills,We're freak out at the moment.

It's not the first time I've received this very email. What makes today different is that it was sent from my personal account. It seems my Yahoo account has been "compromised." Not only that, but I couldn't access my account this morning because these bastards changed my password and created new security questions that I didn't have the answers to. In the end, I was able to change my password and access my account.

I had the best of intentions to send an email to everyone on my contact list to let them know it was crap, and they should ignore it. But to my horror, my address book was blank! So, now I am waiting for Yahoo to reset my address book, while all the while friends and family think that I'm freaking out in London!

Now that I'm a bit calmer (only mad, not steamin' mad!) I reread the email. WTF?? OK, I can understand if it said that I couldn't pay the bill, so please send money. But it doesn't; it just says "we're freak out" over this situation. Why go to the trouble of hacking into my account and tell this sad story just to end it there? It has to be illegal to hack into my account and send a fraudulent email, right? So go the extra step and ask for money!

The number of people who contacted me about the email, and the outpouring of support they've shown, pleasantly surprised me. People I haven't spoken with for months or years have texted, emailed, and called to make sure I'm OK. That really makes me feel good; it's nice to know I have so many people who are concerned for my well-being. I don't want to criticize or belittle those who were genuinely concerned for my welfare, but to be honest, I'm surprised so many people actually thought it was real. Even ignoring those who thought it was spam, but wanted to be sure, still leaves a goodly amount who offered advice or suggestions of what to do.

I'm still a little confused that anyone would think this was really from me given the grammatical errors, and the odd writing (it sounds like they used Google translate). Who says, "I and my family came down here to London,United Kingdom"? Certainly not I. I would say, "My family and I," and I wouldn't say "came down here to" since London is actually across. While London is in fact in the United Kingdom, Americans typically say, "London" or "London, England." How can the hotel manager prevent us from leaving? As anyone who's stayed in a hotel knows, you need to give credit card information at check-in. If any issues with the card arose, it would happen when you got there, not when you're leaving. Anyone who knows me should know I would never, ever write an email that begins " I'm writing this with tears in my eyes." That is just too melodramatic for me! Finally, no American says, "We're freak out"; it's always "freaked out."

I'm seriously freak out that someone has commandeered my Yahoo account (and my Facebook account—but no damage there). I feel violated and used and angry!

I like math. I always have. I suck at it, but I've always enjoyed knowing that at the end of your proof, you could write quod erat demonstrandum only if you had the right answer—and there is only one right answer. That doesn't mean there aren't several ways to get there; for instance, you can write 2+2=4, 1+3=4, or 10+(-6)=4. All result in the same answer. It's the rules that make it fun. The fact that you are restricted to following rules isn't confining, it's liberating. You know you have specific parameters in which you are free to work.

Writing is the same. When you are restricted to a word limit, you think differently, you're strategic in word choices and sentence construction. At the STS-133 @NASATweetup held at the Kennedy Space Center, Jason @goldman of Twitter spoke. Someone asked him why Twitter limits you to 140 characters. He explained that originally Twitter was SMS-based. SMS software in the US allows only 160 characters. After removing 20 characters for handles, you are left with 140; thus the character restriction. He also stated—like I say in this post—when you are limited to a specific number, it forces you to think differently, to get right to the crux of it and skip the extraneous minutiae with which we typically clutter our writing. Another reason for succinct writing is people bore easily. How often do we start reading someone’s blog only to lose interest after what seems an eternity? True, too often it is not so much the length of the piece but the inferior and disappointing quality of the writing that prevents us from actually reading to the end of the story. All the more reason to impose a word limit.

All of this is to say that as I try to suss out what I'm going to do with this blog, I am seriously considering giving myself parameters. I think limiting myself to 140 characters is unrealistic; besides, Twitter has already done that. Magazines, on the other hand, typically have word count limitations. Feature articles can run as long as 8,000 words. That perhaps is longer than I wish to write.

Looking to the Internet for assistance, I discovered the average op-ed runs between 800 and 1,000 words. This seems more reasonable. Also, there’s logic in selecting the op-ed’s word length as my default. Although not “opposite the editorial” page (op-ed is not, in fact, short for opinion-editorial), a blog is in many ways similar to an op-ed. Blogs, like op-eds, are opinion pieces; generally the blogger writes about his or her view of whatever, and usually has an agenda. To some extent, bloggers try to write persuasive arguments.

One of my favorite magazines, Smithsonian Magazine, has a regular column, “The Last Page,” which I typically enjoy. According to their guidelines, the column runs between 500 and 650 words. More restrictive than the op-ed, “The Last Page”’s word limit would definitely keep things short and to the point. It is actually pretty amazing the stories told within the confines of 500–650 words. It’s long enough to tell a story, but short enough to stick to the old KISS principle.

I am conflicted. Should I go with the shorter limit à la “The Last Page” and try to focus my writing, or should I give myself the extra room to dwell on a topic and extend my self-imposed restriction to the larger word count à la the op-ed?

To write or not to write, that is the question. I believe, I shall start with the shorter restriction (thank you Smithsonian Magazine) and see where that takes me.

And so, I am happy to say that with my new rule in place, this blog post is exactly 650 words long (if you count each formula above as one word), which means that I can safely write at the bottom,

Why another blog? It’s as good a question as any.

I started blogging six years ago. I posted my first blog entry on Thursday, 22 July 2004 at 11:38 am Eastern Daylight Time on LiveJournal at the suggestion of a guy I’d met while in graduate school. It was meant to be a venue to vent my frustration and annoyance with my job, colleagues, friends, and family. Ultimately, we tried to make each other laugh with our humorous posts. I created a nom de guerre, and away we went, writing about anything and everything. We were friends for several years, and although he is no longer in my life, I have continued, albeit sporadically, to maintain that blog. Less than a year after I started blogging on LiveJournal, I decided that I wanted more control over my blog’s personality. So, I bought a domain, set it up on GoDaddy.com, and installed WordPress. I was quite happy with the setup for a while. Then I discovered Drupal and HostMonster. I once again moved the site, bought a more apropos domain name, and kept blogging.

As I’ve matured, my outlook on life and my job has changed. My perspective on things has also changed, and I feel that I want to write about things other than annoying co-workers. I want to write about my real life; my wife; my child(ren); my hopes, dreams, and frustrations. With the current setup, I’m very guarded about what I say, lest someone should do a little digging and put two and two together and discover my true identity. As such, I’ve created this site to be a bit more adult and real in the sense that I’m not hiding behind a false name. I am me, and I think I’m ready for the world and my readers to know that it’s me.

I hope that this site will be insightful and fun to read.