Pointes and Perspective #44 The Hair In Your Face
The Hair in Your Face
This morning, I was teaching Ballet at the University where I teach. We were only at our very first combination of pliés when one of my students, still in her warm-up layers, brushed the hood of her sweatshirt off her head as she came up from her port de bras forward. It had gotten caught there, and she instinctively swiped it away.
Just moments later, as we finished the combination and I made my way around the room, I caught another student rushing through his long finish before beginning the second side. I stopped them, not to scold, but to share something I’ve learned over a lifetime at the barre.
I told them that even when I take class by myself, with no mirrors, no audience, and no one watching, if one of my curtain bangs falls into my face mid combination, I refuse to touch it. I ridiculously acted it out for them, as I turned to one shoulder and said, “Hey! Don’t touch those bangs!” Then I looked over my other shoulder, the evil side of me that was annoyed and tempted, who said, “Why not? It’s no big deal!” Then, back to the first, responsible side, “Because if you were on stage, you wouldn’t stop to fix your hair. Finish the combination. You’re a professional, now train like one!”
They laughed, of course, but they understood. Because it’s not really about the hair in your face, it’s about the choice to rise above the distraction. This barre, this moment, and this small act of discipline is your preparation for the stage. Every class is your rehearsal for something greater.
We talked about being hard on yourself in the right way, expecting more because that’s who you are. I told them, “That’s what separates the ‘Men from the boys’ using the old idiom without respect to gender, but rather, meaning to distinguish between mature, experienced individuals and novices - the professional from the amateur. It’s not about punishment; it’s about pride. About developing a standard that becomes your character, your calling card, your integrity.
While that lesson played out with my college students today, I’ve shared a version of it many times with my younger students, too. Sometimes, when I see messy, half-hearted work, arms drooping, ribbons untied, I stop class completely and put someone on the spot.
“Is your bedroom clean or messy?” I ask with a smile. There’s always a pause, a giggle, a little hesitation. And then I say it. “You can’t have a messy bedroom in ballet.”
It’s not about literal clutter, of course. It’s about mindset. You have to be a bit of a perfectionist. You have to be clean and deliberate, to care about the details, because those details tell the world who you are. The precision, the order, the awareness. It all translates into artistry.
Later, when I got home and was relaxing and brainlessly scrolling online, a post about leaders came across my feed, referencing the television series, The Bear, and specifically, the episode where Ritchie works at a fine dining restaurant, polishing forks, thinking it was beneath him. The post read:
“What looks like perfectionism to others is often just vision. The leader sees the whole picture. Every detail matters because every detail is part of the experience. Others might roll their eyes, “Why so strict about forks?” but that’s the difference between a restaurant that survives and one that becomes legendary. Passion has a cost. It demands standards that not everyone understands. To the outside, it feels obsessive. Inside, it’s clarity. The way you do small things is the way you do everything. Greatness doesn’t happen when everyone agrees. It happens when one person insists on a standard that feels unreasonable, until, one day, the results make sense to everyone. That’s why true leadership is lonely. You see a vision no one else can. You push for details others dismiss. And in the end, those same details are what people remember. Call it perfectionism if you want. But history calls it legacy.”
And I thought, yes! That’s it. That’s the hair in your face.
Because it’s never really about the fork. It’s never about the hood of the sweatshirt. It’s never about the hair that falls at the wrong time. It’s about how we choose to meet the moment. The smallest, most ordinary one, as if it already holds the weight of the extraordinary.
It’s about holding yourself to the standard that no one else can see yet. The one that will become your legacy.
The late basketball legend John Wooden once said, “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.”
And that’s the quiet truth of all great art. Character isn’t built under the lights. It's built at the barre, one small, inconvenient moment (and one stubborn bang) at a time.
