Hair
No; not the musical but something equally disagreeable.
Found a hair in the leftovers from a local restaurant; now I have to make the decision about whether to eat them or not.
Why does life have to be so complex?
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Found a hair in the leftovers from a local restaurant; now I have to make the decision about whether to eat them or not.
Why does life have to be so complex?
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Wry - I have been there. The desperate inner conflict between the knowledge that the hair is likely someone else's, but the overweening desire to claim it as one's own, and eat the burger.
You are blogging via yer Blackberry! Very coohl. Can comment here from my trusty old MDA, but putting up a post on my template...nut likely.
Have to just say that I'm happy to see the return of the green and yellow livery. :)
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I use the "hair in the fries" analogy with my students to help explain the concept of mathematical proof, which allows no exceptions, unlike, say, English "rules."
A math statement, proved, allows no mistakes, else it is no proof.
"But what if," asks the canny student, "there were only one little exception? Wouldn't the statement still be sort of proved?"
To which I reply, "How do you feel if you find only one hair in your french-fry bag? Do you keep on blithely eating the fries, or is the experience ruined, somehow?"
"Eeww!," says the class, scandalised and delighted at the same time.
As a sidenote, we can then divide the class into two sets: those who take the hair out and continue to eat, over and against those who stop eating altogether and throw the whole bag out.
I posit that one may think of the former as future English and statistics majors, and the latter as mathematicians proper.
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Interesting premise! It is nicely up-beat, and makes one feel less guilty for belonging to the former group.I would have felt pressured by concerns about hygiene and cholesterol to posit that the former group are those more likely to end up with hardered arteries, and the latter to jog long distances in expensive sports shoes well into their retirement.
(It must be my hair in the fry-bag. Okay, it is the wrong colour and length, but it has to be mine in order for the fries to be consumed with a frisson of moral rectitude, rather than retch-itude.)
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