The Look usually starts in the eyes. Until she -- it's usually a 'she', though not always; most men don't ask so many questions -- has heard this particular answer of mine, she has had a social smile and a look of understanding. But then all of a sudden her eyes stop smiling; they recoil; they look distant. The brow starts to wrinkle. The lips stick together. The head cocks slightly to one side.

There's a slightly uncomfortable pause.

I brace for the inevitable follow-up question (or worse, an abrupt "Oh."). It's usually one or more of the following:

a) "What's that?"
b) "Do you play an instrument?"

Or, the most squirm-inducing and most tiresome:

c) "So what are you going to do with that?"

These queries, however well-intentioned, translate respectively to:

a) "I've never heard of that."
b) "There must be some practical part to it, right?"
c) "Seriously -- is there really a demand for that?"

Knowing that the first question will lead to others in which I'll have to justify my existence, I am tempted to lie. I want to say that I got my degree in engineering, business or law, but if there's any further questions, I know I'll crack.


I don't feel ashamed to having studied musicology, but sometimes I feel like I ought to. The world doesn't know how to respond to liberal arts majors.