I never planned to be a bassist. In fact, if you'd told me a few years ago that I'd end up performing my debut show at the House of Blues, I would have laughed while accidentally cutting someone's bangs too short. You see, I was a hairstylist, and a pretty good one at that. But here's the thing about life: sometimes your most useful skills come from the most unexpected places.
Take cutting hair, for instance. Hours of precise movements, reading patterns, and making tiny adjustments - sound familiar to any musicians out there? I didn't know it at the time, but all those years of not accidentally cutting people's ears off were actually preparing me for something entirely different.
I started practicing bass guitar with the kind of obsession usually reserved for people trying to solve cold cases or decode Taylor Swift lyrics. I would wake up early to practice, go to work thinking about bass lines while shampooing clients, and fall asleep with my bass lying next to me like some oversized, musical teddy bear.
The real turning point came when my friend, turned client, David introduced me to GarageBand loops. Suddenly, I was like a kid with a new toy, except this toy helped me write seventeen songs in one month. That's either impressive or concerning, depending on how you look at it.
Then there was Billy, a Dallas bass legend from the Pantera era, also a client, who saw me fumbling through bass lines at two different parties. Both times I was, let's say, "enthusiastically hydrated." Yet somehow, he offered me a band position. It's like getting hired based on your karaoke performance at the office Christmas party - it shouldn't work, but sometimes it does.
My first show at the House of Blues Dallas is where things get interesting. Picture this: me, in a mobster costume, with a pink fuzzy guitar strap (because apparently, that's what professional musicians wear?), doing my best impression of those stoic Robert Palmer girls. My strategy? Move as little as possible and pray I don't mess up. It worked, mostly.
The aftermath involved a band meeting at what I'll call an "establishment of questionable repute." Our lead singer, fresh from American Idol fame, tried to vote me off the island, so to speak. But the guys stood by me - not because of any noble principle, but because I could actually play the songs without major catastrophe. Sometimes competence is your best politics.
By the third show, I had reached what I like to call the "they can't kick me out now" phase. The transformation was complete: from hair artist to bassist, from cutting split ends to splitting ears (in a good way, mostly).
Looking back, I realize that becoming a musician wasn't just about learning an instrument. It was about discovering that expertise isn't some mystical thing that happens to other people. It's what happens when you spend ridiculous amounts of time doing something.
For six weeks after I first picked up the bass guitar, I couldn't put it down. It wasn't just that I wanted to play - I needed to play. The instrument became an extension of my thoughts, my dreams, my very being.
You might know about the 10,000-hour rule. It's become something of a cultural touchstone, hasn't it? The idea that mastery requires ten thousand hours of dedicated practice. Well, I've done the math, and technically, I've crossed that threshold. But here's the funny thing about mastery - the closer you get to it, the further away it seems to drift.
Take last week, for instance. I found myself in a peculiar situation where I'd practiced a song so many times that my brain actually started unlearning it. It's like when you repeat a word so many times it loses all meaning. Bass amnesia, if you will.
The bass player's burden is unique. We're like tightrope walkers in a circus, balancing between rhythm and melody. One misstep and the whole musical circus comes crashing down. It's probably why bass lines are the hardest parts to pick out in a song - well, unless you're trying to decipher mumble rap, but that's a different story entirely.
Modern technology has become my silent partner in this journey. Gone are the days of squinting through fuzzy rehearsal recordings on my phone, trying to decode bass lines like some musical archaeologist. Now I have fancy apps and a clever little amp that feeds the isolated track into one ear and my bass into the other. It's like having a tiny recording studio between my ears.
But here's what I've learned after all these hours: mastery isn't a destination - it's more like a moving target. Just when I think I've got it figured out, my fingers discover a new hand position that changes everything. My ears pick up nuances they never could before. It's as if the instrument is constantly whispering, "Sure, you're good, but have you tried this?"
The truth about pursuing any passion - whether it's playing bass or styling hair - is that it requires a peculiar blend of stubbornness and humility. You need the stubbornness to keep going when you mess up (and oh, you will mess up), and the humility to learn from those mess-ups. Age doesn't matter. Time doesn't matter. What matters is that burning desire to get better, to understand more, to dig deeper.
Think of it like this: every time you pick up that instrument, or those scissors, or whatever tool speaks to your soul, you're not just practicing. You're having a conversation with your future self. And trust me, future you will be grateful for every hour you put in, every mistake you made, and every moment you chose to keep going despite the inner critic telling you to quit.
(If you're interested in starting your own bass journey, I've put together some study guides. They're available in my shop)