I am silently but no less hysterically laughing at myself while my parents slumber upstairs in the Brooklyn digs. Today I bought classical guitar strings to restring my friends' guitar (to be explained another day), and the friendly guy at Dan's Chelsea Guitars (a tiny, tiny, crammed-full store) sold me the cheaper ball-end Martins. I was confident enough in my string-wrapping skills to go ahead even after an afternoon spent rowing my parents around the Central Park lake -- I do, after all, kind of fancy myself as good at fiddly little manual dexterity tasks. But I neglected, in my fatigue, to think long and hard or short and soft about the ball-ends.
I swear that the guy had said they go "up top," but he must think differently about top and bottom. So... I put them through the tuners. Well, it looks ridiculous, and it's wrong, of course, but it serves the same function, after all. And I rather enjoyed doing the wrapping and tying at the bottom end. They're quietly stretching out tonight, but tomorrow morning when everyone's awake, LOOK OUT SEGOVIA!
P.S. In the never-ending saga of my wirecutterlessness, I once again need wirecutters. I hope I can find my friends' pair, because I can cut the nylon with scissors, but I don't know about the others.
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