The Guitar Pick

On Christmas morning, my husband handed me a small wrapped box about the size of a glasses case. I gingerly removed the paper, lifted the lid, and gasped. Inside was the most beautiful Christmas tree ornament I'd ever seen—a perfect replica of an acoustic guitar, down to the tuning pegs. You can't exactly play a song on it or anything, but if you strum the strings you can hear a high-pitched something. I was delighted.

"You know that's not actually your present," said my husband as I hung the ornament on the tree. "It's a symbol—I just thought you'd want to pick out your own guitar."

I was over the moon. I have always wanted an acoustic guitar—sometimes secretly, sometimes not so secretly. I couldn't wait to go guitar shopping.

Buying a guitar is not—as I thought—like going to the pound to pick up a puppy. You don't just enter a music warehouse, walk the aisles, and wait for a cosmic connection between you and your destined dreadnought (that's guitar-speak for a guitar body that looks like this). There are all sorts of variables to consider—makes, model numbers, materials, tones, aesthetics, not to mention price. It may not be as complicated (or expensive) as buying a car, but being uninformed can be costly.

Anticipating this, my husband read up on the best guitar options for beginners, so he had a handy list at the ready when we walked into the Guitar Center. This talisman served to keep option overload from swallowing me up when we walked into the guitar room, which was literally covered from floor to ceiling with instruments of all different shapes, sizes, and colors. I had no idea what to do. Do you pull the guitars off of the wall? Do you strum them in medias res? Apparently, neither. You point, and the sales guy magically plucks them out of the air for you.

The sales guy, Aaron, was patient and knowledgeable and covered in tattoos and piercings, like all serious guitar players should be. He'd obviously seen his share of newbies, but I was still mortified when he placed an actual guitar in my hands. I felt ridiculous, especially when the teenage customer behind me was holding court with his family, telling them what to look for in a guitar, all the while noodling "Stairway to Heaven." I felt like a total idiot holding an instrument I didn't know how to play.

I tried to remember one of the chords my mother taught me 15 years ago and managed to form a sloppy A major after several interminable seconds. I strummed it timidly once, winced, and prayed that I would turn invisible. Aaron finally left me with the guitar and my mortification to find a different model.

"That one," whispered my husband, pointing to the wooden instrument on my lap, "is on the list." I nodded, grateful to have some point of reference in this sea of strings.

Aaron returned with another guitar, slightly less beautiful than the first—more of a butter yellow than the mellow "Sandburst" finish of the one in my lap. He traded guitars with me, and I fumbled like someone trying to hold a baby for the first time. Finally, Aaron took pity on me and expertly played a few bars himself on first one guitar, then the other. "Hear the difference?" he asked.

I'm ashamed to say I did not. But we took the pretty "Sandburst" one, which he said had a "brighter" tone. Score! It also happened to be on my husband's list: a Yamaha FG700S. Double-score!

Of course, my puppy love was in full effect. It was this one, or no guitar at all. So, I let some things slide that I normally wouldn't have. For example, this guitar was a display model, which meant it did not come with a box—even this novice knows that is a no-no (thanks to the pontificating teenager in the store, of course). Aaron insisted that mine were the only fingerprints on the guitar—but this was demonstrably untrue, as he'd just played it for me. (Of course, it looked pristine to me—luckily, I haven't had any issues with it.)

Also, the store was out of cases, which meant I opted for the sucker's extended warranty just in case the guitar got crushed by a herd of elephants on the way home. Let's just say you're probably not getting a bargain when the sales guy throws in a set of free picks—those seemed like pity picks to me.

Still, I had that new puppy feeling. I gingerly carried my prize to the car and arranged a make-shift beach-towel bed for it in the hatchback. By the time we got home, I could hardly wait to play my A chord over and over and over and over again. Next time, we'll know to pick up some ear plugs, too.