Hair Salons

In my twenties I vowed never to patronize a hair salon whose name was a hair-related pun for no other reason that I find them hokey, corny, and unoriginal. Hair to Eternity. A Cut Above. [Insert image of me sticking a finger down my throat.] And, lucky me, I lived in a town near an airport, which provides fodder for a whole sub-genre of names, like--yes--Hairport. Runway Styles. Feel free to let your imagination go wild here.

Conveniently, at the time I disavowed said salons, I lived in Boston and had my hair done at Michael Salon in Coolidge Corner. There. Perfect, I thought. Call it a salon and people will know what your business is. Attach your name to it and we can tell you are serious about it. You are putting your reputation at stake. Who cuts your hair? Michael. Not some gum-snapping parody of herself that I would expect to find in the pun-named salons. Even though I know that’s not really fair. It’s just my thing. Or not my thing.

I don’t like fake sugar. I will drink diet colas but I do not like white diet sodas (lemon lime or ginger ales, for example) and I don’t like diet desserts. (Really, what’s the point? I’d rather have fruit than fat free, sugar free something or other. Gross.) Hearing someone say anywayS sends a chill up my spine, Jell-O makes me gag (I force myself if there’s vodka in it), I find tongue piercing vile, and I don’t like salons with pun names. And now I am a hypocrite.

The truth will set you free. I go to Headliners Salon and Day Spa, in Tolland. A few years ago, when I was the Yearbook Advisor, my staff chipped in for a gift certificate for me. This is a salon they were aware of, close to the town in which I teach and they live, closer still to the UConn Storrs campus where so many of our students go to college. It’s not particularly convenient for me, unless it’s an after school appointment, but it was a generous gift certificate, and I was between salons—moving haplessly and dissatisfied from one salon to the next, when I found myself happy with my haircut and foil and the stylist who had an appointment available. I have been patronizing the salon ever since.

Which is not to say I’m over the pet peeve necessarily. I just drive there on autopilot now and try to ignore the name. When I’m asked where I have my hair done I say softly, Headliners, and with more volume (no pun intended) SALON and DAY SPA.

So don’t think for a minute you’ll find me toasting to a Happy New YearS with a glass of White Zinfandel. Ever.

PS Thanks, Jill, who reminded me today, after reading my homage to her, of something about which I had not yet ranted...

Topics

Jill asked me to follow "Relative Craziness" with a funny post. She said it would haunt her too... But obviously I've been at a loss for a humorous topic; I haven't written in two days, and I was on a bit of a roll. It's not that I don't want to oblige. Jill has been supportive of my writing for as long as I can remember. I figured it was the least I could do. So, why, after I left her feeling sad can I not think of anything to make fun of about myself, a pet peeve to rant about, a silly memory to share?...Now that I think of it, she asked me to write about my April vacation week with her in San Diego, and here I am about to fly off to Seattle in the middle of my summer vacation, and I haven't done that yet either.

Hmmm...

I don't think it's any Jill-specific defiance. As I said, she checks my blog often, compliments often, and tells me to keep writing, much the way I supported her as a musician and vocalist. I would go to her gigs when she was still living in Connecticut (where was American Idol 20 years ago? Hello?!?! She definitely would have won!) and never tired of her beautiful voice and telling her she was just great, she nailed the Aretha tune, she brought tears to my eyes.

There may, however, be a touch of Psych 101 defiance that lingers in these occasionally achy bones, some rebelliousness that does what I'm told not to, and procrastinates when I should just get it done. I'm thinking the writing was on the wall when in sixth grade I coordinated a walk-out to demonstrate our dissatisfaction with what we saw as unfair discipline. (If we were noisy in the cafeteria during lunch, the lunch ladies would rat us out to the gym teacher, who worked us to the max--with cockroaches and other military calisthenics. When someone passed out and he couldn't do that anymore, he made us sit on the gym floor, completely silent and unmoving. Hence the walk out.)

Either that or maybe I have simply been enjoying myself by the pool, where I refuse to bring my laptop, catching up on reading novels, making friends with other pool regulars, relaxing and refueling, waiting for the next idea to take hold.

Eventually I'll think of something funny. Promise.

Relative Craziness

My family is far from perfect. We have our own garden variety dysfunctions—communication issues; some lingering, outdated ideas in some members of the elder generation that frustrate some of us in the younger; a predilection for sending members off on guilt trips—but those issues have settled in and become part of our big family. That is, I think we are all pretty aware that it is exactly how we function. We gingerly maneuver over and through these obstacles that litter open and honest love. And we do love each other. Relatively peacefully. With lots of laughter and fond memories, respect for and appreciation of the multigenerational extended family that gathers still for every holiday, we are a big happy family.

I was reminded of how fortunate I am to have this relatively peaceful family when I was at the pool the other day and a young woman, a guest of someone in my complex, came into the pool area with her two boys—one around 12, one 3 (not yet potty trained). For the entire time she was at the pool, she accosted someone on her cell phone. It didn’t qualify as a conversation because it was a whole lot of screaming and excessive dropping of F-bombs. Tell that f*cking wh*re he’s my f*cking husband and she needs to get the f*ck out of my f*cking house! Even I, Queen of Expletives, was offended. But mostly, how my heart broke for those boys, especially the older one who was old enough to understand, who was left to take care of his little brother (half brother, it appeared) while his mother went on like a lunatic and pretend everything was okay…when, really, it was hideous. Eventually, she grabbed the younger boy who had stepped out of the water when she barked at him to, and told the older one she was taking his brother to feed him some lunch.

“Will you make me a sandwich too?” he asked.

“We’ll have to get take out or something later,” she snapped back and hurried off. In other words, no.

It haunted me, haunts me still. I wonder if the older boy ate lunch that day. I wonder if every day is like this for them. I wonder if those boys will ever know love without chaos.

The craziness in my life is sane, I realized. I am fortunate that I have never had to live with this kind of chaos. So much so that I will happily pack my own bags for my next guilt trip.

Handbags

I love handbags. I have loved them since I was a little girl, I remember, when they were called pocketbooks. A pocketbook had a short handle and a metal frame and made a snapping noise when you closed it. A pocketbook is what my grandmother used to carry to church, with little more inside than a handkerchief, her rosary beads, and a piece of rye bread in a plastic bag that she'd tear apart and share with us on the way home from mass to make sure we didn't have any Eucharist stuck to the roofs of our mouths. Now I call them handbags and purses, totes and bags. And I still love them, as much I do shoes, and not just because they always fit.

Of course that is true to some extent, as there are no fitting room incidents that are a prelude to a purchase, although I am one who will stand in front of a mirror at the store and take a look at how the bag looks hanging on my shoulder if that is how it is meant to be carried, or how it looks while draped at my elbow. And I can outgrow a bag. Well, my mood can. I have former favorite bags, in perfectly good condition, sitting in the bottom of my closet in Sterilite boxes.

My handbags come in many varieties--to match those many moods --but most are black and fit more than a woman should carry. I never leave home without a cosmetic bag full of pharmaceutical panaceas, and lipstick in two shades with matching lip liners. I carry a wallet as big as some people’s purses, and a Filofax I cannot yet upgrade for technology. I usually carry at least one small journal, a variety of writing implements, and sometimes a novel. I have my sunglasses, and my regular glasses, and random papers and coupons.

Eventually I downsize from a black tote that can fit all the aforementioned (as well as a small freshman or two), to give my shoulder and back a break, and begin to use a purse more as an accessory. I’ll use smaller bags in different colors, and will change my bags to match my outfits. My resolve to stop shopping for bags dissolves around then, and I again look for that bag that will give the perfect pop of color or be just the right size and ergonomically correct, and my bag collection grows again. As it did the other day when this tote spoke to me from where it sat on a high shelf. But really, how could I not want this bag? This structured half tote-half handbag that matches my toenail color , gives pop to my black and white summer outfits AND has patent leather handles and trim? Exactly!

Eventually I will get sick of changing bags or will no longer have enough time to do so and I will switch back to a big black tote and wish I could manage with just my grandmother’s pocketbook.

Sinking our Teeth In

I was out the other night when I had the misfortune of seeing two women share a crab cake. That's it. ONE crab cake. They each had one complimentary roll and precisely one half of a crab cake. At a respectable, high-end restaurant. At dinner time. Not as an appetizer, but as dinner.

Seriously.

I am certainly not against sharing, which can provide an opportunity to sample, to not have to commit to a single entree or appetizer. But of course sampling requires at least two dishes be ordered, which--coincidentally--my boyfriend and I did that night. We ordered a Caesar salad with grilled chicken and an order of sliders--3 3 oz. mini burgers, as explained by the bartender, the same amount of meat as in a regular burger, but easier to eat and easier to share. I started with the salad and he started with the sliders. When I had enough of the creamy, garlicky goodness and warm, juicy chicken, I passed on my plate to him, and we swapped. He finished the salad and I ate a slider and we switched plates again so he could eat the last slider and finish the fries. I sample like this with other people as well, people who enjoy actually eating when we eat out, ordering more than one menu item, as the Crab Cake Ladies did not.

Haven't they ever seen a single Hollywood heart throb talk about how attractive they find it to meet a woman who eats? Don't they have male friends who can coach them in these matters? Men think it's sexy when a woman bites into a burger. Beyond the potential licking of fingers that results from a good grease drip or the dribble of mayonnaise just below the lip, men--REAL men, anyway--like women who have a passion for life, for food, and enough self-confidence or self-abandon to actually eat.

But don't do it on any man's account, ladies. Do it for yourselves. When you go out, allow yourself a whole crab cake. It won't make you fat. But if you really feel your calorie counting doesn't allow such an indulgence, cut back elsewhere. Maybe reconsider that second high-calorie bluetini or other high priced, primary color cocktail. If it's a financial thing, 4 piece McDonald's McNuggets are on the $1 value menu and they're only one Weight Watchers point per nugget! But I suppose that, too, is against the point.

I want to live in a world where women don't ask for dressing on the side so they can dip the tines of their forks in and then stab a forkful of lettuce. I want to go to an annual faculty pizza lunch and not find one or two female faculty members forgoing a slice of pizza for a Lean Cuisine or a yogurt and a slice of deli turkey. I want for the Crab Cake Ladies to each order their own, or follow with dessert.

Come on, women! Waifs are so yesterday. Let's sink our teeth into... life.

Hair Clips

My life is infinitely easier in warm weather, especially in summertime, due in large part to the hair clip. Not the 1980s banana clip (which I am proud to say I NEVER owned, although I did have quite a collection of barrettes and hair bows) that creates a Mohawk-like mane down the back of the head, but a basic claw clip that holds your hair back and up—peacock ends optional. When I can put my hair up, wet or dry, in a clip and go without my hair freezing or my ears risking frost bite (which is not to say I don’t wear ponytails in winter), I can get places on time. Of course it helps when I don't have to decide whether or not to wear tights and which gloves and scarf to wear with which coat and leave enough time to defrost my windows or clear off my car. Still, I like to credit the hair clip.

It makes having long hair in summertime low maintenance, and my blow dryer obsolete. I can go from pool to party in a half-hour or less. I can more easily heed hair care advice and not wash it every day. I can skip hair cuts in the summer because I rarely wear it down. It’s one less thing to worry about.

Sure, I suppose I could cut my hair short, but I wore it short for the first half of my life. When girls in high school, the ones with all the boyfriends, wore Farrah Fawcett hair (Rest in Peace), I had short hair that combed back to a D.A. I cut my hair off in third grade—why did my mother allow me to cut off those thick blond braids?—and wore it short through college. So after wearing my hair short (and sometimes permed—ew!) the first twenty or so years of my life, I have worn my hair in long (straight) styles for the last twenty—including the broadcaster’s bob and the Rachel shag. (In fact, not to brag, but I was the first client my former stylist in Boston coiffed ala Rachel.)

I will continue to wear my hair long because I like it. Because I have nice hair. Because it’s easy.

Oh, how I heart hair clips.

Karma

So the other day I carried on about the Instant Gratification Generation, teens with cell phones and computers and instant access to everything and anyone, while I had to write letters when I was in college. Well, wouldn’t you know…

On Saturday I was by the pool (of course I was, the sun was shining) and decided to tan my back a little. Putting a towel on the concrete and getting in a prone position is not an option, so I usually stand in the pool, waist high in water, while resting my book on a towel on the edge of the pool. I stand there and read and let the sun kiss my back. Sometimes I bring my cell phone with me. Yes, I admit, even I have stood in the pool and talked on the phone.

Well, John Lennon sang in my ear again, when instant karma came and got me as I picked up my towel, forgetting that my technology treasure trove was tucked inside and it decided to go for a swim. SH*T!!!! My reflexes were good; I went under water for it as quickly as I would for a drowning infant, and caught it before it hit bottom. Did I save it?

I took the battery out and let it dry in the sun, while gathering tips from fellow pool goers. Put it on the fridge. Put it in the oven overnight on low. Put it in a bowl of dry rice. It’ll come back in a few hours. It’ll take a day. I listened. I went on line and Googled the topic (oops, technology dependence again!). I was not extremely optimistic. I thought [insert favorite expletive!,] how I am going to live without it? What do I do?!

Alas, my reflexes were no match for chlorine and water. All the advice was for naught.

For forty-eight hours I prayed for my phone to dry out and work again. In that time I visited the Verizon store twice, where on my first trip found out I am not eligible for an upgrade until December 10. (That would be too easy!) After my second visit to the Verizon store today, I left with a new battery for my old phone.

It’s not my favorite phone. But it works. At least I can text and talk. I feel whole again. [shhh]