hair

It’s not a good idea to touch your hair when you are in transition. Or change your appearance at all for that matter.

I can offer that advice because I know from personal experience.

The first time was second or third grade, I can’t remember which, when I was unceremoniously transferred without any warning from Miss Law’s classroom, which I adored because it was very progressive (she had us sit with our desks in a circle), to Sister Francis Ann’s dark and dreary classroom where the desks were all in ROWS.

That night I cut my own bangs. Badly. With plastic doll scissors. But I never admitted it. Until now.

I always seemed to get a bad haircut right about the time I was losing my front teeth or getting braces. Like I couldn’t just leave well enough alone.
What about you?

Was it bad timing?

One of the traumas of childhood?

Or a tragic coincidence?

I can’t be sure, but I have the pictures to prove it.

Due to the fact that pixie cuts were all the rage for little girls in the 1960’s, and that I wasn’t asked or consulted in any way because, well, because it was back in the days when kids didn’t get a vote and my mom chose my stylist and paid for my haircut, I decided to fly in the face of conventional thinking I followed the trend and wore my hair like a boy.

At first a toothless boy.

Then a little boy with teeth too large for his/her face to which the braces only added insult to injury.

Nothing says “Hey, I’m well adjusted”,  like showing up to the first day of a new grade wearing braces, a uniform, and your dad’s haircut.

Damn…childhood. It’s no wonder we’re all so fucked up when it comes to transitions and change.

Make yourself look as bad as you possibly can—venture out into an awkward social situation—and then try to make new friends.

Which I think became a pattern for me.

I remember once, in the midst of a terribly painful break-up (to be distinguished from all the other break-ups that were a laugh riot), drinking and dialing my hairdresser who was a friend. I needed to re-invent. So…we proceeded to spend the rest of the night smoking cigarettes, drinking two-buck-Chuck, cursing sexy bad boys and dying my blonde hair a hideous shade of eggplant purple/red/black/vomit.

Then we both agreed (at least that was her side of the story), that the only thing I needed to make me look even cuter—were bangs.

The next day I wanted to die. No, seriously. I wanted to drop dead at the sight of myself.
I had an audition and I was now sporting bangs. Bangs the color of eggplant vomit; that matched the rest of my hair; and that was the least of my problems.
I was single.
Again.
It was a real catastrofuck.

This is my darling sister, whom I lived with at the time, and I’m sure we’re laughing at the eyebrows I had to draw on with a black pencil to match my hair.

Even my mom, the one who had me pixie-cut, hated it. She actually cried and asked why I was deliberately defacing myself. Like I was cutting or something. She said I “needed help.”

I didn’t need a shrink to tell me I sucked at transition. I had a bigger issue. Control. If something happened that I didn’t have any control over…watch out! Bangs were in my immediate future.

They still are.

If you know me, you know how many different colors and styles I’ve worn my hair over the years and if I trace it back, something emotional was always happening, some change or transition, right around the time I did the big ones.

I just did it recently. When I decided I was a writer, I also decided it was time to stop dying my hair and go gray!

So, that just goes to prove that old neurosis die hard although I’ve gotten a gazillion times better.
I recognize what’s about to happen when I get wobbly and start fingering the scissors.

Bangs.

Then I go and hide them from myself.

I’ve also outgrown drinking and dialing my hairdresser and I try not to make huge changes in my appearance before an important event—although I have a big meeting at the end of the month and I’m not sure my hair is purple enough underneath…I’m serious.

The other day I tore a picture out of a magazine of a cute way to wear gray hair with…bangs.

I’m doomed.

What do you do under similar circumstances? Loose weight? Buy boobs? Grow a beard? (Yeah, me too)

Carry on,
xox

So—Wowza and Holy Cowza you guys! The response to my video (my vlog, see I know the lingo), was so overwhelmingly positive! Honestly! You guys sent me the nicest texts and emails and left kind words on Facebook and the blog. I think I may have, hands down, the best readers EVER!

Thank you! I love and appreciate you more than I can say!

That being said, the one thing a lot of you mentioned, including my husband, was the fact that through most of the video my bangs went rogue and covered my right eye.
I have no idea why my hair decided to do that. It has a mind of its own and I’m lucky if it behaves itself and stays anywhere near my head at all! I have helicopter hair, remember? And I need a haircut.

Anyhow, I was thinking about my one-eyed talk on surrender and also about some feedback I received a while back about the way I dress for Yoga. No pastels, no flowers, no sheer floaty ethereal garb for moi. Nope. It’s all black for this girl. Hoods and jackets that hook on your thumbs; with zippers and vesty-crossover things.

I was told I came to Yoga dressed as a ninja.

So…I’m a one-eyed Ninja. You guys, I’m a Ninja Pirate!

I fucking love that! I’m owning that. Ha! I’m surrendering to that!

Which got me to thinking about being an individual, not following the crowd, wearing a grey-hair eye-patch; and being a pirate. I recently wrote a post about just that sort of thing: Be A Pirate.

Wanna be a Pirate with me? Too late. I already picture you all as my own special, rowdy, band of Ninja Pirates.

But here you go if you need the juju to get you started:

BE A PIRATE

An original doesn’t conform to expectations — they change them forever.

“It is better to be a pirate, than to be in the navy.”
~Steve Jobs

Being an original is not easy.
As Abraham says: “There is never a crowd on the leading edge.”

So for those of you starting a new, well…anything — listen up.

Unless you have a huge budget for sky writing, a Foo Fighters concert at your book signing, free Sprinkles cupcakes, and car giveaway; there may be crickets a first.

Seriously annoying nothing will happen. Day after day.

“I want the most unusual, badass store in the Valley, someplace with one-of-a-kind stuff that I would buy. Hey listen if I don’t do it two guys from West Hollywood will and I’ll go in there and feel bad as I hand over my American Express card again and again knowing that I had the idea first.”
~Famous Last Words

I remember days at my store where the phone never rang and no one came in. When I got home I had to clear my throat to speak like you do in the morning when you wake up because I hadn’t used my voice in over nine hours.

Your blog; book; store; talk; product or whatever, will need some back story to be understood, but don’t go overboard with that.
Keep it simple and come from the heart. Heart-Full people will eventually find you and the others, well, they can start their own tribe thank you very much.

Don’t spend too much time explaining yourself
Not to your friends, your wife or potential investors. As you attempt to get validation from the peanut gallery your brilliant creative ideas will get watered down by popular opinion.

If it was easy, made perfect sense, was a sure thing or a slam dunk — there’d be a line at your door and believe me — someone would have already thought of it.

You’re an original.
Original means new, never before attempted.
Uncharted, pirate infested waters. No map, and oftentimes not all the answers.
Jesus others, what part of original are you not getting?

New Mantra: 

People will not be able to pigeonhole you and they will hate that about you. They will also despise you for not conforming.
Happy, creative people doing what they love are annoying to others.

Others also get uncomfortable with square pegs in round holes and if the world is made of round holes and you decide you are a square peg — Grow a thick skin — and don’t say I didn’t warn you…it’s gonna get awkward.

The urge to conform will be seductive.
It will drunk-text you late at night and fill your head with lies.
At one point (or seven) in your endeavor it will convince you that you fucked up, it will beg you to come back to the fold for an easy ride — and it will be right. It would be easier to conform.
But you will die the very slow death of a thousand paper cuts. And we all know how much those fuckers hurt.

You can’t make everyone like you or that thing you’re doing.
Unless you’re Beyonce or Mother Theresa. It’s an impossible goal so give it up right now Goddamnit.

People will attempt to copy you. Don’t worry about it.
They aren’t you so it will be a lousy karaoke version of your concept. And since it wasn’t their passion, their up in the middle of the night writing new ideas burning desire — they’ll get bored during the crickets phase and drop it.

Imitation has absolutely NO stamina.

Go ahead and exceed what people expect from you — but not to make a point.
Just give your creativity an outlet. Let it flow. Like blood. All over the place.

I post everyday. That smokes most bloggers. I do it because I love it. And I didn’t know any better when i started.
Listen, if it was expected of me I know I’d say, “fuck it”.
Many others have given me permission to cut back and some days I do, but I have already exceeded what was expected and as a result that created consistency, trust, and then relationships followed.

You’ve gotta show up. Day in and day out.
When I’m walking around and I stumble upon some cool new shop or cafe that is beckoning me to enter, I can never understand why in God’s name, in the middle of the day, they are CLOSED.
No sign, no hours posted, no nothing.
I don’t care how cutting edge and original you are — show the fuck up. Be open, be accessible, so I can share in you’re awesomeness.

You may fail. Like big time, skid marks on you face fail.
Think Steve Jobs being fired from his own company. You may taste public humiliation. It’s a bitter pill but you will survive, and most likely flourish.

In closing:
Try not to be an arrogant dick.
Again think Steve Jobs. He was revered — but not well liked — and I know I said people may not like you but when they fire you from your own company…

Often nonconformists have absolutely zero social skills. Mark Zuckerberg for example.
Listen, develop some, break that mold too.
Be kind to others, crack a smile, have some fun.

Be a kind, fun-loving pirate. Think Captain Jack Sparrow — or Sir Richard Branson.

Carry on my square peg pirates,
xox

“It’s as if she assumes everything will go right, and when it doesn’t – which, of course, is pretty often – she is surprised and affronted.”
― Christina Baker Kline

My flat-iron weighed in this morning.

Even though NO ONE asked its opinion, apparently it agrees with my decision to stop chemically straightening my hair.

I was born with naturally frizzy, wavy hair and as of this morning it thinks I should just make peace with it already!

Did I mention that although it has had to take on the almost Herculean task single-handedly, without the assistance of caustic chemicals, it doesn’t get a vote?

Anyway, in a blatant act of jackassery it decided to run cold. Ice cold. Half way through doing my hair.

Really? It wore out?
Airplanes fly, full of people and shit, day in and day out, back and forth and around the world for ten or twenty years. They don’t even get to take a breath.

The very thing; the only task it was born to do was to heat up and deliver to me stick straight hair.

I never asked it for shine or a softer texture. That would have been over reaching. It would have seemed ungrateful.

Nope, I only needed it to heat up to a surface temperature hot enough to grill a Panini, and thus straighten my hair—and as of this morning it could do neither. Fuck it.

Time of death: 08:25

First appearance of freaky looking helicopter hair: 08:26

What do you do when something or someone can’t live up to their promise?

I get MAD.

I want to throw things…and scream. I want to smash glass, stomp my feet, and let loose a long string of obscenities…then MAYBE, after I’m worn out—I negotiate.

That’s the time I initiate an uneasy détente.
That’s the place where there is pleading, cajoling, mixed with prayers and promises— and that’s just me.

“Please, if you just finish my hair, I’ll…I’ll…cure world hunger.”
Then invariably the talks break down and I’m frantically pushing buttons and kicking and breaking things again.

Have I mentioned I don’t handle disappointment well? How are you guys with that?

I count on things. I look forward to things.
Like hot water, hot coffee and a hot flat-iron.

I take those things for granted in the morning. Like the sun rise, morning breath, and pooping.

Why can’t they just deliver?
They have one fucking reason for being. To make me seem impossibly fresh, naturally beautiful, happy and ready for the day.

Pivoting. Turning on a dime. Going with the flow.

I like to think I’ve got that process in the bag.
Until the Universe fucks with my fat iron.

Or my coffee maker.

Or my water heater.

Can anyone say Mercury retrograde?

Hey, how’s your Monday?

Carry on (if you see me and my shitty hair today…just keep walking)
Seriously.

xox

(This was taken during my five,eleven, fifteen-year “awkward phase” —you can see she had her work cut out for her).

I was reminded recently, as I continue my snarky, sweaty slog through my fifties, that I’ve done so without the guidance or fair warning of my mother. In all fairness she was too busy; engaged in the parental heavy-lifting of getting the three of us into adulthood, that it never occurred to her to share these pearls of wisdom.

So I’ll do you all the favor of pulling back the curtain, exposing all the hidden truths (in no particular order), of life in middle age.

1.) Invest in a good bra, and for godssakes if you have anything over a D cup, don’t jog. It is for that reason alone that I have to tell the girl at Nordstrom that I wear a 36 long.

2.) Carry an across-the-shoulder messenger bag and keep the weight below thirty-five pounds. Yes, you heard me. I have a divot in my shoulder and the posture of a Sherpa from carrying a bag that has been way too heavy for over forty years.

Oh, and ladies—after you stop menstruating, you can toss all the tampons. I’m giving you the all clear. I put them in my time capsule along with my Midol, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

It’s okay—give up the fight.

3.) If someone says they’re sorry — forgive them. You may never talk to them again, or wish them well, but the forgiveness will set you free.

4.) Make eye contact and remember people’s names, My trick? I repeat it back to them and use a rhyming game (in my head, not to their face).
Along those lines—Listen without interrupting, ask people questions about themselves and always introduce yourself and anyone standing with you.

These are the Golden Rules of any dinner party, staff meeting, black tie event or ladies restroom line — really, any social situation you may find yourself in.

5.) Use those dental-pick-thingies every night. I brush and floss like a maniac and yet I still manage to pull an entire steak dinner out from between my teeth with those things!

6.) Listen to advice but only from the smart people — Never the stupid ones. Pay attention. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

7.) Word to the wise. You can forget about those mustache and chin hairs.
After forty, pubic hair will lose its genetic coding and start migrating around your body.
It will crawl up your stomach and onto the back of your legs if you let it. I tried to wrangle mine, to fill in my over-tweezed eyebrows (a seventies fad that went horribly wrong), but to no avail.
I did find one on my arm last week. Consider yourselves warned.

8.) Men stay boys all their lives. This needs no explanation.

9.) Stay curious. About people, life and the planet. It will help to demystify every seemingly mundane, stupid thing that surrounds you.

10.) Beach hair only looks good on twenty-three year old models named Tia. The same goes for a navel piercing. Trust me on this.

11.) This is a big one. A lie is someone’s imagination working against them. Remember that.

12.) Always carry matches or a lighter. And lipstick. Always carry lipstick.

13.) You will never use calculus beyond college—but good table manners, clean fingernails and comfortable shoes will carry you far in life.

14.) Carrying (and reading) an interesting book will be an amazingly effective airplane conversation starter—and the perfect companion when dining alone.

15.) Be polite and try every food that is offered to you, (which means eat a bull testicle even if you’re a vegetarian). It will broaden your horizons in unimaginable ways and make you a sought after dinner guest.

16.) Self-tanner is a catastrophe-in-a-can waiting to happen. Make peace with your paleness. End of story.

17.) Know that your looks will fade and reconcile yourself with that. Your neck will waddle, the hair on your head will thin, and your breasts will sag. If you decide to take matters into your own hands, make sure your surgeon has a light touch.

You still want to look like you — only rested.

19.) Pay attention to your feet. They will start to fight back after fifty. All the years of squeezing them into severely pointed, one size too small, five-inch heels have made them…cranky.
Can you blame them?

20.) Take the effort to make a good first impression — you may never get a second chance.

And last but not least—reinvent. Don’t rest on you laurels, don’t question your intuition, and don’t tell yourself you’re too old, too fat, or too busy to reassess your situation and reinvent yourself.

Now pay this forward and don’t say I never gave you anything.

Carry on,
xox