I’m sitting in the airport, in Marquette, MI. It’s easily the smallest airport I’ve passed through, and the most exclusive — Only Delta and AA fly commercially through this city. Folks are trickling in. Every non-uniformed person in here will fall into either of two groups: Folks waiting for arrivals, or folks waiting to fly on the same plane I’ll be boarding. Only about four flights are departing from Marquette today. Dad went out on the 11:20am and I’m on the next flight… at 3:50pm. He’s going through Detroit and on to Pennsylvania; I’m going through Minneapolis and on to Oregon. We came to the heart of the country to see my sister. Appropriately.

My sister is wrapping up a summer-long study of Bald Eagles in MN and MI. It’s her third season in this program, and this year she’s the field foreman. The boss. The alpha. And that means she doesn’t have to ask anyone for permission to bring visitors along while she does her work. Dad and I had the privilege this year, and a privilege it was indeed…

More to come after I land in PDX. In the meantime, please enjoy this video of a pair of Bald Eagles in their nest (not taken by me). Note their call — We heard a lot of that this weekend.

Turns out beauty is expensive — Who knew, right? … So yeah, if your teenager is all gaga for glam, you can send him (yes, him) to a decent cosmetology school for about what you’d pay to send him to community college. Just cross your fingers he’ll stick it out through all the unpretty parts. I didn’t. Then again, I had a bachelor’s degree in my back pocket.

There’s a point in there somewhere — Oh! Parents, please teach your glamor guy that disorders like psoriasis and vitiligo and alopecia aren’t gross. Teach him to be kind, compassionate, and to be THE student who will take the clients that the less tolerant, less educated students will turn down. He’ll gain the respect of his instructors, which ultimately will mean the BEST hair models; that extra bowl of bleach for his cut-and-color project; that extra set of initials on his manicure sign-off sheet. And when your boy starts working with the usual beauty school clientele, you should remind him to keep his hands out of his eyes and mouth, because he’s going to be all up in people’s biological business; good, bad and weird. Prepare him, kind parents, to keep his cool when he finds himself holding Agatha’s fungus-riddled foot in his hands, freshly plucked from the pedicure bubble bath — If he doesn’t freak out he’ll have a client for life, and he’ll be very likely to NOT QUIT the program and be saddled with senseless tuition debt.

And while we’re on that topic: Clients, if you’re only willing to pay $10 for a cut and style, spare the poor kid the torture of handling your cesspool of a scalp by simply, you know, bathing. Some day I’ll tell you about that one hair model who was so gross I asked my instructor if I could put my hair dryer in the barbasol. Shortly after picking all of her dandruff out from under my nails (seriously people, she had long curly hair and every inch of it was coated in white flecks that were sticky like wet toilet paper), I walked outta that place and didn’t look back. Did I mention that I made it four months?

No, wait. That wasn’t the point. Here’s the point: Choose wisely when going into debt.

Yeah, that’s it. Even though I’m a Beauty School Dropout (sing it with me, now!) I still have to pay for the schoolin’ I received. But I’m okay with that, because I still cut hair on a regular basis for fun. That’s the key: My livelihood doesn’t depend upon the number of haircuts I give, so I can be super picky about my clientele, and I can practice my craft on a schedule of my choosing. Beauty School Graduate doesn’t get to pick his clients, though he may exercise a little control by getting a chair in a decent salon. And he’s got to work weekends, because that’s when the service industry rakes in the most bucks. He’ll still need a second job for awhile, to pay for living expenses, professional-looking clothes, and service that cumbersome tuition debt. But if he can get through the first rough year or two, he’ll be makin’ bank if he’s got the chops. It’s about patience. It’s about not letting a sense of glitter-flecked entitlement push him out before his time comes.

Before you sign the papers, ask him: Is he ready to scrape together those monthly loan payments by washing, cutting and styling head after head of lice-ridden, dandruff-shedding, grease-caked, matted hair; all after banking only four hours of sleep because he worked late at the bar the night before? In fairness, working in a salon doesn’t always involve biological warfare. What it IS, however, is REAL. Glamor, by definition, isn’t reality, and that can be hard to swallow while toiling through cosmetology school and an apprenticeship — I had my hands in a lot of other people’s hygiene and skin disease problems almost daily for four months, and despite the fact that I love, LOVE hair — I couldn’t stick it out. Even though I was that girl who got the BEST clients, the custom color formulations, the nod at my worst manicures; because I treated the $10 haircut clients like a million bucks… Life got to me, so I’m not a success story here. But if beauty boy can slog through all the things a student/new stylist must endure, he’ll feel happier about clicking “pay now” on that hefty loan.

Thank you, Mom, for giving birth to me. Wait, back up. For carrying me around for nine months and two weeks THEN giving birth to me. I’ve got some additional perspective on that birth part, thanks to some new mommy friends of mine (hi, ladies!). Oh, and Mom… They couldn’t walk properly for a long time after having their kids, and their kids arrived basically on time. For you folks following along at home, I was TWO weeks late. Mom, I don’t know how you were able to take care of me after enduring my birth, and in the absence of any logical explanation I’ve decided that you can levitate or you have go-go-gadget arms.

Fast forward in time to the rock and the yellow Porsche 914 incident. You know, when I thought the car was a chalkboard and all… I’ve told that story a few times and it’s generally met with awe because 1) I wasn’t murdered in the driveway that day and my body buried in the New Mexico high desert, and 2) I didn’t get into trouble because you recognized that I didn’t know drawing on the Porsche with a rock was a BAD thing. Seriously, the reaction I get is “you have amazing parents”. Mom, you have a kind of patience and humor that is rare.

And then we have all those times you drove me to the orthodontist, which was a five-hour round-trip trek. And all those times you let me stay home from school and goof off. And the Green Day concert (my first show!) you took me to. And you put up with me during my whiny teenage years and put up with me when I had stupid socially inept boyfriends and put up with me when I moved to the other side of the country. Through it all–through your example–you taught me to have adventures and to love unconditionally. To have fun.

Being a kid with you, being a grown-up with you, is fun. Let’s keep it up, through the next adventure. And the next. And the next…

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

This street is lined with houses of varying hues of pink. First we have the salmon-colored one. Then the cotton candy one. We’ll call the third one dusty rose. It’s almost as if cotton candy house went first, which either inspired or infuriated the homeowners to the left and right. Regardless, this is no coincidence.

I’m looking out the window of Cellar Door, a local coffee house in Southeast. The latte was exceptional and went down way too quickly. If you’re in the vicinity of SE 11th and Harrison I recommend you drop in and try the espresso, maybe even buy a bag of beans for the road. While you caffeinate, sit in the window and watch people pause before entering the A-1 Food Market across the street. For some reason they all reemerge with nothing in their hands.

I got the most ridiculous letter in the mail on Monday. The author was a doctor whose care I came under last summer (2008, to be clear). She said she hoped the letter found me well. She informed me that due to 60 days of inactivity, she was closing my file. At first I was dismissive, ridiculing the correspondence because I’d actually been inactive for over 6 months and the bitch was LATE. But, the more I made fun of it, the more I thought about what it meant. My file was closed. It was CLOSED. And that stupid piece of paper morphed into a certificate of accomplishment. This morning I dug out my emergency stash of medication and threw it all away.

Thanksgiving. That’s today. We’re excited about it. That’s the royal “we”, man. A lot of people aren’t, though. There’s a certain dread a lot of folks feel around the holidays. I know because I talk to a lot of people and most of them have horror stories ready for the sharing. On the surface, folks spin yarns to entertain, but it’s all deeply rooted in emotions and personal truths. We laugh, wave a hand and utter cheerful exclamations. Then we sigh and think while we sip our beverage, waiting for someone else to tell a chuckler. And we’ve all got ‘em. But that’s not the important part of this paragraph. The important part is the thinking.

In between the stories and the laughs I’ll think about that letter; about the journey to which that letter vaguely refers, and to the ending that it signifies. And I will be thankful for it, among many, many other things.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

I remember the satisfying mental image that materialized when I first heard someone speak of “throwing the elephant into the middle of the room”. It was a combination of Dumbo’s drunk hallucination and that World’s Strongest Man event where they hurl beer keg shells backwards over their heads into a trailer which they must then drag the length of a football field. Last one who still has his kneecaps wins!

What sound does an elephant make? I mean, what do you CALL it?

Trumpet. Oh. Who picks these anyway?

And who thought it would be a good idea to have a mouse coerce a baby elephant to funnel beer through his nose and blow bubbles? And put it in a kid’s movie, no less.

First keg stand on record. Only it was a bucket. And the subject was on his feet.

It’s a wonder parents are flabbergasted at the behavior of today’s college student.

Seriously. If I could blow bubbles with my nose after a few glasses of booze I’d have everything I need for a fun time at home.

It’s easily been 15 year since I’ve seen Dumbo. After viewing this clip, I get the trumpet thing. You win this time, science. Er, beer.

Not me. The elephant. It’s a freakin’ weeknight! What do you take me for?

It will take every remaining bit of 2009 to recap the year. There’s 1/6th of it left, I know. If I wait until 2010 then I’ll get behind on recapping THAT year. And lookit: I’m not exactly on top of this stuff. Slow, even. I offer my last blog post, written two months ago, as Exhibit A. Bailiff, please add it to the list of evidence. Who’s that shouting at me from the back of the courtroom? You! You there! Kiss m–

A guy just sat down next to me at Barista. He spoke to me, then looked at my wedding ring. He’s not talking to me anymore.

Yeah, I know. This is shaping up to be disjointed and distracted. I like shiny things.

I’m not going to talk about 2009 in any particular order, because that would require cross-referencing. I don’t have a whole lot of spare time. The reason why I get to sit, sipping a latte, anywhere besides my office at 3pm is because I went to work at 7am. And I didn’t take a lunch break.

There are ZERO shrieking babies at work. There are two of them here. You can’t exactly teach a brand new baby the meaning of quiet, and these babies aren’t screaming because they’re mad.

It’s all swirling around now. The events, the fights, the joys, the losses and gains. So much to say and a lot that needs to be left alone. This isn’t the place to air out the laundry soaked with stinky drama–I want to celebrate the year of massive change and thank the people who rode shotgun through it with me.

Mounted police just trotted by. In 2009 I decided that I would never name my child after a month, a city, or a deity. However, it’s completely okay to give an animal a human name. I wonder what police name their horses?

When I went back to work in January, I was ready. So ready. I wanted an office chair and a computer with a big monitor and good benefits. What came with those items I couldn’t have known to request. I got a big fat lesson in what it means to take care of myself. And I learned a lot about what this “self” thing is.

Look, a story!

Previously, I worked retail. To be good at retail, you have to be what the customer in front of you needs you to be. Doing that for three years, I gradually came to believe that it was my job to be everyone’s mother. When I got back into the office environment I frustrated myself to tears over the fact that no one was taking care of ME as much as I felt I should take care of them. Inside, I pouted, “Don’t I deserve to be treated the way I am treating YOU?”

Then, one of my genius coworkers told me to sit down at a picnic.

“You must expect great things of great people. When you do not treat them like great people, you send the message that you believe they are mediocre people. Are they mediocre people? If not, why do you feel you need to do so much for them?”

YES. Great. People. Don’t. Need. Me. To. Stress. Over. What. I. Perceive. To. Be. Their. Every. Need.

Perceive is the key word there. I was addicted to people relying on me. Stuck on the feeling that they might roll over and DIE without me. Who will remember that ONE thing or BE there to help with that OTHER thing? If not me, then I’ve failed miserably! MUST be me. It can ONLY be me.

Thanks to my genius coworker, in 2009 I became a recovering coddler. In 2009 I stopped expecting to be coddled back. So much pressure lifted. And I got a good start at being a better–GREAT, even–person. Who doesn’t need every little need taken care of, because I’m not mediocre. And who now can trust that other people can be great on their OWN. It took me how many years to realize that? Bailiff, there’s Exhibit B.

Saturn is coming back for me.

I’m the sum of consecutive integers.

For the next three and a half months I’ll be two years older than my sister.

It’s my birthday today.

Since my father turned 1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9+5 I’ve been asking the birthday boys and girls to share the most valuable piece of knowledge they’ve gained so far in their life. The idea is that every year their insights will change. I’ll never forget Dad’s first answer: “I would have taken better care of my teeth,” he said. Because of that, he gets partial credit for the fact that I’ve managed to keep two baby teeth up to this point. And, for the record, Dad has very nice looking teeth.

So, you know what’s coming now. Here are my words of wisdom for the world:

“The answer is inside you.”

And here’s the obligatory explanation:

People will try to give you advice because they care about you, because they want you to make a good decision, because they are invested in that which you are deciding upon, because they want to lighten your load or speed you up, because it’s what we all are inclined to do when we notice that a person is stuck. But! If you are in the habit of receiving advice and then spending a lot of energy trying to align yourself with it, you aren’t giving your own smart self a chance to have a say. And! It’s pretty likely that you won’t be “bought in” to your own decision because you weren’t the original author, as it were. So before you act, slow way down and look inside yourself. Believe that no matter how confused, naive, taken aback or freaked out you feel, there is an answer in there. Sure, listen to what others have to say, as their thoughts might help guide your search. Try hard! Commit to seek and work until you reach bedrock or fall over from exhaustion. If you don’t give up, you will find the best answer of all inside your naturally creative, resourceful and whole self.

Here’s to another trip around the sun.

I studied under George Singleton for a summer. I was in a small class of just-became-teenagers who were gathered from all corners of South Carolina and not one girl left without a maddening crush on him. He was funny. Smoked a lot. Liked junky garage sales. Wore the same black leather jacket just about every day. Gave a reading in front of a crowd of distinguished guests and said “camel toe” and then chuckled at himself under all the shocked stares. And he had these piercing blue eyes that said “I think in long sentences that are coherent and more intelligent than anything you will ever write.” Ugh. And UNG.

It was the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities before it became an actual school. At age 15 I qualified for the then-summer program because I wrote a short story about how a boy who lived in the plains got into trouble because he let the wind into the house. Made a big mess, he did. Sand everywhere. Anyway, I don’t know why George thought I belonged in the program. Maybe he actually got the extended metaphor I was weaving with the whole wind thing. Or maybe I just made that up when he asked me about the story. Neither one of us knew that at the time. I still don’t know. Can’t find the original copy.

So I went for about a month and a half (the duration). Wrote some good stuff. Wrote some awful stuff. The stuff that George called awful wasn’t too unlike the plot line of Grindhouse or Transformers, though. Maybe I was ahead of my time? Didn’t matter. Those blue eyes and that stubbly chin reduced me to tears on more than one occasion. In the end, I walked away from George Singleton a disillusioned pencil hater with an armful of short story books written by guest authors. For years I didn’t write a single thing besides messages in ICQ and a haiku on the first iteration of Zeldman.com. Anyone remember the martini haiku contest? I’d love to know.

Today I still don’t write like I did 13 years ago. Sure, I do blog stuff and try to be witty on Twitter, but that’s different stuff, much in the way a sonnet is different from a limerick. I got to thinking about George because I was itching to close the laptop, and I happen to still have all of those books I mentioned before. So I re-read These People Are Us one afternoon. And it got me to thinking about what a waste of time that summer was. I was an unfertilized plant, so to speak. Nothing to build a good story upon when you’re from a tiny southern town, and your only friends were people who feared eternal damnation for going to a party where there might be beer. I was a green, stiff, slightly dry little twig. Couldn’t do a thing with me, so he snapped me in half.

So how to get juicy and colorful and perhaps aromatic? Hell if I know. I’m out of practice. But here’s my guess v1.0 (for all you 15 year old aspiring writers out there): Be reckless. Fail miserably. Let people into your heart and allow them to ransack the place. Triumph. Travel. Forgive. Maybe be slightly mentally ill. Think in long sentences. Note I didn’t say “think in long sentences and use big words”–Big words are intimidating and impressive but they don’t do shit for telling a good story. And the best stories are short ones, in my opinion. We live life in episodes of varying lengths and each has its own theme. Divide into chunks, analyze, add to the mixture or toss in the compost bin so they can become something else. It’s really tough to make a point with just a few pages of text. George Singleton can, and he’s amazing at it.

Ah, George. This is how it works, eh? In my overly dramatic teenage mind you were stabbing me to death with a butter knife. Now I want that knife for my bread.

I wonder what he’d think of my blog?

I’m not a licensed hair person. At one point I thought I wanted to become one, but that didn’t pan out. Not to go on a rant about Aveda, but having my product sales numbers read out loud to the class wasn’t the kind of beauty school for which I thought I’d signed up. Nope. I did sales at The Container Store. Hell, I taught people how to sell at The Container Store. Why the eff would I want to be Aveda’s product pushing corporate pawn when all I wanted to do was learn how to cut hair really, really well?

And no, the Aveda Institute’s stupid sales stuff didn’t run me out of beauty school. You see, I’m grateful for learning that hair is really about products. I now can do some cool stuff with pomade and hair spray. But! I didn’t want to pervert my purpose, which was only about the art of giving a good hair cut. Being “just a good hair cutter” won’t sustain you in the beauty business, though. No, it’s product sales. And up-selling. That deep penetrating hair treatment that costs $120 in the salon? It will wash out in 48 hours and you’ll be back to looking like a frizzy mess. Worse yet? You’ll feel disappointed and misled. Take it from me: You’ll get greater satisfaction out of that money if you book yourself an amazing massage with a huge-handed guy named Sven.

I couldn’t keep lying to people in order to make money off of them. It’s wrong. I had to get out of hair sales before I ended up like Willy Loman. Worrying about what people thought of me and having to constantly watch my back was literally driving me crazy.

After about three months I withdrew from the Aveda Institute/Aveda Product Sales Machine and had myself a good old-fashioned summer vacation (those of you who know me personally are probably saying, “Whew!” because there is truth here that I am withholding because the Internet doesn’t get to know everything about my life). Thought I’d sworn off hair. Truly, I swore off sales.

When I go back and read the journal I kept during that period of time I see a lot of conflict between giving a good haircut and asking for money. I walked all over town and sweated and drank coffee and read books and contemplated selling my hair-doing kit. People, I have a golden curling iron. It’s ridiculous. I looked at it for weeks and said to myself, “Hair is so stupid. Look at this impressively shiny, yet poorly functioning piece of equipment.” That thing embodied everything I hated about hair school. It merely looked expensive. And I said to myself on a long walk from from NW 20th and Flanders to SE 50th and Hawthorne, “The only way I can do hair for people is if I don’t take money.” It was a breakthrough. A hot, caffeine-charged realization that freed me to pick up the scissors again.

“That’s right,” I thought, “I don’t want to do hair because I want to swim in cash. I want to do hair because it’s fun for me and helps people feel good about themselves.”

It’s all or nothing. I don’t want to ask for just a few bucks for a haircut, let alone a lot of bucks. When you put a dollar amount on something, an expectation is set. Nobody goes to Rudy’s expecting the most fantastic razored haircut ever. Why? Because Rudy’s is cheap and the people who work there want you cut, styled and paid up in as little time as possible. On the flipside, when you pay $80 for a smashing new style you expect better than smashing. You kinda hope that new ‘do will get you laid. In Nyco’s One-Woman Unlicensed Salon? I’m just honored that you asked me to do your hair. That’s it. If you want to make me cookies, cool. Otherwise, thanks for letting me do what I love, and do it for you.