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.

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’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.

Imagine a musical montage that goes a little something like this…

L to the U to the C to the KY peanut butter JELLY time Oh Me So Lucky, Me Me So Lucky! HEY hey hey, goo-ood Byeee Bye Miss American Pie in Yo’ Face Baby ME ME Lucky ME! Here I go, Here I go, Here I go again (DavidLeeRothScream) WAAAAAAAO!!! I ate some bugs, I ate some grass, I used my hand TO Legit, to Legit to Walk This WAY! Out, Way-ay Out the window and what did I see? There was this guy and a keyboard, And he went WEEEEE!

…and you’ll have the party that’s going on in my head.

As I look forward to my second week at my new job, I’m feeling like somebody’s got my number in the best possible of ways. Sweet location, sweet co-workers, sweet company, sweet prospects for growth–not to mention the fact that I got hired in a time when most small companies in Portland are bleeding talent…

And that’s when I get serious about it all. Folks, I recognize that I am INSANELY fortunate. Nobody knows it more than I do. I have friends who are beside themselves with frustration over the total lack of jobs in this city. I’ve driven down MLK and seen the crowds of day labor workers waiting patiently on the street corner for someone to point at them. The storefronts with freshly inked “Out of Business” signs, the lines at the shelters, the old ladies sitting on bus benches clutching floral suitcases… The walk to the office is opening my eyes to the plight my fellow Portlanders face in this economy. It sucks.

I’m not going to apologize for being employed, but I promise to take the money I’m earning and use it wisely: I’m searching for a home to buy, which will open up the inexpensive rental property I’m occupying. I will try harder to patronize local business. I’ll carry cash so I’ll have a buck for Street Roots. And? I’m going to feed my savings. Sure, money is a tool that we use to keep the economic machine running. But! I am going to make damned sure that I don’t become the next victim when the walls come crashing down again in 20 years.

But enough ranting. Here’s some food for thought:

(via Twitter) “baconbaconbacon @NycoHerzog I wish our economy used bacon as currency”

We can only wish, oh Sultan of Bacon…

Late in my freshman year of high school, my best girl friend came out to me on the telephone. It was mind blowing. Best. Girl. Friend. Was a lesbian–The first one I’d ever known or even met (forgive the naivete… I was fourteen and hadn’t even had my first kiss yet). Clutching the receiver, I grilled her about the nature of our friendship and whether it was based on false assumptions or hopes. At the end of the long phone call I was happy to know her truth and relieved to finally understand the reason behind the tension between her and another girl in our circle. So we went on as before for a little while, until she clued in a loud mouth mutual friend with a penchant for juicy gossip.

Then things changed. They shouldn’t have, but they did. My best friend got scared, felt betrayed and paranoid. And who could blame her? We lived in a tiny town in South Carolina, right in the back yard of an active KKK chapter, so full of Southern Baptists and fundamentalist conservatives that even the Mormons were ostracized at school. So, she naturally came to me, her best friend, for help and support. Know what I did? I cracked. After thoroughly scolding her for telling the town crier her “secret” I informed her that the camel’s back had been broken. In truth, I too was scared, felt betrayed and paranoid. I wasn’t equipped to be the straight best friend of the only lesbian in, for all we knew, the entire shit town we called home at the time. What she did (come out) was very brave, what she did was right, but it was terrifying and potentially dangerous in such a closed-minded place.

I know a lot of you might say “Screw ‘em! Be yourself! It’s your right!” and I’m there with ya, people. But you probably never had a neighbor walk into your house with a poundcake in one hand, a Bible in the other, and a mouthful of words proclaiming that you and your children (“Hello!”) will all go to Hell if you don’t get “saved”. You’ve probably never walked into a parking lot and found your car covered in spit, scrawled with epithets, and the air let out of all of the tires because you color your hair with Manic Panic. And I bet nobody ever brandished a knife at you for wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt to school. That’s the kind of crap that happened to people who dared to be different in that small, South Carolina town I called home for over a decade.

Oh, it’s horrible. But it’s real. And my best friend opened that door on both of us. See why we were scared?

I knew that she had hopes of her admission making our friendship all the stronger. At first I had those hopes, too. In retrospect, I was a dumb, scared teenager who didn’t have any clue who I was or what I stood for. The circumstances in which I chose to sever ties were awful. And I grieved for years, not only for the death of our friendship, but for the fact that I failed my best friend when she needed me most.

Know what I want now? For people to find acceptance no matter where they are. For girls like my teenage best friend to not fear when their “secret” gets out. And for her to enjoy the same rights I, the person who couldn’t finish that journey with her, enjoy now. She deserves them.

I’m sitting in the library, realizing that in my five years here at Clemson I never noticed the ceiling. Did I just never look up? Or was I too busy doing library-ish things?

Back when it was constructed, I’m sure this place was state of the art and considered very beautiful. It’s a huge building, crammed completely full of books and periodicals and other media. At this moment exhausted and stressed students are trickling in to do their last bit of work before the semester ends. It’s finals week. Also known as the week of no sleep, freaking out, and denial.

The last time I was here Alex was alive, many of our friends hadn’t yet given birth to their second child, and I was still working retail. Back then I felt just close enough to student-hood that I couldn’t appreciate this place and its people–I was trying to find a way to differentiate myself, so I took that “I feel so old” tact. In truth, I didn’t feel like I’d come very far at all from being a Clemsonite, and for some reason that was unnerving.

A year after my last visit, I’ve dropped the act. In a lot of ways I was the one in denial of how important and beautiful this place is. New memories have been made, new experiences had, and the passions I felt while a student here have attached themselves to more recent things. So, as I sit comfortably in the library at Clemson University I feel like I see through clear lenses for the first time. And I’m proud of this place.

I am still in a food coma after an amazing Thanksgiving at the Friedle’s house. Since none of us had family in town, Jed and I, Jacqui and John, Brittany and Jacob went to Christina and Ben’s house to celebrate the occasion together. Add in the bonus of a birthday celebration (Happy Birthday, Darra!) with cake furnished by Darek and it was a Thanksgiving unlike any other I’ve had.

When Christina and I sat down with our plates, we shared a thought on what we’re thankful for this year. It got me thinking: How lucky am I that there are SO many things for me to choose from!

• I have a fantastic new job waiting for me in 2009.
• Obama got elected, thus my faith in America! has been restored.
• This past summer I had a unique opportunity: For three weeks, I was simply Nyco Fuentes Herzog the daughter and sister. Never in my life will that happen again.
• I got to hang out with Pawly for almost the entire month before her death.
• I’ve overcome a lot of adversity in 2008. For that I’m stronger.
• Jed and I have never been happier.
• My two remaining baby teeth are still firmly in their sockets.
• We’ve made some great memories. Check the Photos page to see what I mean.
• My friends are amazing people who make me laugh. Really hard.

Here’s an example:

Yeah, that’s me laughing. I laugh all the time now. That, I think, is the greatest reason for me to give thanks this year: 2008 will go down in history as the year I found myself. Thank you, everyone, for indulging me as I muddled through.

Now, care to share what you’re thankful for?

Yesterday I walked 5 miles. I didn’t do it for the exercise; rather, I chose to travel to a coffee shop in Southeast Portland on foot because I wanted the time to think and be by myself. Life is so full of information, of stimuli, of reasons to talk or be talked to. A walk is an opportunity to control, or just to make sense of, all of that.

I’ve heard a few people say that they do their best thinking while driving, and I too have had my share of epiphanies behind the wheel. Just ask my mom. She usually fields my phone call after a realization smacks me in the head. But, driving in the city is the opposite of soothing; and driving without purpose isn’t exactly the “it” thing to do nowadays. Plus! Driving isn’t free, walking is.

Aside from the opportunity to let the mental wheels turn and save a little coin, walking let’s me observe more. Until I walked 50 blocks worth of Burnside Street, a stretch I would normally opt to drive or bus, I had no idea how interesting it was. I had time to stop and look in shop windows; to pause and take pictures of interesting scenes. All of that stuff goes whizzing by while taking motorized transportation.

Finally, I find walking to be my favorite pastime because it gives me a reason to be alone, to move at my own will and whim. That may be a counter-intuitive statement, given the fact that my stomping ground is a trafficky city brimming with cars, buses, trains, tractors, pedestrians, cyclists, homeless people, and all. But consider this: When walking, a person is in charge of her/himself and no one else. While operating a vehicle of any kind they become part of a system, and their actions and the actions of others are interdependent. Take that same person and put them on a sidewalk with nothing but their feet to move them and suddenly they’re free to choose their velocity, stopping points, routes, and most importantly whether or not they make an effort to interract with anyone.

Safety isn’t a concern. Portland is a relatively crime-free city, and as long as I don’t go poking around dark places and watch for idiots I’m perfectly out of harms way. Besides, if walking around Portland is the most dangerous thing I do… Well, you get the point. Worry and stress kills more people than going it on foot ever will.

Some people pay me cash, while others reciprocate with cookies or meals or beverage. I don’t insist on being compensated for my time, because cutting hair is a hobby for me. It’s like knitting a hat and then giving it to a friend because you know it will look amazing on them.

My love of cutting hair led me to beauty school at one point, but I quit after I won a school-wide contest for cut and color.

The pressure brought on by that huge accomplishment was not the reason I left: I realized after winning that competing with other stylists for clientele, product sales, recognition of talent, etc. was going to be a daily part of being a hair stylist. And I don’t like the idea of succeeding by stepping on other people, nor do I enjoy the emotional drain of trying to resist other peoples’ efforts to step on me. I could go on a long, preachy tangent about what I believe is essential to personal success, but that’s a different post. We’re talkin’ HAIR here. Long story short, I went for four months and learned enough to be able to do it for fun for the rest of my life.

I’ve cut hair for friends, co-workers and family. Dozens of people have trusted me with their tresses. Every single time a person sits down for me, I get all nervous and excited and can’t WAIT to see their reaction to the outcome. It’s not the act of cutting the hair that makes me so happy (though I do enjoy the creative aspect of tailoring a haircut to the individual); it’s the person’s satisfaction with what I’ve done for them.

It’s one of those sacred things: A reward more valuable than money.

Those are so rare these days.