I Hate My Hair (Salon)

I may be a girly-girl, but I have always hated being fussed at. I hate massage, manicures, pedicures over twenty minutes and featuring older issues of People magazine. I hate facials, shopping at big department stores with obsequious sales people, and haircuts. I can't get my head around anything beyond a morning shower and a little strategic lip gloss. I mean, consider the inexplicable appeal of the brazilian wax. Wait - you're asking me to pour molten lava over my most tender areas so that I can be the girl of Humbert Humbert's dreams? And I have to pay for that experience? Oh hay-ell no.

But because I've been cursed with hair that is both fine and thick, hair that looks best in layers, hair that I let grow long, even though every magazine has urged me to cut it off, hair that refuses to do anything I ask it to do, well, every few months I have to get myself to someone who can wiggle the old Scissorhands over me.

I hate that.

First of all, I don't like the salon experience. It makes me feel like I'm desperately fiddling while Rome is burning. People are losing their jobs and the polar bears are eating each other, so the angle of a razor cut seems a little less earth-shaking. I mean, my hair isn't that interesting to me, so don't pretend like you're all up in my grill about it too. You know, this kind of thing:

What are we going to do with your hair today?
Well, I imagine you'll cut it. Right?
Have you thought about going any shorter?
I'm 5'3" - there really isn't that much shorter to go...oh my hair. Let's just say the last time someone whacked it to my neck, I cried for three days and considered joining the Peace Corps - Congo region.
A bob would really draw attention to your face.
I don't want to draw attention to my face! I want to hide my face!
Let's cut it to here and see what you think.
Please put down the scissors and back away from the hair. That's right....nice and slow. Put your hands where I can see them.

Here in Seattle, there are at least many many tattooed and pierced young men and women who cut and clip and trim. Every salon seems equally outfitted with blue-streaked cutters and small Asian girls who wash your hair so carefully, it seems to be happening strand by strand. You wait amidst all the overpriced shampoos for your turn in the Chair of Transformation. It is a long wait at times. I don't like this, because I also hate woman's magazines. I hate walking around with wet hair in a stupid looking plastic bib. These bibs are always eggplant-colored. I don't know why that is.

I hold out as long as I can, but then I fall to the seductive siren call of the Expensive Haircut. Here's how it ended up a couple of days ago, cut by Erika at Vain (I know, right?)



Fluffy: check.
Wavy: check.
No maintenance: check.
No blowdrying required: check.
Long suffering expression on my face: check.
Ungodly amount of money paid: check.

Here are some other things I hate about my super-pricey cut:

I hate spending so much money.
I hate going to a place called Vain.
I hate noting that I have the same haircut my sister had in 1978, for which she paid $12 at SuperCuts.
I hate the way the cashier at Vain, after giving him the equivalent of the down payment on my first car, asks me "how much I'd like to tip Erika today." At this rate, my house sale is going to go directly to my head.

Yes, I keep thinking I will not go back, I will find something less annoying and expensive, and then I remember how truly bad my hair is capable of looking, and I cave.

Hair junkies are sad people, dear readers. We need your compassion, not your judgment.

Speaking of dear readers - I'm sure you're wondering if I always take such terrible pictures. I'm sure you're thinking, "why was I so hard on her when the issue is not her relationship with God - it is clearly her inability to take a decent photo. I mean, she can't always look so...so...you know." But yes. Yes I do. The moment a camera hits me, I shut my eyes, squint, or start to look like someone with a cardboard sign by the end of freeway. Compare me, if you will, to my cluelessly handsome Hapa Boy (a man with no idea how good-looking he is, you understand), who sat in front of my Mac and took this on the first try - in an attempt to look like a mug shot. Are you getting this? Here he is trying to look as pathetic as I look without trying, at his worst:



I know. I know. You see the issue.
Clearly, we must never be photographed together.

Or I best give more thought to upkeep.

Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream

In February, Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique will have been published 45 years ago. I'm pretty sure that if you ask most women on the street what The Feminine Mystique is about, she'll probably guess it's about picking out sexy underwear for your boyfriend. It isn't. Here's the introduction:

Over and over women heard in voices of tradition and of Freudian sophistication that they could desire--no greater destiny than to glory in their own femininity. Experts told them how to catch a man and keep him, how to breastfeed children and handle their toilet training, how to cope with sibling rivalry and adolescent rebellion; how to buy a dishwasher, bake bread, cook gourmet snails, and build a swimming pool with their own hands; how to dress, look, and act more feminine and make marriage more exciting; how to keep their husbands from dying young and their sons from growing into delinquents. They were taught to pity the neurotic, unfeminine, unhappy women who wanted to be poets or physicists or presidents. They learned that truly feminine women do not want careers, higher education, political rights--the independence and the opportunities that the old-fashioned feminists fought for. Some women, in their forties and fifties, still remembered painfully giving up those dreams, but most of the younger women no longer even thought about them. A thousand expert voices applauded their femininity, their adjustment, their new maturity. All they had to do was devote their lives from earliest girlhood to finding a husband and bearing children. (You can read the entire excerpt- if you're interested- here. )

Yes, feminism started as a way to approach the "problem with no name," the fact that women were not only unhappy, they felt invisible in their homes. They felt becoming a doctor was less "feminine" than choosing to be a nurse, and math was something boys needed to do. They went off to college for an M.R.S, and hoped for a nice husband to support the 2.5 offspring when they went to live in a big house where the grass was so much better really for the children. It was monumental and revolutionary when Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem pointed out that maybe women could have other choices. If you know, they wanted them.

It started from such a benign place I'm puzzled exactly when it became a dirty word. Back when I was teaching in Arkansas, I never had a female student make a single comment about their lives without looking around nervously and mumbling, "I'm not a feminist or anything but..."

I mean, there they were, in their little skirts, drinking their Big Gulps of Diet Coke, beaming with artfully rendered makeup and tiny diamond earrings and long blonde locks wrapped around their freshly tanned fingers, earnestly declaring that Lawd, the last thing they would ever ever ever ever ever want to be as a card-carrying University of Arkansas co-ed is a feminist. What if that got out around the campus? I know, that would just be like you know so uncool! OMG! But let me ask you now: Why? What horrible thing did Betty Friedan do by suggesting that maybe maybe some women wanted to do something else? Be a physicist? Become Sally Ride? Run for office? That maybe biology wasn't destiny?

To my memory, there were no police raids at that time forcing women into taking jobs outside the home. No one dragged anyone kicking and screaming from the washer-dryer. No one said, for heaven's sakes, give those pesky children of yours up for adoption and be a realtor! Hey, there's no doubt there's been a huge backlash from 60's style feminism, but it wasn't from what the feminists were asking for. They were just asking for more choices. It was from a kind of media hysteria which happily proclaimed that well, if you're more powerful than men, no man will want you! You'll be alone! But that wasn't true. Most of my friends married very nice men who liked that they were strong and interesting and diverse. So why, as Susan Faludi once wrote, is "fear and loathing of feminism is a sort of perpetual viral condition in our culture?" Check out this newly minted thought from Generation Cedar:

One of the feminist lies is that a woman can only be truly free in a career outside her home.

Wait - what? Who said a woman can only be free that way? Betty Friedan didn't. Gloria Steinem didn't. I know I didn't. Why is this crusading judgement suddenly ascribed to feminists, who I'm sure appear in their nightmares with dirty hair and unshaved armpits? At what point did anyone tell anyone this?

As far as I can tell, some of my friends with young children stopped working for awhile to be home with them. They didn't hire a baby nurse and go back to the office on the Tuesday after labor. They like being moms. And the ones that did get back to the office after awhile because they take pride in what they do in the world seem to be raising very nice little beasties. I mean, having a mom that has priorities in addition to mothering isn't a death sentence - say what you will, but clearly Hilary Clinton was a terrific mother. She and Chelsea are very close, and unlike *cough* certain presidential *cough Bush* children, she has yet to have one embarassing drinking binge in public.

Nothing is perfect, and we haven't worked out all the kinks - but do we really want to throw the baby out with the bathwater after all that? Look, I shave my legs. I even wear mascara when I remember to which isn't terribly often, but still. I like to buy clothes. I've read the entire Jane Austen. Three times. I'm kind of a girly-girl, in fact. Ask anyone. The fact that I want to hold on to the idea that I can choose a thousand different ways to live from finishing a book to finding a great job to trying to make Hapa Boy a happy camper and that I equally admire the job that Michelle Obama and Hilary Clinton have done with their families as much as I admire their fire and intelligence and place in the working world doesn't make me someone who argues with anyone else's choice to stay home and raise children or learn to bake or make fancy dinners.

It just makes me a feminist. That's all.

The Heart of the Matter

So recently I've had some visitors of the, shall we say, fundamentalist Christian mindset. Most have been extremely nice and engaging, and I kind of welcome their different sensibility. As I've said, sometimes Liberals can be a might heavy-handed. However, some of you might wonder - why exactly is a nice Jewish girl getting traffic from Christians? Well. This is mainly because I've felt compelled - at times foolishly - to comment on a very Hyper Christian blog. (Say what you will, the woman gets a lot of hits. )

Here a homeschooling mother of seven lets forth on such riveting subjects as why public schools are like the Nazi regime for Christian children, how birth control is against God's plan, why homosexuals are sinners and how homosexuality should be illegal and - thereisnosuchthingasevolutionhowdareyoumentionityounastyliberal. She is a firm proponent of something called Biblical Womanhood. Here's a little tutorial:



Should women submit to men? Apparently, they should (I want to point out that the very smart and devout Terry @ Breathing Grace explains that most Christians believe that women should submit to their husbands, and not to ALL men. Fair enough. Not having a husband, this hasn't come up exactly. Thank G-D):



Yes Kelly over at Generation Cedar just f'loves this guy's preaching. Oh, and don't send your children to public schools! They are a breeding ground for Marxism:



I know, right?

But I think in general I've been a little unfair. You don't get overnight to the point where you tell a stranger that homosexuals should spend their lives celibate and safe from sin. That's a long indoctrination. I wasn't raised by Fundamentalist Christians - I wasn't raised by Christians at all. And curiously, all my years of Hebrew School didn't have much to do with, well, God's Wrath. Let's face it, fear of Brimstone is not the primary motivator in my life, because as I've pointed out, I was more afraid of my mother - and she was a lot scarier than Brimstone. In fact, I'm sure the Archangels are asking her right now how she inspired so much respect from us.

But I digress.

Remember that famous passage where Anne Frank - living in an attic and soon to die in a Concentration Camp - said that she still believes people are basically good? I've always thought that if she can think it, I can think it. And so I do believe people are basically good. With a few bad apples, of course. I believe that being nice to each other is kind of what every religion is getting at. I believe that faith is a personal matter, and you have to find your own way. I believe that everyone is in charge of their own destiny because if there is a Deity up there, She's kind of busy, you know? I believe in forgiveness, although I often fail to be forgiving.

Mostly I believe if we let go for even a moment of why everyone should have the same rights to love, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, we will lose those rights.

What can I say? I was raised by Heathen Liberals. :)

The No, Thanks Post

And....Thanksgiving, that celebration of gluttony and killing a whole bunch of Native Peoples (sadly without writing down any recipe that doesn't involve dry turkey.) Why do we celebrate this again? And don't even get me started on the two years I watched S. baste his Tofurky, an eating experience that can only be likened to toasting cardboard and dipping in butter. I'm still repulsed by the pleasure he took in woofing down those tasteless brown pieces of vegetarian goo.

But Blogger that I am, I am duly sucked into the blogosphere of The Thankful Post where unknown people offer up a list of unfamiliar items and/or people for which they give thanks. Mothers thank Diaper Genies (and despite my long list of child-bearing friends, I still don't know what a Diaper Genie is), wipeables, and toddlers that finally take to toilet-training, students thank teachers for that easy class, and partners gush about each other. I've always had a problem with those sappy dedications in books to wives and husbands. I happen to know that not every writer has an astounding, completely supportive marriage/relationship so why all the "And finally, to my husband Earl WhippedCream, without whom I would not only not have written this book, I'd have stopped breathing and walked into a river with heavy stones in my pockets." I'll go with "Once Again to Zelda" if only because sweet old F. Scott copped to plagarizing from her.

But I digress.

Anyway, forgive me for grousing, but I thought a list of what I wasn't thankful for might change things up a bit. So here are a few things I'd like to offer my No, Thanks for:

• Employers that have laid off friends.
• Employers that haven't hired friends.
• The s**t Obama is about to have to deal with.
• Tiny Seattle parking lots.
• Dog hair explosions.
• Moths in my best cashmere sweater.
• People who still believe they get to say who gets to marry.
• People who don't get that playing an Ipod really loud on a bus means that I get to hear frackin' Justin Timberlake along with them.
• All those women on the View who seem to think yelling is entertaining.

Ahhhh. Can't we do this at Thanksgiving dinner? I think we'd all feel better to have a day when we're invited to complain. But then I'm Jewish. It's practically a sport in my family.

In all fairness, I do have a lot to be thankful for, particularly this year. I'm grateful that Obama is in office, that Michelle Obama can dress with mad skillz, that my dog(s) are healthy and happy and poop regularly, that I live in this wonderful city with great friends, that I still have work, and that I spent a month in Wyoming. Oh and that I bought a Kara Janx dress for $20 on Ebay.

Of course I'm very thankful for my lovely, sexy Hapa Boy and all his many kindnesses. I'm thankful every day I wake up next to him that he is such a good man, and that I am lucky enough to have such a good man in my life.

I hope he's thankful for me.

The Ghost of Relationships Past

You know how in Dicken's The Christmas Carol the Ghost of Christmas Past comes down and scares Scrooge straight with what can only be called Pre-1900's Talk Therapy? You remember. Scrooge realizes - with the help of some slightly iffy tactics that would not meet with approval in today's psychiatric community - that if he doesn't shape up, he's going to be the miserable old codger that he is through eternity. Cut to lonely grave, hellfire, damnation, all that sort of thing that Dickens doesn't spell out, but hey, it's the 1800's, right?

But Dickens is an old softie because Scrooge gets a second chance to buy a big ham and some fixings, serve it up and maybe get a good doctor to look at Tiny Tim, who I've read, most likely had rickets. God Bless Us, Everyone. That Tiny Tim is an optimistic little guy, because I've always suspected that Scrooge went back to his old miserable codgerness once the bills came in on his AMEX. Fear, while a great motivator, may not be the most reliable source of generosity.

Now it goes without saying that I do not believe I'm going to burn through eternity. I didn't get that sort of programming from the rabbi at Oneg Shalom when I was a kid because essentially Jews don't believe in hell, or as I like to say, we believe hell is two weeks with your parents in South Florida. (Seriously, that is close enough people. If a Ghost of Hanukah Past threatened me with two weeks at my father's assisted living facility in Boynton Beach, I'd shape up faster than Scrooge.) In fact, we don't really have a rollicking view of heaven either. When my mother was dying (this is a true story), my sister and I asked the rabbi at the hospital if there's heaven in Judiasm. All the poor guy could come up with was that we "all become energy." I'm sure if my sister had already had my nephew the rabbi would have said added something about how my mother would live on through him. (And I do wonder what my mother would have said about how often he skips bedtime. She ran a tight ship, my mother. So there could be truth to the idea she lives on through him.) Still, all of those lovely sentiments don't suggest that she might be peeking down from the clouds smiling beautifically now does it? So I'm not going to debate the theology of heaven and hell, I'm just going to say - I don't buy it. Maybe, like a taste for Vegemite, you have to be raised with it.

But I digress.

The point is that I kind of believe that most people make their heaven and hell right here on earth. I've noticed most women do this via relationships that tend to be hellish more often than heavenly. I've worshipped at that particular church you know. I've cried, I've ranted, I've been supportive. I've helped boyfriends get jobs or get out of jobs, I've rented cabins and made reservations, I've flown across the country to meet them, I've even arranged nebulous meetings at the airports themselves - once missing a flight and spending Christmas eve in Dallas where I was forced to listen to endless renditions of What Child Is This by a group of sadistically tone-deaf carolers.

Yes, it was hell. But upon moving to Seattle, I was - like old Scrooge - scared straight by the Ghost of Relationships Past. It came to me, albeit slightly belatedly, that I was doing all this to myself. I was going to have to change or spend the rest of my days a miserable old codger - and that Dear Readers is possibly a worse fate than eternal damnation, because there is only so much reality television you can watch, and ANTM and Project Runway won't be on forever you know.

I bring all this up because I woke up this morning with a funny feeling and I couldn't place it. It wasn't anxiety or sadness or sleepiness or regret. Oh, I thought when we were sitting at Grateful Bread, sharing a sesame bagel and some tomato soup, I'm happy.

You know, maybe that was what Scrooge felt. Although let's face it, it's hard to be sure because no one had yet invented the Ipod.

What I Believe: A Reader's Guide

So I've come to terms with the fact that people have the bizarre tendency to *gasp* disagree with me. I know, shocking, since I'm pretty much always right about everything. :) Look, I do have some unshakable beliefs, like nothing is more delicious than a bowl of tomato soup at the Latona Pub, sushi is the perfect food, and Vaseline is the world's best moisturizer. However, these are clearly not all empirically true. But when it comes to the sort of thing that other people are perpetually pondering what side of the issue they fall on, ponder no more. I'm just well, I'm right. That's all. For example:

1. Feminism is good. Why is it good? Because it's valuable to have choices, and taking away choice, while less confusing, is inherently a bad idea. Choice develops critical thinking, which is far more important than opposable thumbs. I respect my friends who want to stay home with their children - and I respect the ones that like to work and give their daughters different role models. I don't think there's anything inherently bad about choosing whatever path works for you. I never saw myself as a mother, in part because my own mother was miserable. It was not a time when she could have put her considerable intelligence and mad skillz to other tasks then say, wiping up our little handprints from the refrigerator. Also, let's consider that women who are appalled at the idea of feminism on their blogs are missing the fact that feminists made it possible for them to HAVE blogs - namely by ensuring that women would learn to read and write. Oh, and the ones extolling Biblical Womanhood and what have you? I salute your right to have a different opinion, but frankly, you're wrong. Because you know why you CAN vote? And read all those Graceful Womanhood books. That's right. Feminism.

Also - if one more woman starts a sentence with "I'm not a Feminist or anything, but..." I'm going to belt her one. It's not like saying you're a child molester, you know. You can own it.

2. Man's Relationship to Man is Far More Important Than His/Her Relationship to God: So be nice. Pick up your dog's poo. Don't yell into your cell phone on the bus. Stop cutting people off in the Trader Joe's parking lot. Oh and when someone says hello, smile. It won't kill you.

3. Dogs Make Everything Better: Except for sex. But really, can you think of any other experiences where having a dog with you doesn't improve it? Win-win, people.

4. It's Useless to Fight With Your Family: You won't get anywhere. I know this for a fact. My sister and I have had the same fight for over 30 years. Neither of us have budged.

5. Clothes Make You Feel Better: The right outfit at the right time on the right person? Priceless.

6. It's Better to Love Fruits and Vegetables: They're here. They're good for you. Get used to it.

7. It's a Waste of Time Trying to Figure Out Why Someone Broke Up With You: You'll never know. It doesn't matter. But believe me ladies, it wasn't because he was intimidated by your strength and purpose and womanliness. If it was, you were not dating a man.

8. Other People's Children are Important, Too: I always vote for school budgets because those children are going to grow up and populate my neighborhood, and if I put a Keep Off the Grass sign up, golly darn it, I'd like them to be able to read it.

9. Gay People Should Have the Right to Marry: Why? I'll tell you why. Because it isn't your business, and I don't care what your [Insert Deity/Belief System] tells you. There is no marriage in the Bible. Marriage began as a way to join property and that's that. If you want to put ribbons around it, then add the Rainbow colored ones, please. And if for some reason you think it is your business, what say we all get to vote on every Patty Ann Klumper and Ralph Nicknack that gets engaged in Ferris Puke, Idaho? Wouldn't that be more fair? I mean, are Patty Ann and Ralph going to be the best parents? Raise them in the [InsertDeity/Belief System] you follow? Homeschool? No? It's a slippery slope, isn't it? My only quibble with gay marriage is that it means I get invited to more weddings with more bridal showers and more gifts to buy and more What to Wear questions, but you know, for less bigotry and hatred all the way around, I guess I can buy one more Williams & Sonoma Silver Plated Toaster Slice Remover Fork Set.

10. I Own the World's Most Adorable Dog: Fact, people. See below as he cuddles up to Hapa Boy.

In other news, it is cold in Seattle. It is gray. It is dark at 4pm. Thanks for asking. :)

We Thought We Could.

Last night I felt I was not only seeing history - I had made it. A perfect storm of underwhelming campaign, ill-advised choices, eight years of limping presidency, an inspired candidate and a fed-up constituency swept a new rule over the land. I mean, even John McCain behaved with dignity, and the crowd in Chicago had me weeping a lot harder than Sarah Palin.

Because we could.

We could elect a smart, educated man.

We could decide that things do not have to continue to get worse.

We could have a First Lady with moxie and fashion sense.

We could be proud of our country and our choices.

But in this great future, you can't forget your past as Bob Marley once eloquently put it. I hope we'll be gracious winners and try not to berate those who disagree with us. Hey, some people think abortion is a sin. Some people have this weird notion that gay marriage is an abomination (although those are not the people that witness the strong and abiding love that J. and J. have for each other, because if they did I'm sure they'd be moved by it.) But surely we're not going to change their minds by calling them idiots. I mean, when has that ever helped anyone's cause?

By moving to Seattle this year, I've learned that I'm more flexible than I thought I was but I've also learned that forgiveness is not my strong suit. I've learned that making a change is not nearly as hard as committing to changing in general. I've learned that a boyfriend doesn't have to be problematic and difficult - he can be cute and kind and funny and supportive without being a pushover (thanks, Hapa Boy.)

Am I staying here? Yes. Because I can.