Water tastes better in a pretty glass...
This year, at the ripe old age of 48, we bought my very first home. It has been quite exciting. I am still getting used to a lot of things and am constantly surprised at the new adventures. One in particular has been discovering the joy of cooking in a well equipped kitchen. I love to cook and bake and especially when others enjoy me enjoying it. Cooking for a crowd is great fun when you have the space and tools to make the job successful.
12.10.2009
The Art of Gift Giving... or... Learning to Love Your Vacuum
Every year my male clients will ask me for advice about what they should give, or more often, tell me what they got their wives for Christmas. Most often, their wives are my clients too and I usually respond to the “I got her a new vacuum! It’s AWESOME! It picks up dog hair!” with “Oooooh. You like sleeping on the futon in the basement.” I promptly give them some ideas that will at the least save their backs and at best, save their marriage. None of which include tools, even if they’re pink, or shelving for the garage.
12.07.2009
Kindred Spirits
It has been suggested to me by some of my more enlightened friends that people are brought into our lives or put in our paths at certain times for very specific reasons. The people who possess certain gifts or virtues or who require the gifts and virtues that we ourselves possess will somehow, manifest themselves to us at the perfect time. I have been pondering this suggestion for a bit. While I'm not certain how or why it happens there are particulars of which I am certain.
Shake the Tree
I taught a theory class to a bunch of hair dressers on Monday. It isn’t a class people take because it’s fun or exciting. Sometimes, they take it because it’s available and convenient. Sometimes they take it because their managers think they need it. Sometimes they take it because they didn’t read the description and thought it was a hands on color or techniques class. Some of the trainers on the team don’t like to teach it either. It isn’t creative enough or hands on enough. And, the evaluations we get from our attendees tend to be a bit lower for the color theory class and no one wants that.
Naps are Good, Don't Throw Your Food and other Points for Survival
We had a staff meeting today. The boss started out with a question and asked everyone to tell one thing they learned in kindergarten. Most said things like “play nice”, “share”, “follow the rules”, “raise your hand”. I said “Naps are good” and “don't throw your food”.
There's a bit of discontent where I work at the moment. When you put a fairly large number of people in a relatively small space, there is bound to be an occasional bit of turbulence. Particularly when said large number of people happens to be, more specifically, female.
Generally, we are a pretty happy family; rare conflicts are more often than not handled privately and between the offending parties; most of us are team players and those who are not put up with the rest of us; when someone needs a hug, a hand, or a hint, another is usually nearby with an ample supply. Actually, we're not like a family at all. We get along too well to be considered family.
Many of us have been there since our salon and spa opened, three and a half years ago; many more came within the next year, and a small handful are newbies; (a year or less). The fact that we all get along and actually like each other, along with the low turn over, is no small accomplishment.
It hasn't always been that way. In the beginning, when we were all new, we had some growing to do. We had to learn that this one wasn't mean - she was shy. That one wasn't arrogant – she was intimidated. The other one wasn't untalented – she was inexperienced. We became a team in spite of obstacles; Friends in spite of differences; Stronger as a group without sacrificing our individuality. It has been amazing to watch and experience.
Every now and then, a new hire comes along and fits right in. It feels like they've always been there and we can't remember what it was like before they came. Other times, it doesn't work out quite that way.
Which brings me to our current situation. Occasionally, a new hire comes in and doesn't immediately mesh. Sometimes it takes a couple of weeks or a couple of months. Heck one stylist took a couple of years. Usually, when that happens, the new hire leaves with a bad taste in her mouth for the staff and the company. We have been accused of eating new hires for lunch but I vehemently deny this. They are much too bitter. It always bothers me a bit when someone leaves though. I go over it again and again wondering if I did enough. What could I have done to make it easier for that person. How did I contribute to their dissatisfaction. I typically reach the same conclusion: more often that not, it is an act of omission rather than commission. Either by not recognizing early enough that they needed help or encouragement or not speaking up when someone else was being unduly ungenerous. (That's the bit that causes me the most regret.) I would not want to be a newbie coming into our space. It's like working at a family owned business and being the ONLY employee not a member of the family.
Anyway, I have been mulling over a particular situation at work. I appreciate these types of reminders. As one capable of learning from others' behavior, it is conflict that gives us the opportunity to apprize our own behavior and choices.
In keeping with my need for justification, adjudication and reconciliation, all preferably without personal involvement, I have made the following observations:
It takes two.
I choose to be happy.
I am solely responsible for my own success.
I choose the way I respond to people and situations.
Situations are neither positive or negative. The positive/negative in any situation is found in my reaction.
Objectivity is always easier from a distance.
I must not allow another person's uninformed opinion influence mine.
I do not possess THE answer. I only possess MY answer.
Successful people do the things unsuccessful people don't want to do. (eric fisher)
I can choose to be part of the problem or I can choose to be part of the solution.
The way I treat other people defines my character to others. The way I behave when no one is looking exposes my character to myself.
Whenever I forget any of the above principles, I can pretty much sum it up with these two:
Naps are good.
Don't throw your food.
Deny, Defy, Disregard
I did not enjoy my 20’s. Much like middle school, my 3rd decade was brutal. When I look back and remember that particular time in my life, I hardly recognize myself. Like most young and directionless I sought approval from those who didn’t matter and more often than not, let down those who did. I do not remember my 20’s with fondness. I was weak and frightened and I didn’t like who I saw looking back at me in the mirror.
Houdini Cured My Writer's Block
Houdini used to say that he could get out of any jail cell in less than an hour if he were allowed to go in with his street clothes on. A small town in the British Isles invited Houdini to prove it, he accepted the challenge and amongst fan fare and cheering crowds, he strode proudly into town, and into the jail cell. They closed the door behind him. Houdini then took off his coat and produced a thin 10 inch piece of steel that he had hidden in his belt. It was strong and flexible. He went to work. I can only imagine the self satisfied grin on his face. After the first half hour, I imagine that grin had faded a bit. By the end of the hour, he was sweating profusely and agitation had set in. He worked on that lock with his piece of steel with quiet determination growing more and more frustrated. He had promised that there was no cell that could hold him but this particular door was proving to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. At the end of 2 hours, Houdini collapsed against the door in exhaustion. And the door opened. It did not open because Houdini was a master magician, even though he was. It did not open because his willpower and determination did not allow him to give up. It did not open because there was in fact, no cell that could restrain him. The door opened, because it had never been locked. However, even though it had not been secured from the outside, it might as well have been locked with a thousand keys. Because, even though it was unlocked from the outside, in Houdini’s mind, it was just as locked had it been barricaded by a ton of steel.
The moral to this true story is this; other people, circumstances, or situations, can stop us temporarily. Only we can stop ourselves permanently. We limit what we are able to accomplish by what we think and believe. Houdini went into that cell with a certain thought process. He had decided before he entered that cell, what he was going to do. He thought only of his part in the equation. He did not consider how others played a part in his situation. It never occurred to him to try the door first. He just assumed the door was locked. It was a logical assumption, to be sure. It was also incorrect. The mistake Houdini made was that he thought he knew everything he needed to know to get out of that jail cell. But what he knew was incomplete. He knew his own skill. He knew he had a plan and how to implement it. But he didn’t know anything about the door or the people on the other side of it.
Life is often like that. It is human nature to think of ourselves first and to depend on our own judgments without fretting over the rest of the world. We put forth a bit of effort and think we know all that is necessary to accomplish what ever it is we are striving to achieve. We get to a point in our lives, careers, with our friends and families that we think we know all there is to know. But the key to success of any kind is being teachable, flexible, and adaptable. Zig Ziglar said “If you want to achieve your goals, the chances are 1000 to 1 that you are ever going to make it by yourself.”
I have been suffering from a bad case of writer’s block. Normally, I sit down at the computer, lay my hands on the keyboard and the words write themselves. For several weeks, however, the norm has been abnormal. I would have an idea but it never materialized into anything I or anyone else would want to read. When I sat down to write this blog, the idea had come from ruminations on humility. I had all kinds of grand ideas. (Get it? Grand ideas / humility?) None of which ended up in this blog. However, over the past week, our little community here has been suffering. For whatever reason, there are several situations which are leaving a gray cloud over our collective sky. Like Houdini had ideas before he entered that cell, I had some imposing ideas about how I wanted to present a message about humility, among many other blogs I have tried to write over the past weeks. And like Houdini, I ultimately ended up with the outcome I had hoped for; he got out of his jail cell; and I managed to write a blog or two. Neither one of us accomplishing our goals the way we had planned. Neither one of us considering the outside influences that would shape our respective outcomes.
I suppose this blog was about having a humble heart after all.
The moral to this true story is this; other people, circumstances, or situations, can stop us temporarily. Only we can stop ourselves permanently. We limit what we are able to accomplish by what we think and believe. Houdini went into that cell with a certain thought process. He had decided before he entered that cell, what he was going to do. He thought only of his part in the equation. He did not consider how others played a part in his situation. It never occurred to him to try the door first. He just assumed the door was locked. It was a logical assumption, to be sure. It was also incorrect. The mistake Houdini made was that he thought he knew everything he needed to know to get out of that jail cell. But what he knew was incomplete. He knew his own skill. He knew he had a plan and how to implement it. But he didn’t know anything about the door or the people on the other side of it.
Life is often like that. It is human nature to think of ourselves first and to depend on our own judgments without fretting over the rest of the world. We put forth a bit of effort and think we know all that is necessary to accomplish what ever it is we are striving to achieve. We get to a point in our lives, careers, with our friends and families that we think we know all there is to know. But the key to success of any kind is being teachable, flexible, and adaptable. Zig Ziglar said “If you want to achieve your goals, the chances are 1000 to 1 that you are ever going to make it by yourself.”
I have been suffering from a bad case of writer’s block. Normally, I sit down at the computer, lay my hands on the keyboard and the words write themselves. For several weeks, however, the norm has been abnormal. I would have an idea but it never materialized into anything I or anyone else would want to read. When I sat down to write this blog, the idea had come from ruminations on humility. I had all kinds of grand ideas. (Get it? Grand ideas / humility?) None of which ended up in this blog. However, over the past week, our little community here has been suffering. For whatever reason, there are several situations which are leaving a gray cloud over our collective sky. Like Houdini had ideas before he entered that cell, I had some imposing ideas about how I wanted to present a message about humility, among many other blogs I have tried to write over the past weeks. And like Houdini, I ultimately ended up with the outcome I had hoped for; he got out of his jail cell; and I managed to write a blog or two. Neither one of us accomplishing our goals the way we had planned. Neither one of us considering the outside influences that would shape our respective outcomes.
I suppose this blog was about having a humble heart after all.
Miracles and Mirrors
She walked into my salon not long after I had opened the doors for the first time. She had been referred to me by a friend she said. She lived close by and her friend had promised that I could work miracles, if not with her hair, at least she would enjoy the atmosphere.
She was tall but she took short, small steps. Her shoulders drooping as much as her hair. She looked very tired. As with all my clients, I pulled up my cutting stool and sat down so I could have a consultation with her eye to eye. Her eyes didn’t meet mine though. They batted a lot, and looked down a lot but never at me or in the mirror. I notice things like that when I sit and talk with people. She didn’t fidget but she was not comfortable. I gave a good once over and decided she had not had a good day. “What’s on your mind?” I asked. “What?” she looked a bit startled. I re-worded my question. “What would you like for me to able to do for you?” “I’d like you to cut my hair and do something about this wretched color that will make me look and feel 20 years younger but since I don’t really believe in miracles I’ll settle for a trim and some highlights. “ I laughed out loud. I didn’t expect that from this very tired, not too confident lady. I assured her that when she left that day, she would indeed believe in miracles.
We talked a bit more. I asked lots of questions and pulled a few teeth trying to get out of her what I needed to know to give her the miracle she was looking for. She wasn’t much of a talker. More of a grunter. She was a little curious as to why I needed to know what she did for a living, what she liked and didn’t like about her hair, what tools and products she used, what time she got up in the morning etc. At one point she asked if I was going to take notes because I had asked so many questions there was no way I was going to remember all this. “Oh, don’t you worry about that! I remember everything I NEED to remember and I forget everything I should NOT repeat!” At the time, I’m pretty certain she did not believe me.
I worked harder on the consultation than I did on the hair but when we were finished she actually grinned at herself. When she caught me grinning with satisfaction she was a bit embarrassed. She shuffled out the door with the tiniest bit more bounce than when she had come in. As she was leaving, I asked her how she felt about miracles now. She shook my hand and thanked me for being an honest person.
About six weeks later, she was back. Same shuffle, same droopy shoulders. I met her at the door and opened it for her. I asked her about her dog. We had talked just a bit about her dog the last time. She was stunned that I had remembered. She talked a bit more this time. Nothing personal. This time she asked questions. She was my last client of the day, all the rest of the staff had gone home so we were alone. I turned up the classical guitar music I had going, made her some hot herbal tea and told her what I thought was a fairly dreary story about my day.
For nearly five years, this lady came into my salon every 6 weeks. She often tried to come when she could be the last client of the day. She was shy, quiet, and she seemed lonely. She was hesitant to talk about herself but I always managed a smile out of her and every once in a while she would talk of her love for books, music, antiquess and how she had always wanted to learn how to skate. I never really felt like I knew her very well. I knew she was married and had children but she did not speak of them much. Sometimes, she would just read a magazine while I did her hair and I would let her have her silence. Other times, she would almost daydream out loud and then apologize for boring me. I assured her that she was not boring. Every time I asked how the skating was progressing she would chuckle.
On her next to last visit with me, she informed me that her husband had been transferred to St. Louis and without talking to her first had taken the voluntary assignment. They would be selling their home, she would have to give up her job of almost 20 years, and she was devastated. I didn’t say much that evening. I nodded, told her she was not being unreasonable to be sad, and told her I was going to miss her very much. This last comment made her stop. She looked at me for a long moment and said “I believe you will.”
About 5 years after she walked through my door for the first time, my friend walked through my door for the last. I had a gift for her. The book “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein, some travel size products, her color formulas and a little book light so she could read at night. In the card, I gave her my email and cell phone number and told her that if she ever needed a giggle to give me a call. I’d save one for her.
We didn’t talk much again that night. She didn’t read a magazine or stare into her tea cup that evening. She watched me. I told her a couple of funny stories and asked for details about the move, the selling of her house, etc., but mostly, she just watched me in the mirror. When I finished her hair for the last time, I hugged her. I had gotten into the habit of hugging her because she always seemed to need it. Not so much from what she said, but more from what she didn’t say. She was always a bit tense and then she would ease up and almost hug me back.
With more candor and strength than she had ever shown before, these were her last words to me…
“ I am going to miss you very much. You are the only person who is ever glad to see me. The only person who laughs at my jokes, touches me, or asks my opinion about anything. You are my best friend and moving away from you is harder than leaving my job or selling the home I raised my children in.” With that, she hugged me, turned and left… and I sobbed.
I have a unique opportunity in what I do for a living. I have the opportunity to be a good and positive point in the lives of the people who sit in my chair. I have to get in their space to do my job and with that comes a responsibility that I take very seriously. I never went out of my way for this client. I treated her the same way I treat all my clients. I didn’t know she was unhappy. I thought she was a bit shy, a bit withdrawn but I didn’t suspect mistreated or unloved. I am grateful that I was a bit of light in her otherwise dark world. And I wish I had expressed to her much more fervently and before it was too late, her many good qualities. While I wish I had done more, I know I had done enough.
She hugged me back.
She was tall but she took short, small steps. Her shoulders drooping as much as her hair. She looked very tired. As with all my clients, I pulled up my cutting stool and sat down so I could have a consultation with her eye to eye. Her eyes didn’t meet mine though. They batted a lot, and looked down a lot but never at me or in the mirror. I notice things like that when I sit and talk with people. She didn’t fidget but she was not comfortable. I gave a good once over and decided she had not had a good day. “What’s on your mind?” I asked. “What?” she looked a bit startled. I re-worded my question. “What would you like for me to able to do for you?” “I’d like you to cut my hair and do something about this wretched color that will make me look and feel 20 years younger but since I don’t really believe in miracles I’ll settle for a trim and some highlights. “ I laughed out loud. I didn’t expect that from this very tired, not too confident lady. I assured her that when she left that day, she would indeed believe in miracles.
We talked a bit more. I asked lots of questions and pulled a few teeth trying to get out of her what I needed to know to give her the miracle she was looking for. She wasn’t much of a talker. More of a grunter. She was a little curious as to why I needed to know what she did for a living, what she liked and didn’t like about her hair, what tools and products she used, what time she got up in the morning etc. At one point she asked if I was going to take notes because I had asked so many questions there was no way I was going to remember all this. “Oh, don’t you worry about that! I remember everything I NEED to remember and I forget everything I should NOT repeat!” At the time, I’m pretty certain she did not believe me.
I worked harder on the consultation than I did on the hair but when we were finished she actually grinned at herself. When she caught me grinning with satisfaction she was a bit embarrassed. She shuffled out the door with the tiniest bit more bounce than when she had come in. As she was leaving, I asked her how she felt about miracles now. She shook my hand and thanked me for being an honest person.
About six weeks later, she was back. Same shuffle, same droopy shoulders. I met her at the door and opened it for her. I asked her about her dog. We had talked just a bit about her dog the last time. She was stunned that I had remembered. She talked a bit more this time. Nothing personal. This time she asked questions. She was my last client of the day, all the rest of the staff had gone home so we were alone. I turned up the classical guitar music I had going, made her some hot herbal tea and told her what I thought was a fairly dreary story about my day.
For nearly five years, this lady came into my salon every 6 weeks. She often tried to come when she could be the last client of the day. She was shy, quiet, and she seemed lonely. She was hesitant to talk about herself but I always managed a smile out of her and every once in a while she would talk of her love for books, music, antiquess and how she had always wanted to learn how to skate. I never really felt like I knew her very well. I knew she was married and had children but she did not speak of them much. Sometimes, she would just read a magazine while I did her hair and I would let her have her silence. Other times, she would almost daydream out loud and then apologize for boring me. I assured her that she was not boring. Every time I asked how the skating was progressing she would chuckle.
On her next to last visit with me, she informed me that her husband had been transferred to St. Louis and without talking to her first had taken the voluntary assignment. They would be selling their home, she would have to give up her job of almost 20 years, and she was devastated. I didn’t say much that evening. I nodded, told her she was not being unreasonable to be sad, and told her I was going to miss her very much. This last comment made her stop. She looked at me for a long moment and said “I believe you will.”
About 5 years after she walked through my door for the first time, my friend walked through my door for the last. I had a gift for her. The book “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein, some travel size products, her color formulas and a little book light so she could read at night. In the card, I gave her my email and cell phone number and told her that if she ever needed a giggle to give me a call. I’d save one for her.
We didn’t talk much again that night. She didn’t read a magazine or stare into her tea cup that evening. She watched me. I told her a couple of funny stories and asked for details about the move, the selling of her house, etc., but mostly, she just watched me in the mirror. When I finished her hair for the last time, I hugged her. I had gotten into the habit of hugging her because she always seemed to need it. Not so much from what she said, but more from what she didn’t say. She was always a bit tense and then she would ease up and almost hug me back.
With more candor and strength than she had ever shown before, these were her last words to me…
“ I am going to miss you very much. You are the only person who is ever glad to see me. The only person who laughs at my jokes, touches me, or asks my opinion about anything. You are my best friend and moving away from you is harder than leaving my job or selling the home I raised my children in.” With that, she hugged me, turned and left… and I sobbed.
I have a unique opportunity in what I do for a living. I have the opportunity to be a good and positive point in the lives of the people who sit in my chair. I have to get in their space to do my job and with that comes a responsibility that I take very seriously. I never went out of my way for this client. I treated her the same way I treat all my clients. I didn’t know she was unhappy. I thought she was a bit shy, a bit withdrawn but I didn’t suspect mistreated or unloved. I am grateful that I was a bit of light in her otherwise dark world. And I wish I had expressed to her much more fervently and before it was too late, her many good qualities. While I wish I had done more, I know I had done enough.
She hugged me back.
Dandelion Garden
When we moved into our maintenance free town home in early December, and before we bought our home, I was quite excited about the shoveled sidewalks, nicely manicured lawns, trimmed trees all without any effort on my part. I enjoy gardening. I just don't have enough time to produce a garden worthy of anyone's appreciation.
About a week ago, right on the corner where the soil meets the porch, a dandelion had bloomed. I know it's just a weed. I know that people with lovely yards do not see any intrinsic value in them. But when I saw it, I had to get a photo. It was the brightest yellow, all the more dramatic against the dark brown earth beneath it. It was leaning slightly toward me as if it wanted to be noticed, not fearing destruction, but rather hoping for acceptance.
When I entered the house, I went about my normal routine of settling in and decided to grab the camera. Thinking I would just take a quick shot or two, in case what I saw in person would translate through the lens. I ended up spending quite a bit of time with that dandelion. Shooting from different angles, up close, far away, in color and black and white. We got to be good friends, that dandelion and I. I thought about how we sometimes miss the most marvelous things because we don't take the time to observe them properly. I thought about how I'd like to get some shots of it once it had turned to seed and then put the photos side by side. There is something lovely and comforting in the cycle of life, particularly when we look closely.
I got some lovely shots of my dandelion and I was quite excited when I ran back into the house to show my split apart my "garden photos". He enthusiastically agreed that it was indeed a magnificent garden. :-)
The next day, however, when I got home from work, it was dark but I noticed right away. My garden had been pillaged. My dandelion was gone. Apparently, our maintenance crew is prompt. While I appreciate the job they do immensely, and our community is always lovely, I miss my little dandelion garden.
That others don't appreciate how lovely and delicate they are is not a surprise to me. That others see them as a blight on an otherwise immaculate lawn, is understandable. But what other dandelions do we miss because we fail to look closely? Are there people, things, circumstances that, upon closer examination, will reveal themselves to be more than they appear? And, furthermore, are they different because we see them differently? Or are they as they have always been and we are what has changed?
I miss my dandelion garden.
About a week ago, right on the corner where the soil meets the porch, a dandelion had bloomed. I know it's just a weed. I know that people with lovely yards do not see any intrinsic value in them. But when I saw it, I had to get a photo. It was the brightest yellow, all the more dramatic against the dark brown earth beneath it. It was leaning slightly toward me as if it wanted to be noticed, not fearing destruction, but rather hoping for acceptance.
When I entered the house, I went about my normal routine of settling in and decided to grab the camera. Thinking I would just take a quick shot or two, in case what I saw in person would translate through the lens. I ended up spending quite a bit of time with that dandelion. Shooting from different angles, up close, far away, in color and black and white. We got to be good friends, that dandelion and I. I thought about how we sometimes miss the most marvelous things because we don't take the time to observe them properly. I thought about how I'd like to get some shots of it once it had turned to seed and then put the photos side by side. There is something lovely and comforting in the cycle of life, particularly when we look closely.
I got some lovely shots of my dandelion and I was quite excited when I ran back into the house to show my split apart my "garden photos". He enthusiastically agreed that it was indeed a magnificent garden. :-)
The next day, however, when I got home from work, it was dark but I noticed right away. My garden had been pillaged. My dandelion was gone. Apparently, our maintenance crew is prompt. While I appreciate the job they do immensely, and our community is always lovely, I miss my little dandelion garden.
That others don't appreciate how lovely and delicate they are is not a surprise to me. That others see them as a blight on an otherwise immaculate lawn, is understandable. But what other dandelions do we miss because we fail to look closely? Are there people, things, circumstances that, upon closer examination, will reveal themselves to be more than they appear? And, furthermore, are they different because we see them differently? Or are they as they have always been and we are what has changed?
I miss my dandelion garden.
Plastic Fish, Batman, Dead Guys and Scribbler
They're all in the same vid! It's true. I made a vid. I'm in it. Along with a few of my favorite toys. This is no small thing. I don't like to talk into the camera. I don't like Vista. I don't have a lot of patience when my vids won't upload - there are just a lot more obstacles than there are hours in the day.
In fact, with this particular vid, it almost didn't get uploaded at all. I can't get my software to cooperate with Vista. I almost always have to embed because if the stars aren't aligned properly, VH won't upload my vids (although every other ning site and LV will) I have vids I've thought of posting but if I have to embed, no one sees them anyway.
So here's the story...
I spent a small amount of time getting clips of some of my favorite toys as a response vid to my buddy, SisterNan who posted a delightful video from her office. I was uncharacteristically motivated to respond. Since I don't particularly like to talk into the camera, I spent an entire day editing and cutting and pasting and taping and gluing and nailing together clips and photos of some of my office treasures. As I watched the rough draft of the vid it was glaringly apparent that not even Nan would want to labor through it and I'd have to pay people to watch it, regardless of the magnetic appeal of life sized cardboard cutouts, lava lamps and plastic fish. At this point, I had already spent, roughly a small insects life span working on the damn thing, I wasn't willing to just give up. So, I chopped, I cut, I clipped and unglued and started over.
And, I spoke. Now, I realize that my personal appearance didn't actually improve the vid, but shortening it by half and omitting half the crap I had originally included certainly did.
Anyway, after, oh, say a couple of dog years, I had a vid that at least included a clip of my cardboard super-hero, the m&m boys and a dead guy which, I feel captures the essence of the cyber cafe' complete with a snappy tune. Ok, much more time consuming than I had anticipated but that's cool.
So, now it's time to save the vid, publish the vid, and post the vid. I hit the proverbial snag. The vid I have labored over like a christmas quiche, won't save. Not on my hard drive; not on my flash drive; not onto a cd; not into an email; not onto camera. Ok...tiny glitch...check size; check available memory; clear cache; delete unneccesary files; email to self to open on other computer; sleep on it; repeat above mentioned steps; 20 times. Delete all files; say some bad words; retrieve deleted files; repeat above steps; say some more bad words; sleep on it some more; ok, so, the world doesn't really want to see my plastic fish. I don't care.
So tonight, I open the file for one last try. If it doesn't work, I'm really going to trash the crappy project and I won't do another vid till I'm tagged for some other crappy project that I won't be able to save. Just when I'm ready to throw in the towel, the vid miraculously saves to email and gives me the option to save a copy on my computer. Unbelievable.
So now, SisterNan can see some of my treasures. Oh, there's no duct tape, office supplies, disco ball or crazy glue but I did record myself long before I turned into a raving freak show because it wouldn't save.
I don't know if I should take pride in my perserverance or seek counseling for my ocd'ish need to spend 3 days on a 3 minute vid.
This is why I blog...
In fact, with this particular vid, it almost didn't get uploaded at all. I can't get my software to cooperate with Vista. I almost always have to embed because if the stars aren't aligned properly, VH won't upload my vids (although every other ning site and LV will) I have vids I've thought of posting but if I have to embed, no one sees them anyway.
So here's the story...
I spent a small amount of time getting clips of some of my favorite toys as a response vid to my buddy, SisterNan who posted a delightful video from her office. I was uncharacteristically motivated to respond. Since I don't particularly like to talk into the camera, I spent an entire day editing and cutting and pasting and taping and gluing and nailing together clips and photos of some of my office treasures. As I watched the rough draft of the vid it was glaringly apparent that not even Nan would want to labor through it and I'd have to pay people to watch it, regardless of the magnetic appeal of life sized cardboard cutouts, lava lamps and plastic fish. At this point, I had already spent, roughly a small insects life span working on the damn thing, I wasn't willing to just give up. So, I chopped, I cut, I clipped and unglued and started over.
And, I spoke. Now, I realize that my personal appearance didn't actually improve the vid, but shortening it by half and omitting half the crap I had originally included certainly did.
Anyway, after, oh, say a couple of dog years, I had a vid that at least included a clip of my cardboard super-hero, the m&m boys and a dead guy which, I feel captures the essence of the cyber cafe' complete with a snappy tune. Ok, much more time consuming than I had anticipated but that's cool.
So, now it's time to save the vid, publish the vid, and post the vid. I hit the proverbial snag. The vid I have labored over like a christmas quiche, won't save. Not on my hard drive; not on my flash drive; not onto a cd; not into an email; not onto camera. Ok...tiny glitch...check size; check available memory; clear cache; delete unneccesary files; email to self to open on other computer; sleep on it; repeat above mentioned steps; 20 times. Delete all files; say some bad words; retrieve deleted files; repeat above steps; say some more bad words; sleep on it some more; ok, so, the world doesn't really want to see my plastic fish. I don't care.
So tonight, I open the file for one last try. If it doesn't work, I'm really going to trash the crappy project and I won't do another vid till I'm tagged for some other crappy project that I won't be able to save. Just when I'm ready to throw in the towel, the vid miraculously saves to email and gives me the option to save a copy on my computer. Unbelievable.
So now, SisterNan can see some of my treasures. Oh, there's no duct tape, office supplies, disco ball or crazy glue but I did record myself long before I turned into a raving freak show because it wouldn't save.
I don't know if I should take pride in my perserverance or seek counseling for my ocd'ish need to spend 3 days on a 3 minute vid.
This is why I blog...
No Melancholy Baby
When I was a kid, I got to play. I played outside all day. I wandered about the neighborhood from sun up to sun down stopping just long enough to eat (when I remembered to) or run in and ask for change for the ice cream man. We climbed trees, played hide and seek in old abandoned barns, collected bits of colored wire to make rings and bracelets from the new housing addition going in. We explored the woods, drainage ditches, empty houses, our friends attics. We put laundry detergent on the carport and then hosed it down so we could “ice skate”, we talked to strangers, rode sleds with no brakes down the middle of the street. We didn’t own bike helmets, knee pads or wrist guards. In the summer, we would swing from ropes tied to trees right into the lake.
I remember one expedition where we went down into the drainage line that ran between the four lane highway. My sister caught a snake and we all got blisters all over the bottoms of our bare feet. It felt like we were walking on pillows. We played “kick the can“, collected rocks, drew on the sidewalk with charcoal briquets. Our parents didn’t come looking for us and we were always in the front door as the street lights came on. In the summer, we’d be back out in the front yard with the neighbor kids playing “freeze tag” by porch light. We played in the rain and washed our hair on the porch with the water rushing out of the gutters on the corners of the house.
Sometimes, we’d fall out of a tree or skin our knees. Mom would wash it off, put a band-aid on, and tell us to go back outside. We made mud pies, picked blackberries growing wild along the road and ate them without washing them. One winter, I chipped a tooth going down the hill of our street. I was laying on my stomach on my sled and hit a rough spot on the sidewalk. I was so proud! Knocked the corner, pointy part right off my eye tooth. It was a right of passage and I thought it made me look older and more mature.
One winter, the week of Christmas I woke up with what looked like giant mosquito bites all over. From head to toe I was covered in large welts. My face was so covered, there was no part that wasn’t swollen. A friend suggested a bath of bleach water because I had obviously gotten into poison oak or ivy. Apparently, Mom thought this was a viable option because she tried it. I got into the tub and began to scream loud enough to wake the dead and I turned lobster red. This time, Mom did take me to the doctor because I looked like a very large, red Michelin man. Turns out, I’m allergic to poison Ivy. It found me when I found an old abandoned tree house and decided to proclaim it as the neighborhood’s official club house. Doc gave us a prescription for a cream, strongly suggested that my mother not listen to “Dr. Neighbor” next time and sent me home.
We didn’t know if we were supposed to rub the cream in until it disappeared so Mom decided not to. The redness was gone but I looked like the Michelin man getting a facial on Christmas day. I got new skates for Christmas but I was so embarrassed about the white cream all over my face I cried, putting tear streaks through the white goo on my face and refused to go out and try them until it was washed off. My desire to try the new skates won out, and a gooey, tear streaked, swollen, itchy me went outside with my new skates anyway. I only fell once and the wind on my face cooled my burning, itching skin.
Some how I survived my childhood. All that playing seemed innocent enough but childhood is a magnificent teacher. I learned to use my imagination. I learned to play nice. I learned that wounds heal, laughter cures, and sometimes, abandoned dreams are better left alone. I learned that the sun always rises tomorrow which is the beginning of yet another new adventure if I am brave enough to face it. Yes. I survived my childhood. My wonderful, joyful, mysterious, trouble free, magical childhood.
I remember one expedition where we went down into the drainage line that ran between the four lane highway. My sister caught a snake and we all got blisters all over the bottoms of our bare feet. It felt like we were walking on pillows. We played “kick the can“, collected rocks, drew on the sidewalk with charcoal briquets. Our parents didn’t come looking for us and we were always in the front door as the street lights came on. In the summer, we’d be back out in the front yard with the neighbor kids playing “freeze tag” by porch light. We played in the rain and washed our hair on the porch with the water rushing out of the gutters on the corners of the house.
Sometimes, we’d fall out of a tree or skin our knees. Mom would wash it off, put a band-aid on, and tell us to go back outside. We made mud pies, picked blackberries growing wild along the road and ate them without washing them. One winter, I chipped a tooth going down the hill of our street. I was laying on my stomach on my sled and hit a rough spot on the sidewalk. I was so proud! Knocked the corner, pointy part right off my eye tooth. It was a right of passage and I thought it made me look older and more mature.
One winter, the week of Christmas I woke up with what looked like giant mosquito bites all over. From head to toe I was covered in large welts. My face was so covered, there was no part that wasn’t swollen. A friend suggested a bath of bleach water because I had obviously gotten into poison oak or ivy. Apparently, Mom thought this was a viable option because she tried it. I got into the tub and began to scream loud enough to wake the dead and I turned lobster red. This time, Mom did take me to the doctor because I looked like a very large, red Michelin man. Turns out, I’m allergic to poison Ivy. It found me when I found an old abandoned tree house and decided to proclaim it as the neighborhood’s official club house. Doc gave us a prescription for a cream, strongly suggested that my mother not listen to “Dr. Neighbor” next time and sent me home.
We didn’t know if we were supposed to rub the cream in until it disappeared so Mom decided not to. The redness was gone but I looked like the Michelin man getting a facial on Christmas day. I got new skates for Christmas but I was so embarrassed about the white cream all over my face I cried, putting tear streaks through the white goo on my face and refused to go out and try them until it was washed off. My desire to try the new skates won out, and a gooey, tear streaked, swollen, itchy me went outside with my new skates anyway. I only fell once and the wind on my face cooled my burning, itching skin.
Some how I survived my childhood. All that playing seemed innocent enough but childhood is a magnificent teacher. I learned to use my imagination. I learned to play nice. I learned that wounds heal, laughter cures, and sometimes, abandoned dreams are better left alone. I learned that the sun always rises tomorrow which is the beginning of yet another new adventure if I am brave enough to face it. Yes. I survived my childhood. My wonderful, joyful, mysterious, trouble free, magical childhood.
Rainbows and Water Sprinklers
It’s funny how certain things bring back memories. Sites, sounds, smells, words. Seemingly small things dust off the cobwebs that cloud our brains and transport us back in time. It happened to me today.
I heard the ice cream man. Well, not the man, the music. I heard it in the distance, getting gradually louder as it moved slowly up the street, most likely a couple of blocks away. Stopping from time to time, I can imagine children with grins spread widely across their faces waiting impatiently for their push pops, fudgesicles, and my favorite, rainbow pops. You know, the red, white and blue Popsicles that look like bombs. I was a flag waiver even then. It took me back to one summer in particular.
I was eight years old when my folks bought a brand new, never been lived in, 3 bedroom, ranch in Memphis. My mother had wall papered the living room with the idea that she would do the hallway too. She ran out of paper on the far side though so she cut the paper in a large zigzag design. It was white with pale pink and green design of some sort. Flowers probably. And I had a canopy bed and red carpet. It was magical!
It’s hot in the summer in Memphis and my friend, Lisa, who lived in the identical house across the street, and I were playing in my front yard with the sprinkler. It was one of those that waves back and forth and makes and arc and if you stand in just the right spot you can get rained on and see a rainbow at the same time. My mother toiled and sweat over that yard so the grass was as thick and plush and green as any I have ever seen. Not a weed to be found. It was soft and cool and we liked to lay in it and watch the clouds turn into designs. We lay in the grass for many hours that summer seeing castles, dragons, ballerinas, and balloons dance across the sky.
In the distance, in spite of our squeals of delight that little girls are known for, we heard it. The ice cream truck played a nursery rhyme I can’t quite put my finger on now, but I remember it sounded like bells clanking out the tune. We froze, stared at each other in astonishment, and squealed with delight again. Without another word, we both darted for the front doors of our respective homes. I don’t know exactly what transpired in Lisa’s house, but in mine, my news that the ice cream man was coming was not met with the same level of enthusiasm with which it was delivered. After being reminded, yet again, that money does not grow on trees, I realized that I was being denied! I didn’t know what that phrase meant but I did know that we would not be helping the ice cream man put any kids through college that day. I still hate both those phrases!
Apparently, Lisa got more of the same behind her front door. We met back on the curb. Sitting side by side, elbows on the knees and chins on the fists, we sat. Destined to watch as the ice cream man passed us slowly working his way out of the neighborhood, onto some other where the children’s parents must love them more. The truck got closer, the music got louder, taunting us with the occasional stops for other, luckier kids on the street. How could life be so unfair? To a couple of eight year olds, it was too much to bear. We sat on the curb, staring at the small pebbles and cracks on the new black pavement. It was soft because it was so hot and it smelled funny. As the ice cream man passed the truck slowed a bit. We looked up to tell him with great disappointment and embarrassment that we didn’t have any money that day and much to our surprise, a hand appeared out the window and several pieces of Double Bubble Bubble gum flew out the window and landed nearly in our laps! The truck sped back up to its normal crawl and made it’s way around the corner. My friend and I were again squealing with delight. The ice cream man had rescued our otherwise doomed summer afternoon. We quickly jumped up, deposited our treasures, some in our mouths and some in our pockets, and made our way through the cool, wet grass to the sprinkler. Giggling and dancing with delight, we forgot in a moment the injustice from behind our front doors and with one small token of kindness, when we stood in just the right spot, we found our rainbow.
I heard the ice cream man. Well, not the man, the music. I heard it in the distance, getting gradually louder as it moved slowly up the street, most likely a couple of blocks away. Stopping from time to time, I can imagine children with grins spread widely across their faces waiting impatiently for their push pops, fudgesicles, and my favorite, rainbow pops. You know, the red, white and blue Popsicles that look like bombs. I was a flag waiver even then. It took me back to one summer in particular.
I was eight years old when my folks bought a brand new, never been lived in, 3 bedroom, ranch in Memphis. My mother had wall papered the living room with the idea that she would do the hallway too. She ran out of paper on the far side though so she cut the paper in a large zigzag design. It was white with pale pink and green design of some sort. Flowers probably. And I had a canopy bed and red carpet. It was magical!
It’s hot in the summer in Memphis and my friend, Lisa, who lived in the identical house across the street, and I were playing in my front yard with the sprinkler. It was one of those that waves back and forth and makes and arc and if you stand in just the right spot you can get rained on and see a rainbow at the same time. My mother toiled and sweat over that yard so the grass was as thick and plush and green as any I have ever seen. Not a weed to be found. It was soft and cool and we liked to lay in it and watch the clouds turn into designs. We lay in the grass for many hours that summer seeing castles, dragons, ballerinas, and balloons dance across the sky.
In the distance, in spite of our squeals of delight that little girls are known for, we heard it. The ice cream truck played a nursery rhyme I can’t quite put my finger on now, but I remember it sounded like bells clanking out the tune. We froze, stared at each other in astonishment, and squealed with delight again. Without another word, we both darted for the front doors of our respective homes. I don’t know exactly what transpired in Lisa’s house, but in mine, my news that the ice cream man was coming was not met with the same level of enthusiasm with which it was delivered. After being reminded, yet again, that money does not grow on trees, I realized that I was being denied! I didn’t know what that phrase meant but I did know that we would not be helping the ice cream man put any kids through college that day. I still hate both those phrases!
Apparently, Lisa got more of the same behind her front door. We met back on the curb. Sitting side by side, elbows on the knees and chins on the fists, we sat. Destined to watch as the ice cream man passed us slowly working his way out of the neighborhood, onto some other where the children’s parents must love them more. The truck got closer, the music got louder, taunting us with the occasional stops for other, luckier kids on the street. How could life be so unfair? To a couple of eight year olds, it was too much to bear. We sat on the curb, staring at the small pebbles and cracks on the new black pavement. It was soft because it was so hot and it smelled funny. As the ice cream man passed the truck slowed a bit. We looked up to tell him with great disappointment and embarrassment that we didn’t have any money that day and much to our surprise, a hand appeared out the window and several pieces of Double Bubble Bubble gum flew out the window and landed nearly in our laps! The truck sped back up to its normal crawl and made it’s way around the corner. My friend and I were again squealing with delight. The ice cream man had rescued our otherwise doomed summer afternoon. We quickly jumped up, deposited our treasures, some in our mouths and some in our pockets, and made our way through the cool, wet grass to the sprinkler. Giggling and dancing with delight, we forgot in a moment the injustice from behind our front doors and with one small token of kindness, when we stood in just the right spot, we found our rainbow.
Elvis has Left the Building
I answer questions on allexperts.com and recently had a question about how to achieve a haircut inspired by a 1968 Elvis. I answered the question and suggested to the questioner not to be surprised if he was met with some incredulity as we don't often get requests for hairstyles from 40 years ago. It reminded me of a client I had several years ago.
I was working in a small, privately owned salon and I was often the last one to leave. One night, shortly before locking the doors, a man dressed all in black, boots and sunglasses, (it was nearly 9:00 p.m.) and dyed black hair, came in and asked if I had time for one more. Of course I did. I asked his name. He quietly responded as though he were concerned someone would hear, "Elvis". I looked up to see if he was smirking and think I just caught him nervously looking as though he might have to run out the back when herds of screaming girls came running in. He wasn't smirking so as I put his name on the appointment book, I said, "Ok, whatever you say, but you're the third one today!" He still wasn't smirking.
While I was cutting his hair in fine Elvis form, he handed me a business card and asked if I often worked alone at night. Now he was getting a bit creepy. Before I had the chance to respond and tell him about the Transformer in the back folding towels, he explained that in the near future, he would be traveling with his entourage and they would need a place they could go at night to avoid the crowds. (Darn those screaming legions of crying, clothes ripping, pantie throwing, sweaty scarf loving girls!) Ahhh, I see. "Well, I suppose your schedule is quite busy. If you let me know ahead of time, I can arrange to accommodate you after closing. That way, your entourage will all have a place to sit." He still wasn't smirking but he did seem appreciative that I would be willing to help him out. I'm pretty sure he was expecting me to ask for an autograph, but if the guy can't at least laugh at my jokes, there's only so much I'm willing to do.
I managed to finish his hair cut without laughing out loud at how ridiculous he looked. He combed through it, scrutinized it from every angle, shook his head, smoothed his hair again and after a solid 5 minutes thanked me for being as good at my job as he was at his. He gave me an invitation so a show he was doing on a Saturday afternoon and told me to feel free to bring a guest. He left, I swept up all three hairs that I actually cut. I wasn't able to go because I work on Saturday afternoons and try as I might, I couldn't give those tickets away. I never saw him (or his entourage) again.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.
I was working in a small, privately owned salon and I was often the last one to leave. One night, shortly before locking the doors, a man dressed all in black, boots and sunglasses, (it was nearly 9:00 p.m.) and dyed black hair, came in and asked if I had time for one more. Of course I did. I asked his name. He quietly responded as though he were concerned someone would hear, "Elvis". I looked up to see if he was smirking and think I just caught him nervously looking as though he might have to run out the back when herds of screaming girls came running in. He wasn't smirking so as I put his name on the appointment book, I said, "Ok, whatever you say, but you're the third one today!" He still wasn't smirking.
While I was cutting his hair in fine Elvis form, he handed me a business card and asked if I often worked alone at night. Now he was getting a bit creepy. Before I had the chance to respond and tell him about the Transformer in the back folding towels, he explained that in the near future, he would be traveling with his entourage and they would need a place they could go at night to avoid the crowds. (Darn those screaming legions of crying, clothes ripping, pantie throwing, sweaty scarf loving girls!) Ahhh, I see. "Well, I suppose your schedule is quite busy. If you let me know ahead of time, I can arrange to accommodate you after closing. That way, your entourage will all have a place to sit." He still wasn't smirking but he did seem appreciative that I would be willing to help him out. I'm pretty sure he was expecting me to ask for an autograph, but if the guy can't at least laugh at my jokes, there's only so much I'm willing to do.
I managed to finish his hair cut without laughing out loud at how ridiculous he looked. He combed through it, scrutinized it from every angle, shook his head, smoothed his hair again and after a solid 5 minutes thanked me for being as good at my job as he was at his. He gave me an invitation so a show he was doing on a Saturday afternoon and told me to feel free to bring a guest. He left, I swept up all three hairs that I actually cut. I wasn't able to go because I work on Saturday afternoons and try as I might, I couldn't give those tickets away. I never saw him (or his entourage) again.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.
Stars and Uglies and the Man in the Moon
One of my earliest memories is laying in the front seat of the car and watching the street lights as they passed by the window. I remember thinking about how pretty they looked with their star burst tails stretching out like long fingers. I imagined they tickled and touched the stars. Even then I had a rather peculiar imagination, I suppose.
By the time I was 8 years old, we had moved to Memphis where, because my last name started with a V, was promptly placed at a desk in the back of the room with the students whose names started with W’s and Y’s. I didn’t particularly like it in the back of the room. I wanted to be close to a window. Apparently, being the new kid did not afford me such a luxury in this city school.
Sometime during that year, my teacher called my parents in for a meeting. That could only mean one thing. I was in trouble. For what, I could not imagine but fear ran through my veins and my heart was pounding so hard I thought for sure it was going to bust right out. I wasn’t even invited to the meeting. I was pretty sure I was going to be grounded for some unknown offense for the rest of my life. I envisioned dishes and trash bags piled to the ceiling and my parents scowling because I wasn't working hard or fast enough. Cinderella had nothin’ on me.
My parents came home from the meeting and oddly, didn’t say a word. The following week, however, I was kept out of school to go to see an optometrist. I didn’t know what that was but I was certain I was going to get a shot. I was taken into a dark room with a very large pair of binoculars on a swinging arm. My parents went in with me, thank goodness. I still did not know what I was in for but it had to be something bad. I asked if it was going to hurt. The doctor smiled and said “no. Put your chin here and read me those letters”. “What letters?” I asked. “Oh my! We DO have a problem!” he said. I figured the shot was coming. He flipped some clacky hoolydoos and suddenly before my eyes appeared the biggest letter E I had ever seen! The eye exam continued with the doctor asking a lot of questions I couldn’t really answer; “which is better…A or B?… 1 or 2?…A or B”? I got a little tired of the game. Turns out I couldn’t answer the questions because the letters didn’t look normal to me. At least, not the way I had gotten used to seeing them.
The very first thing I remember is walking like Paris Hilton. High stepping because the sidewalk was coming at me. I couldn’t find the curb either and decided it might be best to hang on to someone. On the way home we stopped at the store. Walking through the store, still holding on tight to my mother’s hand, I was amazed at what I could see! “Oh Mommy! Look at those cute little things in the ceiling!” She was not nearly as impressed with the sprinklers as I was for some reason.
My first day at school with my new glasses was pretty brutal. Amongst all the pointing and laughing and jeering, I had no choice but to wear them because the chalk board was just a large, green, blank screen without them. I could not wait to get home and hide in my room. I was grotesque with those stupid, ugly glasses and there was just no way around it. Give me the trash and dishes. I deserved them.
Later that night, once the sun had dipped below the horizon, my mom tapped on my door. Tempting me with lemonade, she led me out to the front porch where we sat on the steps. It was a clear, warm night and the fireflies were dancing around the yard to music only they could hear. Turning off the porch light and with a slight nod of the head, my mother urged me to look up. I could not believe my bespectacled eyes.
The entire sky lit up like Christmas lights. There was not one empty space. Clusters of gleaming light spanned all the way to the horizon and I saw stars for the first time in my life. We had to walk out into the yard to see the moon. It was high, bright and full. And, much to my surprise, it was round and smooth. It had always looked like a gray dandelion to me. I could see the dark lines from the craters and suddenly, the world made sense.
I saw the man in the moon.
Beware of Low Flying Aircraft and Other Tips for Getting Along.
In addition to standing behind the chair, I teach continuing education for my company. In fact, I just returned last night from Houston. We have a model we follow regarding the structure of the programs we teach. One of the things we DON'T do is introduce ourselves. No one cares who I am, how long I've been doing what I do, or anything else. It isn't about me. It's about them. They took time out of their busy schedules to do something to advance their careers. They care about what I came to share with them. What they do want to know is do I care about what I am there to share. So, we tell a personal story that illustrates how we came to have a personal testimony of our subject. This keeps the focus on them and it seems to work.
I tend to tell personal stories throughout the training to bring home certain points. At one point, we were discussing our responsibilities to our clients, the importance of all types of communication and first impressions. Here's one of the personal experiences I shared.
Not long ago on a typical Saturday - Clients were arriving late for want of parking spaces, dropping kids off, shopping, forgetting, eating, sleeping in, etc. Everyone was booked. No one was finishing early. No one was willing to give up a lunch, chocolate or smoke break. On days like these, when someone wanders in without an appointment, the salon coordinators come to me.
"Dana, we have a lady up here who needs a hair cut. Can you squeeze her in?"
Hmmm.. I have a haircut coming in about 5 minutes; one highlight processing, I'm applying color now on a third client. So, if I get the color client processing, rinse my highlight and apply a conditioner, do the haircut while those two clients process in 15 minutes less time...yeah, I can do it.Tell her I'll be about 30 minutes."
The walk in client sits in front and watches all the activity. My station, however, is in the back. She cannot see me from her vantage point. My plan goes as it should and I end up with a 30 minute block to cut her hair. For new clients I like 45 minutes but apparently she was insistent.
Keep in mind, they had checked with every other stylist. No one would squeeze her in. So, I walk around the corner. It's only about two and a half hours into my day and I have already done 7 or 8 clients. I walk up to the client, introduce myself, and invite her back to my station. When she realized I was the one doing her hair, her face dropped. I mean, her mouth fell open, she looked around to see if there was some mistake, and said, "Ummm, ok." Not as much enthusiasm as I like to see, but it's Saturday and I don't have time to dwell on it.
We get to my chair and I go through the usual; How are you? What can I help you with? blah, blah, blah... She nearly flinched when I touched her hair! Now, I understand that not everyone is going to like me. That's ok. I'm cool with that. I work with quite a few young, trendy, beautiful, intelligent, creative people. I don't mind if someone prefers one of them to me. Truly I don't. For every client that prefers one of those cute, trendy infants, there's one who thinks I'm a genius. I can live with that. This lady, however, didn't even TRY to be polite. She was openly rude. She answered my questions with one word grunts, eyes darting about the room as though she were looking for an escape hatch. It was like wrestling an alligator with this lady.
Usually, when we get one of these squirrelly ones, they are just nervous about a change. I can always win that type over. Not this lady. She clearly did not want me doing her hair. Due to the time constraint, I finally said, "You know what? I'm going to go see if there is someone else available to do your hair. (I already knew there wasn't) It's obvious that you are uncomfortable."
She said, "Well, I was assured you were good but, well, ummm..."
"No worries" I assured her. "We have lots of talented people here. Let me see what I can do."
"They already told me you were the only one available." she said.
Inappropriate comment #1 - "Well, they were wrong. I'm NOT available. I have three other clients going. I'm just the only one able (or willing) to work you in. But you are obviously uncomfortable, and I am sooo sorry but I don't have time for you to be indecisive. I don't feel comfortable doing your hair if you're not certain I can do a good job for you. Let me just go see what I can work out."
As I start to walk away, she blurts, "That's not the problem. I just usually look for the stylist with the best hair and that's who I ask for."
This stumped me for a moment. I was, in fact, speechless if only for a second. I looked over at my neighbor, who had been observing this whole fiasco. We both had that, "Did she just say that to me?" look on our faces. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror.
And it happened. Inappropriate response #2 - If you've read any of my other blogs about clients, you know what happened. I started to laugh. Out loud. Hysterically. Admittedly not the best response to a skittish, persnickety client. And, of course, the harder I try NOT to laugh, the more antic I get.
One of my better habits is to show my clients how to style their hair by styling my own. I show them how to do it themselves; Hold it like this; spray it like that. Well, even though I am surrounded by mirrors, I don't actually look at myself all that often. I realized quite suddenly, why this woman did not want me to do her hair. It looked like I had been spinning on my head! One side was flipped out with wee curls; the other side was sticking up where I had shown someone how to get more volume; I hadn't had my color done since the last time two of us had time at the same time so I had 2 inches of new growth which gave a sort of landing strip affect. That happens a lot. I just watch out for low flying aircraft and get it done when I can. My regular clients appreciate my choosing to do their hair over my own.
And since TWO inappropriate response weren't enough, as I was wiping the tears of hysteria from my face I said, "How curiously odd. Most folks look for the ones who DON'T have time to sit around and do their hair."
My co-worker and I repeated our earlier performance of "Did I just say that out loud", started laughing AGAIN, politely giving the client time to think about it. Curiously, she decided I might be onto to something and eased up. I then had about 17 minutes to cut her hair, as opposed to the preferred 45 but still managed to send her out the door looking positively smashing.
So much for first impressions.
I Promise
We lived in a small house with a large tree in the front yard. My dad cut a piece of wood, drilled four holes where he could thread some sturdy rope and spent an afternoon tossing the rope up and over a branch to build me a swing that would become my first sanctuary. I spent many hours on that swing, dreaming of what I would be when I grew up, where I would live, who I would marry and what I would contribute to the world. (a stewardess or an actress or a singer, On the beach, a sailor prince, velcro) On that swing, all things were possible. I came up with many ideas for making the world a better place. One that I remember in particular was a very special glue. One that would glue my doll's arm back on and still enable it to move so she could hug me still and would motivate my mother to take her out the the big round trash barrel at the end of the driveway. It didn't matter that I had many other dolls that I loved just as much. The wounded one was the one I loved the most. I took my baby out of the trash and with her in one hand and her severed arm in the other, I marched back to the house with a mission. Mom, of course, caught me at the door. “We can fix her! I promised!” With as much patience as she could muster, mom explained that dolly's arm, could not be glued, sewed, stapled or pinned, shooting down every option a 5 year old could come up with. “I'll just hold it then.” With that, I went to the bathroom, got out a box of band-aids, and applied them as neatly as I could where her arm was supposed to be. Rather than argue with me, she just waited, hoping at some point I would forget the old ratty doll and move on to another one.
Every now and then, Mom would try to get rid of one toy or another that was no longer, in her eyes, worth keeping. I would catch her, retrieve my beloved stuffed bear with no eyes, Barbie missing a leg, clothes long lost, or armless doll. I would always pull them out of the trash. When she would try to convince me to let the toy go, I always said the same thing. “I promised!”
I don't remember if it was Christmas or my birthday, or just a time my dad came home and brought me a gift from his travels, but I got a new stuffed bear with a large ribbon around his neck. I was delighted. He was soft and his fur felt nice against my cheek. I hugged and squeezed him and whispered in his ear, “ I will take care of you. I will sing to you. I will be sweet to you. I will love you. I promise.”
At the age of five, a promise was sacred. You didn't make promises you couldn't keep. I used the phrase “I promise” like some people use “Thanks” or “Hello” or “I love you.” I expected the same loyalty from others as well. If someone promised me something, there was no doubt in my mind that it would be so. I believed what people told me. Their word was their bond. I did not know that sometimes people did not tell the truth. I did not know that sometimes, people would say things they didn't mean. I did not know that sometimes, people will say things just to get what they want. I wonder what happened. When did a promise become a bargaining chip, a tool of coercion, a meaningless idiom?
And why? Is it a commentary on the degradation of society? Have we become so debased that our word is no longer essential? Is it cultural? Do only some communities or societies suffer from this lack of verbal allegiance? Or, perhaps, it's the result of the age of technology. Instant gratification has spoiled us into thinking waiting is unnecessary. Possibly the fine line that exists between wants and needs has become so blurred that it's indiscernible. Or is it something much simpler than that? Maybe, as we become older, we use it so much that it becomes common place. We say “I promise” like we say “thanks” or “hello” without much thought to the meaning behind it. Whatever the reason, saying the words “I promise” doesn't mean what it used to.
But it can. :-)
5.25.2009
her name was Mary
Mom had severe back problems and Mary came to do a lot of the things she couldn't. Especially before her spinal fusion. Whenever she was there, I followed Mary around like I was tethered to her. I liked it when she was there. She was sweet, mild mannered and she looked at me when I spoke. Sometimes, she would sit down so we were eye to eye and she never, ever didn't thoughtfully answer what must have been the tedious questions of a seven year old.
Mary would always keep a jar under the sink to drink out of, rather than a glass. My mother did not know this. I just thought Mary liked jars and often asked if I could drink out of one too. Mary always gave me a glass. One day, my mom came into the kitchen while Mary and I were having lunch. I was at the table and Mary was standing at the counter. Mom caught her drinking out of a jar. I did not understand what Mary said when she was asked why she was using a jar instead of a glass but I remember very clearly my mother's response. She said, "Mary, if you are good enough to take care of my babies, you are good enough to drink out of my glassess." With that, she poured Mary's drink into a glass and put the jar in the sink. After Mom left the kitchen, Mary washed her jar and put it back under the sink. Washing it and carefully replacing it to her spot under the sink, and careful not to let anyone catch me, I would drink out of Mary's jar when she wasn't there.
I loved Mary and I still like drinking out of jars.
Mary would always keep a jar under the sink to drink out of, rather than a glass. My mother did not know this. I just thought Mary liked jars and often asked if I could drink out of one too. Mary always gave me a glass. One day, my mom came into the kitchen while Mary and I were having lunch. I was at the table and Mary was standing at the counter. Mom caught her drinking out of a jar. I did not understand what Mary said when she was asked why she was using a jar instead of a glass but I remember very clearly my mother's response. She said, "Mary, if you are good enough to take care of my babies, you are good enough to drink out of my glassess." With that, she poured Mary's drink into a glass and put the jar in the sink. After Mom left the kitchen, Mary washed her jar and put it back under the sink. Washing it and carefully replacing it to her spot under the sink, and careful not to let anyone catch me, I would drink out of Mary's jar when she wasn't there.
I loved Mary and I still like drinking out of jars.
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