I am writing for the Kansas City Star monthly; you can read my latest piece here on what a mess I am. (Images of new storage solutions from Serena and Lily guest star.)
Image courtesy of Serena and Lily.
Dirty Little Secret
Girl Talk
I pushed the button on my phone as I left yoga to see that Shelby had called. Shelby cuts my hair and on my list of VIPs he falls just behind anyone with whom I share DNA. “Darn. Sick,” was my first thought.
“Patricia, I’m just making sure you’re alright. We had you down at 9:45….” Just so you know, “making sure you’re alright” is code for “where the hell are you?” Or it would be, except Shelby is so nice. I had him on my calendar at 11:15 and I’m not quite sure you can understand the importance of this in my life, but this one misstep might have meant that I would not have a haircut (and color, to be honest) for four more weeks. Which in the scheme of things means nothing, but in my day-to-day, well, it’s significant.
I called. He relented. I went, slightly sheepish in my workout wear and slippers. As I “processed,” a woman I have known for twenty years was having her hair dried. When wet, it springs in inky dark ringlets hitting just at her jawline. As Shelby worked her hair with a brush the circumference of my fist it bloomed into the most delicious curls. Big, soft and full, they framed her face in a kind of Hollywood glam I fear I’ll never know. She looked back at me through the mirror with dark eyes and I mouthed, “I want my hair to look like that.” She smiled.
Back in the chair, where I should have been quietly grateful and repentant, I looked up at Shelby from under bare lashes and said, “I want to have big hair.” Not in a Veruca Salt kind of way, but wistfully. Just shy of desperate. Rather than apply the flat side of a brush to my backside, he went to work.
As I left, less conscious of my yoga pants and no make-up, I glanced into the book store window on my way by. Big, golden curls winked back and in an instant I thought, “Sometimes it is so fantastic to be female.”
Photography, Howell Conant, with thanks to the helpful reader.
Block Head
The last time I was in New York my friend Michael was telling me, “Today at work I made a reference to Brancusi’s The Kiss and everyone just looked back at me totally blank.” As they began searching on their phones, trying to put his remark in context he asked, “Do you not know Brancusi’s Kiss?” and someone replied, “Oh, Michael, you know the most obscure things.”
Toiling away in obscurity here as well, I made a new friend. He reminded me a little of Brancusi’s sculpture, though he is only half of that whole. A quarter, really, as he’s unable to press against a heady female from shoulder to foot. He could kiss, I suppose, though honestly, he’s far too timid. It’s more likely that he’d make a cerebral connection. A quiet observer, he seems amused by our busy abode. He is the second sculpture that I passed at first glance and circled back around to collect later. Sort of the opposite of catch and release. More satisfying, though. I’d rather have him in the end than enjoy him for a while and have to let him go.
Progress Report
These silhouettes have rested against the wall of the overly-large powder room for the past two years. I mentioned it to someone once and she said, “I didn’t realize that wasn’t where they were supposed to be.” Yes, this can sometimes happen. They remained, happily at home, after I painted the top portion of the wall (and ceiling, which you cannot see here.)
I showed my eldest, who is both creative and good at math (which I do find admirable, if annoying), the picture of the Greek key and asked him, “Do you think it will be hard? I mean, for me. Do you think it will be hard for me?”
He studied the image briefly, never pausing the back-and-forth, back-and-forth of his lacrosse stick and said, “I think that if you think it will be hard, it will be hard, but if you think it will be fun, it will be fun.” Which was an admirable perspective. Still, slightly annoying.
So I started Sunday. Because, hard or not, fun or not, it is nothing if I don’t begin.
Tie One On
My new year starts Monday as the younger boys head back to school. I know that January is supposed to be a time of pared-down and scaled-back, but my eyes keep catching this image each time they sweep my inspiration board. I spent the holidays in black and gold with red nails and lips so there’s consistency there. Also, recently asked, “How many bracelets do you think would be too many?” I could only reply, “I have no idea, but I’m not there yet.” But beyond that, my look is remarkably restrained. Usually straight. Mostly fitted. Almost masculine. The image next to this one on the cork is cropped black pants with white socks and black oxfords. The one below, white blouse buttoned to the neck with a black lace sweater.
So how to explain the allure of this avalanche of excess? Those bows. Those white satin bows, with their tails docked short. The gleam of the silk, the clipped “V” of their ends. For someone whose wedding dress had not one sequin, one pearl, one peek of lace – only a line of satin buttons as embellishment – it seems distinctly out of character. But they are so wonderfully feminine, I can’t help but want to slide the satin between my finger and thumb.
Could this be the dawn of a new year and a new me? Perhaps. Perhaps this is the year to break out and be brave.
Image, Meadham Kirchhoff Spring 2013 Ready to Wear via Style.com. Photography Alessandro Garofalo.
