The Kilted Coiffeur

A guy at the copy shop said to me, "Wow you have such long hair, let me guess, your husband won't let you cut it."  I took immediate offense as I realized I looked like a person who had no control over how I wear my hair.  I replied "No, I'm just lazy and haven't had it cut in three years."  I started looking at it in the mirror, all the heavy locks that I usually just put in a bun every day.  The same long, heavy, dark mane I had in college.  I once read that people keep their hair in the style they had when they had the most fun in life. I think about this when I see women with the big bouffant feathered hair from the 80s, I think about it when you see comb overs and mullets and I was thinking about it looking in the mirror.  Just six years ago I had a pixie (see profile picture on the right) so clearly I'm not hanging onto the past.... or am I. "Oh no" I thought.

So, I looked online for a hair cuttery close to home, I read reviews and perused a few websites before I found The Kilted Coiffeur who said "Love Your Hair, Every Day"... Nope I didn't love my hair, not any of the days.  Sometimes I loved it just after I blow dried it and flipped it upside down and was standing in a certain light, just slightly to the left, but only for about five minutes and I wanted to love it every day now that I thought about it.  I stalked The Kilted Coiffeur on Facebook, carefully looking at all the hair and eye-balling the stylist to see if it was someone I thought I might want to talk to while being coiffed.  Dark thick nerdy glasses, asymmetrical hair cut, standing next to Rachael Ray smiling - yep, that was the guy.  That was the guy I wanted to save me from being a dowdy housewife, the guy I could trust to figure out what I needed.  I called him, he was out of state teaching a class solidifying my choice.  I booked an appointment online.

On this St. Patrick's day morning I got up early and ran out of the house while the children slept, not knowing what I wanted my head to look like.  Michael, quite literally, Thee Kilted Coiffeur, walked in for his first appointment (me) wearing an actual kilt and carrying bagpipes slug over his shoulder, no I'm not even kidding.  He has an event tonight where he'll play bagpipes, but I like to think he wore the kilt in recognition of my new do.  We talked about my hair and I explained the last cut (years ago) wasn't my favorite and how I'm scared and hyper critical now.  I think I mentioned I was going blog about it too so really no pressure at all (haha!) Michael made his suggestion and I said "do it." I trusted him. He chopped a big hunk off the bottom and held it up like a savage Celt who just got a rabbit.  I was happy to see it go.  Then scissors were flying.  I felt the weight coming off and off and off and off and finally an hour and a half later...

What I'm not sure you can see is how freaking soft and bouncy my hair is.  Get ready for the slew of photos of my head so I can show it off and try to convey how awesome it is.  I keep shaking my head like some kind of Prell commercial just to feel it move.  On this day I love my hair and I think probably I will tomorrow too and when I'm not feeling the love so much, I'll just call Michael again.  

The Kilted Coiffeur Studio Salon

12010 Jones Road Suite 105

Houston, Texas 

713.518.2173

KiltedCoiffeur.com

Two Wheels!

Not to be outdone on milestones this week, Ella and Grandpa perfected bike riding on two wheels!

Curls

I was afraid to get his hair cut because I didn't want his little curls to go away so I just cut the bangs hanging in his eyes.  Then someone mentioned "his cute little mullet" and that was the straw that broke the mother's back.  I took him to the hair cuttery while Grandpa is visiting.  Sitting in the little car went a long way and the barber was fast and efficient.  She was used to getting her photo taken and said often times she has the whole extended family circling and taking photos like paparazzi.  She did a wonderful job, the curls are still there and Jack looks less like a chubby toddling baby and more like a tall scrappy boy.

Tex

I've often wondered how long one must live a place before you feel like that's where you are from.  I've spent three Christmases in Texas and welcomed another child.  I have a library card, a voter registration and a drivers license that all say I'm a Texan. I rub my arms and make an effort to dig out socks when the temperature dips to only 65°. I like to let the ocean be my therapist, the briny water washing troubles from me with every visit. I use "ya'll".  I know that brisket is more than something you corn on St. Patrick's Day and I've tried five different kinds of tamales and seven different bread puddings. But today, I sat down at my computer with a coffee, saw a post from a place I used to work, and heard my first Midwestern accent.

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Two Miles with One Stone

I decided Ella should get an allowance and I asked her how much it should be. She said $2.00. I don't make her do anything for the $2.00 and I never threaten to take away her allowance, she just gets it. What I get in return is a shrewd analysis of what is worth buying.

Ella jumping up and down holding a sparking, pink, plastic whatsamagig "Ooooo, can I get it? Can I get it? Can I get it?"

"How much is it?"

"$14.99"

"Do you want to spend your allowance on it?"

"Nah, I don't like it that much. Never mind."

Recently at the We-Have-Everything Store, she decided to spend her allowance. She started by making a list; One gallon fish tank $10.00, Fish food $2.00, Three Tiger Barbs $6.00.

The following pay-day we made the trip, but after reading tiger barbs are aggressive and will nip each other, she considered other fish. She settled on glow light tetra who are docile, only a dollar and promptly died in the little fish tank next to her bed that night. The next morning, I told my tearful child there was nothing we could have done for those little fishes, they were doomed from the beginning. I assured her fish don't feel much because they're just fish and in fact we were going to be eating fish for dinner... talapia not tetra. She didn't think it was as funny as I'd hoped.

After washing the tank, refilling it and letting it run for two days, we ventured out to the pet store and talked to the fish guy who assured us we were doing everything wrong.

"Tetra! Why would you do that? They are delicate and hard to keep."

"A one gallon tank!? Oh boy, you are already stressing any fish, you should just get the ten gallon instead."

"Plastic coral?! I recommend a live plant."

I smiled and explained about the allowance while he continued to talk over me, then we went ahead and bought three little tiger barbs. We're keeping them in the kitchen for three days before moving them to the kid's room and giving them names.

Yesterday, day two, the littlest tiger barb swam in circles and did flips. I announced he was a goner and the kid disagreed, claiming that he just liked adventurous swimming. Last night he was floating at the bottom. I scooped him out before realising he was still trying to breath and put him back in the tank where he just floated at the top.

In 2001, this happened to our long time self-sustaining-cube-guppy, Spike. He was two years old and dying of old age. His floater wasn't working right, he couldn't get off the bottom of the tank and for two days I hand fed him with a toothpick, a half a food flake stabbed onto the end. When he started looking bad and no longer eating, I fretted and made Dan get Spike out of the cube and chop it's head off with a pairing knife. It was the quickest thing I could think of. Later a biologist pal informed me Dr. Kevorkian would put Spike to sleep in the freezer.

So now, I have a tiny tiger barb flavored fish-sicle in my freezer next to the talapia.

Lost Treasure

All I know about Mr. Lawson is what we kids heard in the neighborhood and what my parents have later confirmed. I never spoke to him, he was as old as the wind that whipped through his white hair and we only saw him while he worked in the yard at the big brick house next to mine. The immaculate yard boasted giant oaks in the front, a perfect lawn, a perfect square hedge, a field of tiger lilies in the back and a single pear tree along our shared driveway. Mr. Lawson let my Father pick all the pears one year for pear wine in return for a bottle of it but I don’t think it turned out very well because we never did it again.

Mr. Lawson was born in that house. His father owned Lawson Furniture and before the turn of the century built the house for his wife and his only son. In fact his father built most of the homes on our street including ours designed for a Doctor in the late 1800s and the two story stables turned garages that ran the length of the block behind all our back yards. Our home had an odd little corner ledge half way up the stairs used for setting the end of a casket on while wrangling it up the long and winding staircase. Knowing this spurred my 10 year old brain into action dreaming up stories about ghosts of children that had died in the Doctors parlor in my living room at night and coffins in the front hall.

To our disappointment Mr. Lawson had no children to play with and he yelled at us when we crawled through his tiger lilies pretending to be Indians sneaking up on our enemies. His house was the largest on the block. We longed to play on his grand old porch with its triple pillars and incredible bricked shelves but we didn’t dare step foot into the yard, as we never knew when he was home. My Father said Mr. Lawson was married once and his wife died. He couldn’t stand to live in the house without her, but when he missed her he’d come back and stay there for a time. Each visit he was in mourning, perhaps that’s why he didn’t care to have us chasing our kickball into his yard. Or perhaps it was a reminder of his son who had also passed away before him.

His withdrawn demeanor only fueled our childhood stories. We imagined buried treasure in the basement, gold coins garnered from a trip to Egypt hidden in the walls and jewels encrusted into the chandeliers that we could see from the street and ghosts guarding it all with a curse. Each separate tiny beveled pane of glass drooping and warping through time invited us to climb up and gaze into the house, yet we knew Mr. Lawson could be looking back or worse yet the spirit of his wife or son.

Dad talked to Mr. Lawson once in a while during his sad stays at the estate. Through the years we learned Mr. Lawson’s son had gone to Europe right after WWII and bought a tremendous amount of art hidden from the Nazis during the war. It hung inside the enormous brick home next to scrolled woodwork and polished banisters. The son would’ve been the only heir to the fortune and he didn’t have any children himself when he died from diabetes. I think the sadness from it killed Mr. Lawson and the home eventually sold to someone outside of the family for the first time in 100 years. They held an auction at the estate and among the rooms of antique furniture and art, two Picassos and a safe as big as a piano holding thousands of dollars cash. Our childhood fantasies were true. There was treasure in the home and it seemed no body inherited it.

When it was sold the developer didn’t care about the estate and turned it into low rent apartments. My teenage mind used to picture the developer in a polished grey pinstriped suit and hair slicked back with a cigarette clenched between his teeth and giant gold rings on his fingers. He rented it to a group of college boys who had partys there every night, smashing beer cans into the tiger lily patch and burning cigarette holes into various spots on the parquet floors. Shortly after, the rest of the houses on the block sold. Converted into low rent apartments the neighborhood lost its professors, art dealers, antique book sellers and me. My parents sold too.

If I find myself in that part of town I am often compelled to drive down Gregory St. to see which trees are gone and what windows are boarded up. It always makes me a little sad but yesterday I read this story in the paper about the Lawson Estate and my heart broke a little more: “Shabby Rockford House Lands on City’s Demolition List”











Photo: AMY J. VAN HORN RRSTAR.COM
Jim Pankhurst says he’s glad that the city intends to get rid of this eyesore next to his property in the 500 block of Gregory Street in Rockford.

"...The condemnation notice was posted again this week. city spokeswoman Julia Scott-Valdez said, and two garages behind the house, which are open and full of junk, also have been condemned.


Tenants moved out of the house within the past month and left huge piles of garbage next to the curb that the city hauled away.


Who’s responsible: The owner of record, David Lejeune, is deceased, and no one has stepped forward to claim responsibility for the property, Scott-Valdez said.


What’s been done: The house was condemned in 2003, and a city code hearing officer fined the owner $24,000 for various property-standard violations. The fines were never paid. The city obtained a judgment in circuit court to enforce the fine so the money can be recouped via a lien when the property changes ownership.


The house isn’t likely to change hands, though, because it is on the city’s list for demolition. How soon the wrecking ball will visit Gregory Street is uncertain. The city is relying on federal money to pay for the job, and three other shabby houses nearby — on Catlin, Bremer and Third streets — are competing for the cash. One of the requirements for spending the federal money is that the city first study what effect tearing down all of those houses would have on the immediate neighborhood.


“If the house on Gregory can’t come down this year, then next year,” Scott-Valdez said. “We may be able to deal with the garages behind the house sooner.”


Pankhurst said he’s glad the property is on the city’s radar.


“It’s been a problem for a long time,” he said. “I’ll be glad to see it go.” -Story by Isaac Guerrero"


Other links about the neighborhood
Greogory Street and Where I'm From

First Day of School

Epiphanies

You’d think after RollerCon and then practice last night, today I’d be sick of roller derby. I have to tell you – it just can’t happen. I was so happy to see all my lovely league mates last night, I get so encouraged to work harder every time I see them (as if I needed an excuse to be a workaholic). Last night was also the debut of our new coach, Diamond Dan. Something about having a person yell “Go! Go! Go!!” really amps me and makes me skate harder. Funny, at 34 I’m just now experiencing the significance of cheerleaders, but in my defense I never really played a competitive sport before.


I took Ella to the county fair yesterday and saw something I'd never seen before... baby chicks hatching. I was astonished. I just wanted to stop random people and say "Do you know, over here there are chicks HATCHING right NOW!? Come over here and look! New life! - TAH-DAAAH!" Instead I told my inner 4 year old to pipe down and whispered into Ella's ear about how amazing it all was. I got all teary eyed explaining to Ella about how the fuzzy little chick was being born right before our eyes and how hard she was working to get out of her egg and then she'd have to find the strength to get some corn all by herself.

They Jump so High, They reach the Sky

Ms. Mary teaches at the grade school in the next town over. She needed extra money so she started a play date business in tiny town. For $10.00 a child she’ll have a chocolate teddy bear tea party with your kids and the neighbor kids and whoever else signs up that day. At first the going was tough, but once word got out about how fun Ms. Mary was you had to sign up weeks in advance. Ms. Mary was a hit.

Ella and I walked downtown yesterday to mail a T-shirt to AZ and we saw the brand new sign Ms. Mary put in front of her play shop, it read “Preschool Registration Now Open”. Ms. Mary wants a small class so there are only ten spots open. Ella filled the ninth spot this morning. She’ll start in the fall and go twice a week. We are thrilled.

It could only get better if an internet coffee shop opened up next door.

The Chapter you Missed

Two nights in a row I’ve slept with a ticking time bomb, a three year old in underwear. It’s been fine actually. She’s almost got this potty thing down pat. Why haven’t I blogged about it? While parenting a three year old is full of challenges I would hate for her to need therapy because her classmates read all about the time her mother had to throw the bathroom rug away. I’d much rather she needed therapy for all the undue stress caused by giving her old toys to charity or petting homeless puppies at the shelter. So while you’ve all missed out on the potty follies, believe me its better that way.

First Day

We rushed into the building carrying Ella through snow; sat down, whipped pink cowboy boots off and crammed feet into slippers. We barely had time to tell her to ‘break a leg’ before she was standing on the yellow line waiting for the teacher to ask her name. I fretted she would run behind my leg and hold on tight like a starfish in a tutu. She was last in line so the young lady leaned down and said “You must be Ella.” She replied “I sure am!” and ran whole heartedly into the studio. Dan and I along with the rest of the 30 something parents stared at the girls biting our lips and hoping our girls would listen well and dance a miracle. Turns out little girls adore ballet teachers and obey every command as if she were the Queen. She coaxed them into first position, charmed them to bend their knees and enticed them to skip and jump. The mamarazzi standing in the hallway went wild with flash-less photos while comparing cameras. Soon the girls were returned to us in the tiny hallway where we returned the pink cowboy boots and pulled a sweatshirt over a smiling face.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up

Most kids look forward to being a “Big Girl” and I botched the idea totally. We hyped Big Girl status about as well as Bush sold our brand of freedom to the Iraqis, without regard for their feelings. I defined being a Big Girl with going potty, sleeping in your own bed, no more nursing and going to work in a coal mine to earn pennies for gruel. She took to the mine immediately declaring the other kids and the canaries “ever so much fun to play with” but the other three exciting milestones have reduced my daughter to a sobbing mess. She hangs on to me pleading “I don’t want to grow up, I just want to be a little girl” and “I’m not three” at which time I shake her off my leg and tell her to go back to work stitching tennis shoes for more privileged children.

I’m trying to sell her the benefits of being Big with the “List of Things You Can Do When You’re Big”. The list includes; cracking eggs into the pan, squeezing the chocolate into your own milk, ballet school, using paints, holding the dog’s leash while out walking, using markers and getting in and out of the tub on your own. I’m not sure why that last one is a big thrill but I figured it was an easy concession even if it means wet foot prints all over the house, besides the “List of Things You Can Do When You’re Big” was painfully short and was missing things like; driving, drinking coffee, having chocolate for breakfast and holding the remote.

Ella Turns 3

Ella's Big Weekend

Happy 3rd Birthday

Happy 3rd Birthday Kiddo,

This year we've decided you have too many toys and so we are not giving you any for your birthday. Instead we've signed you up for ballet. You are going to love it, I know because you tell me all the time "I'm gonna be a dancy girl" and you spend gobs of time in tutus prancing around the house performing pirouettes. Classes start in a week.

Love, Mom