About my hair, more or less...

I got my hair cut this weekend. 

It has only been in recent years that I began to experience that unique relationship between stylist and client.  I'm not a naturally effusive or talkative person, so it's not as if I've shared any deep secrets or thoughts.  Yet, my ambivalence and insecurity about my hair (my being?) has seemed evident to each of them. 

I started getting grey (gray? silver? white?) hair in my late 20's.  The idea of coloring my hair for the next 60 years or so was not appealing.  I have vivid memories of my mother's home dyes--the smell, the dripping, the weird results.  I decided then that I wouldn't start. There are things I like about my hair, and I'm often randomly complimented on its color and appearance.  I've been stopped on the street, in stores, and at work by people wanting to comment on my hair.  Just two weeks ago, boarding a plane in DC, a woman standing behind me leaned forward to whisper, "Excuse me, but I have to tell you your hair is stunning." 

Stylists love to play with my hair. They all encourage me to be freer with it, loosen up a little.  For me, though, there seem to be only two states--controlled or out of control. I spent my childhood and teen years hating my hair, unable to find a way to deal with it.  It curled just enough to be annoying, not enough to be cute. I wanted "cheerleader hair,"  long, straight, and blond.  I had "nerd hair,"  short, curly, and brown. I find it hard to let those hard feelings and resentment go.  

I often think of my growing up as a time of wanting some undefined "more"--more challenge, more stimulation, more something. I'm beginning to believe that maybe part of getting more is trying less, letting go.  

I did surprise her yesterday by saying I've always wanted to put a pink streak in my hair.....

Lunch

I'm putting a lunch break back into my life. 

In my first job after college everyone in the office took lunch.  Some people went home, some went to a fast food place, many ate their bagged lunches and reheated leftovers in the small break room in the basement.  On nice days you could sit outside at picnic tables.  The owner of the company, Millie, was an advocate of the two martini lunch.  I thought it was normal to come back from lunch with her a bit tipsy. 

In my second job, lunch hour continued.  Every few weeks a group of us would go to a wildly popular Mexican restaurant.  We would plan these excursions for days when we could get there at opening to avoid the long lines.  On Fridays we went to a bar for burgers and beer.  Many days we ate in our break room, talked, and read the newspapers. 

In graduate school I often met my husband for lunch. He worked near campus and we would select from the many food trucks lining the streets. Other days I would gather with the faculty eating lunch in the courtyard and listen to their academic gossip.

When did my lunch hour disappear?  In my first academic job many of us would eat lunch together in the conference room, similar to my graduate school experience.  But gradually, over time, that practice ended.  By the time I reached Syracuse, shared lunch hours were rare.  Some people went out, some ate in, there were occasional excursions down the hill, impromptu gatherings at the workroom table, but for the most part "lunch hour" was gone.

It has been a long time since I regularly took a lunch break. I would eat at my desk, sometimes trolling the internet, working a crossword, or reading a newspaper, but I still felt like I was at work.  It wasn't really because I was so overextended that I didn't have time for lunch, if I took all the time I goofed off the rest of the day I could easily afford 30-50 minutes for lunch.

I'm putting a lunch break back into my life. For the last few weeks I've eaten lunch in my office, but not at my desk. I've brought in a book to read over lunch and really divorce myself from work for 40 minutes or so.  In nicer weather I hope to be able to go out for a short walk.  I think it has made me more productive, happier, and better able to focus.  I think it is worth it. 

Sitting in Starbucks on Sunday

 

One of my favorite new routines is to go to Starbucks on Sunday morning.  As with any good routine, there it varies little:  Grande Earl Grey tea, blueberry scone (unwarmed), and Sunday Chicago Tribune paper.  I steep my tea then settle in to a reasonably comfy armchair for a leisurely read of the paper, perhaps topped off by a little pleasure reading and some emailing.  I like the idea that I'm surrounded by people, yet under no obligation to interact with any of them.  There is a constant buzz of activity, a sound level that is reassuring but not annoying.

Who else comes to Starbucks on Sunday mornings?  Turns out it is quite a popular place.  Like me, I've noticed some regulars.  There is a gregarious middle aged man who seems to know everyone in the cafe.  From eavesdropping on his conversations I've learned he is single, an atheist, involved in social services, and fancies himself as a bit of a personal counselor or coach.  From week to week I've heard him engaged in serious religious conversations, offer advice on a relationship break up, charm mothers and children, and assist the elderly.  He will talk to anyone, even me.

There is often a couple who seem to be on a first date. I imagine them having met on Match.com and choosing Starbucks as a neutral meeting site. They stand out because of the hair flipping and overly eager smiles of the women and posed easiness of the men.  It is clear both parties are trying to impress.  If these physical observations weren't enough, the snippets of conversation I hear are a dead giveaway.  Clearly "getting to know you" talk--where do you work, how long have lived here, what did you do yesterday...romance blooms over a latte.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is the arguing couple, or last week, what I took to be the arguing adult daughter and father.  Looking across the room I noticed a young man and woman, sitting side by side, staring straight ahead and clearly tense.  At first I assumed the were fighting with each other, but when an intervening table cleared, I saw the older man on the other side of the table talking. At one point the young woman replied. Without hearing a word she said, her anger was clear.  Her husband (I presume) sat quietly, looking at some middle place in the distance.  There to support, but not to participate.  When I glanced over later, they were all gone.  Not, I'm guessing, to the same house.

There is usually a table reserved by a professional...life insurance? time shares? financial advisor?  I've only seen men in this role. They take a table and over a few hours see two or three couples.  Who knows what they are selling...

There are dads with kids, moms with kids, moms and dads and kids.  Funny, though the age range seems to top off at about age 6 or 7.  Then there is a gap to college age.  I guess older kids aren't up and about on Sunday mornings, or their parents are escaping to Starbucks without them.  There are occasional groups of women, chatting about their holiday vacations, children, recipes, and clothes. I have yet to see a similar group of men....

I'm not the only single person. Lots of young folks with laptops and textbooks, a few older gentlemen with books or what look like school papers to grade. Interestingly, I have not seen another single woman of my age in the place.  Does that make me a pioneer?  A woman brave enough to face the wilds of Starbucks unaccompanied?  What could possibly go wrong? So far I haven't had to fend off the unwelcome advances of hordes of gray haired men. I think I'm safe.

Questions

Who's driving this train?

                                   Who's steering this ship?

Who's manning the rudder?

               Who's flying this plane?

                                                   Who's at the helm?

Who's running this show?

                                     Who's in the driver's seat?

Who's in charge around here?

Riding the Holiday Train

My first time riding the CTA Holiday Train was entirely coincidental.  I was headed home early from work to meet an old friend and happened upon the holiday train for the last leg of my journey.  Decked out in lights and tinsel, holiday music echoing through the cars, and elves with candy canes, I was surprised to see the train pull up at the Fullerton Brown Line station.  Not knowing exactly what to expect, I boarded the train and was greeted by the smells of gingerbread and mulled cider. 

Even though I was only riding for one stop, I was swept up in the fun of the holiday train.  Looking at the schedule I realized that it would run again while my son was home.  I dragged him to the station for an evening trip on the Holiday Train.  We got there early and watched the crowds build.  Some families with young children, some young adults in their Christmas pajamas, and some people like me.  As we waited other Red Line trains arrived and those who merely wanting to get somewhere boarded, unaware (?), unimpressed with the growing sense of anticipation.  Finally, the bedecked blue train arrived, with Santa on his own car.

We crowded on and you couldn't help but smile along with the other riders.  The thought I had, on that platform, was that my Mother would have loved this. It was exactly the right mix of kitsch and tradition, of holiday, family, and fun. She would have marveled at the lights and decorations, amazed at the effort and effect.  I wish she could share the Holiday Train with me.  I shared it with my son, though, and that was good.

Holiday Greetings

My latest past time at work is critiquing holiday cards.  This is the first year I sent out "professional" holiday cards.  I did not anticipate the angst that would be associated with such a decision.  Clearly, these must be of the non-sectarian "Season's Greetings" or "Happy Holidays" ilk, no mention of Christmas and no religious symbolism.

But, beyond that, what should the card convey?  There is the snowflake option, a sort of winter theme.  There is the corporate option, some element of my position or institution.  Then, there is the art option; something abstract and pretty that evokes good feelings.

Of course, cost is a consideration as well.  Size, weight, envelope, color....all influence the cost.  When you are ordering 500, that is not insignificant.

In the end we went with a winter scene of campus.  My college doesn't yet have its own place so there is no iconic building or statue to feature.  Instead, we have a shot of a snowy sculpture outside the library--winter, art, and institution all in one!

Now, cards from my colleagues have started to arrive.  Some are fancy, some less fancy, some bizarre.  We seem to have hit a happy medium, so I'm content with that for now.

Just enough

I've become entranced by the phrase "just enough."  

I'm finding it a comforting phrase.  The word "enough" alone can have a pretty negative connotation.  It often means not "sufficient," but more than sufficient, as in "I've heard enough of that whining!" (when really you have heard more than enough).  It is a simple synonym for crying "uncle", begging for something to stop, "Enough!"   Somehow, adding "just" to the front of it makes it softer, friendlier, and happier. 

Of course, there is the phrase "good enough," often used as a cover up.  "I've done a good enough job," meaning I've done a bad job but hopefully nobody will notice or care.  My kids were skilled in this usage.

"Just enough" hits that sweet spot between lacking and overabundance.  It seems achievable, doable.  For me, it nicely blends my new fascination with the idea that who I am is "enough" with a more precise measurement. I am "just enough." But, even though it adds precision, it still seems to allow for a hint of imperfection.  You don't have to be everything, you can be just enough. 

And being just enough, caring just enough, writing just enough is a happy place to be.

I think I've spent just enough time on this topic....