Somebody is on tour. Yes, playing at a venue near you. Well, not you, FC, but everyone else. The band is now so well known that people come up to me and ask about tickets, not that I ever get any. I’m still working on getting comped when they play here in Chicago on July 13-15th at the Pitchfork Music Festival, along side Sonic Youth, Iron and Wine, Klaxon and lest we forget, Cat Power and Yoko Ono. Do we think Yoko is aging gracefully? She’s 74 years old. Anyone who can stand in those shoes and not worry about a broken hip? More power to her, I guess.
FC had recipes up yesterday and since I needed the motivation to get in motion I walked over to Geppferth’s and bought sausage and made his wonderful pilau. I confess to adding some chicken that I had on hand so it was both sausage AND chicken pilau, but otherwise, I don’t recommend messing with a good thing. Most folks will have to find a pepper to substitute for those cracker datil peppers he uses; I added an ancho chile and one serrano pepper, minus seeds, and the heat level was just right. It made a lot (I realized he’s still feeding starter people) so I took some to the neighbor with a knee replacement and some to our good neighbors (as opposed to the demon water pipe neighbors) and everybody pronounced it wonderful fare. This and a Stella Artois. Yup.
Robin Andrea has inspired me. Well, actually, being cheap has inspired me, along with some other musings about growing old gracefully. I had hoped to look like Katherine Hepburn by now. I thought that maybe, as estrogen levels wained, my voice would get all husky and sultry, my legs would grow 5 inches and that would redistribute my weight in a fashion that allowed for long elegant man pants and classy shirts. That hasn’t happened.
In lieu of that, I’m going gray. Actually, white. And not going- gone. It’s a thing in my family. You get to keep a thick, soft, luscious head of hair forever but you’re stone cold white before you’re thirty.
At least my eyes aren’t red like those cicadas. I turned white at 28 and back when I had the children there was no way I
was going to be a thirty or thirty-six year old new mum with white hair. My brother threw in the towel years ago and only reneged briefly, at the behest of his new young wife, and he looked so bizarre we all had to stifle it for about 6 months. Then it must have dawned on him, too, that he looked like a Monty Python commercial for Grecian Formula and he let it go. He’s always looked fantastic- simultaneously boyish and distinquished. Whoever is doing my professor sister’s hair (congratulations on tenure, Bets!) does a classy color job so she always looks good, too.
And then there’s my hair. I wear it so short that the maintenance every five weeks was killing me, time and money-wise and it grows so fast I always have roots showing anyway. Rich, in idle conversation the other evening, mentioned that the women at work were talking about getting their hair colored and did I know that some women SPEND TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH GETTING THEIR HAIR CUT AND COLORED?!? He sounded amazed. Clearly, Rich doesn’t look closely at our bank statements. The other problem is that you can’t go back and forth between the Florida sun and the Midwest gray with impunity when you dye your hair. Each time I come back to Chicago, friends say, "Oh. you’re blond." Not, "Wow! What fabulous blond hair you have!" Just, "Oh.You’re blond." And then their eyes drift down to my naturally dark brown eyebrows.
So, I quit. I had to find a new hair person the other day and that’s even more traumatic than finding a new internist but I drove up to Evanston armed with my hair color formula and handed it to her while she pawed through to my roots. And then, thank the Lord for sending me an angel, she said, "Why are you coloring this? It’s a beautiful white, soft and thick, no yellowish or gray and you’ll look like dynamite with a great spikey short cut and your natural color." Personally, I had secretly had this thought many times (well, not "you’ll look like dynamite…") but not being as self assured as Katherine Hepburn, I always shelved the notion and wrote the check. I asked timidly if that wouldn’t age me and she spouted, "You’re nuts." Cheeky for a new hair person.
She gave me a GREAT haircut, which is hard to find when your head is one big cowlick. It’s all soft and uneven without looking cockamamie and she got it to go in a perfect pretty spiral at the crown without any PRODUCT. I cannot not count the number of times I’ve had to shriek,"No PRODUCT!" at gay hairdressers (nothtatthere’sanythingwrongwithbeingagayhairdresser). PRODUCT is a euphemism for expensive snot and snot is being polite because it’s actually more like something else and we do not apply that to our head, at least once we’re up and showered for the day, let alone pay for it, no we don’t.
I came home and washed it and it’s still a great haircut, which is even more of a miracle. With money saved I got a manicure, a pedicure (at a quality place rather than the Asian Foot Fungus Palace) and those few wild hairs in my eyebrows cleaned up. All for half of what I was paying to cover up the white. At this point, it’s mostly grown out. Within six weeks I will be officially and naturally white haired. Then, I’ll get the fibroid zapped and look like this woman. Vaguely. I found this picture on one of Babette’s links for, you guessed it, yoga clothes. I like the look. Here I come, yoga and white hair.
Before I got off on me, I was speaking of Robin Andrea. I loved her self-portrait photo the other day. Simply stunning. And her natural beauty is an inspiration. Goes to show we CAN mature with grace and tummies full of good food, flowers in bloom, birds in flight and satellites blinking in the summer sky. Ain’t life a marvel?