Monthly Archives: January 2013

What Color Is Your . . .

. . . hair?

This may sound like a silly thing to ask. For people of a certain age, however, men and women both, it’s a real question. It involves what you might call a gray area.

A friend of mine once pointed out the odd fact that so many older men have gray hair, while so many of their wives do not. An unkind male person might make some smart remark here about men’s hair turning gray faster because of the stress of living with women. Of course, all wives know that allegation is as false as a mail-order hairpiece.

It is true, though, that most older guys tend to get gray hair gradually. Women tend not to. Many women, even brunettes, do grow increasingly blonde once they reach their fifties and sixties. A few of them even blossom as redheads. Many of them develop blonde highlights and streaks, which look rather like they’ve been bleached by the sun but which obviously have not been, because middle-aged women know better than to spend that much time out in the sun.

Then suddenly, when they’re maybe in their mid-seventies, a lot of women suddenly turn white overnight. My theory is this results from the shock of waking up one morning and realizing they’re in bed with some old guy with gray hair.

A few women, though, including me, prefer to let nature take its gradual course. Many of us claim the natural graying process is better for our hair. That may even be partially true. We also may just be too lazy to spend a couple of hours in the salon every few weeks. Or too cheap to spend that much money on our hair.

This means we won’t ever startle our friends with overnight color changes. It does, however, leave us with another problem. We don’t necessarily know what color our hair is.

It may be just the new energy-saving light bulbs, but when I look in the mirror in my bathroom, I see a brunette. Yet when I see photos of myself, especially ones taken out in the sunlight, I see a shocking amount of silver. Maybe it’s due to digital photography. Or maybe it’s just the glow of my spiritual aura.

But it makes me wonder. Am I still the brunette I’ve been ever since age two? (Before age two, my hair color wasn’t in question. I didn’t have any hair.) Is my hair gray? Is it salt and pepper? Is it streaked with silver?

What percentage of white hairs mixed in among the brown or black or blonde officially marks the shift to gray? Is there a formula—Grecian or otherwise—for this? At what stage does one’s description change? (Suspect is a white female, five feet four inches tall, 130 pounds, with gray hair. Last seen wearing a tee-shirt with the slogan, “I’m out of estrogen. Put down the chocolate and back away slowly.”)

It’s a good thing a driver’s license, at least in South Dakota, no longer asks for hair color as part of its identifying information. Worrying about how to answer the question could be stressful. It might even give a person gray hair.

Categories: Fashion, Just For Fun | Tags: | 2 Comments

A Warm Welcome Home

Sitting down on a two-inch memory foam mattress pad that has cooled to 35 degrees is like sitting down on a frozen two-inch plank. Going to bed on the same mattress pad after it has warmed up to about 50 degrees is more like trying to cuddle up to a sweetheart who has just discovered that for years you’ve been hiding a secret stash of really good chocolate. There’s a little bit of thawing when you get close, but not much.

After a minute or two, the mattress pad slowly starts to regain its frozen memory and shape itself to your shivering form. As it does, it sucks the warmth out of your body like an ice vampire trying to protect itself from global warming. You’d better have a couple of extra quilts and a furry St. Bernard to snuggle with—or at least a friendly spouse, preferably with warm feet.

This bit of research into the effects of subzero weather on an unheated house was inadvertent. After a two-day drive from New Mexico, following a day behind a winter storm so we missed the blizzard but not the cold, we walked into our house to find it at 35 degrees. It was the first time I remember being able to see my breath in my own living room.

Yes, we had turned the furnace down when we left, but not that much. The propane tank was empty. Our fuel supplier has always kept it filled automatically. This year, the combination of a mild early winter and our new energy-efficient furnace had kept us from worrying about the fact that the guy and his truck hadn’t shown up since September.

Fires in the downstairs wood stove and the upstairs fireplace soon warmed the house to a relatively balmy 37 degrees. Meanwhile, we kept ourselves warm by shoveling snow. We were quite comfortable, except for fingers and toes, by the time the propane truck rolled down the newly cleared driveway an hour or so later.

As he waited for 400-plus gallons of propane to pour into our tank, the delivery guy had plenty of time to explain that AmeriGas had upgraded to a new nationwide computer system. Apparently, our automatic delivery hadn’t been made because our address had failed to get into the system. I’m sure, after his emergency trip in the dark on a frigid Sunday evening, he’ll personally type it in and double-check to make sure it’s been saved.

By morning, our memory foam pad felt like a bed instead of a plank. Even so, leaving it wasn’t hard, because we were able to get up to a warm house. With warm and grateful hearts, too. None of our pipes had frozen, so what could have been an expensive mess was merely a chilly inconvenience.

Several days later, the only casualty from the cold appears to be my African violet. It’s a plant that a friend gave me in 1987. Since then, as long as it’s in an east window, it has bloomed almost constantly, brightening my office all winter with its pink-violet blossoms. Now it’s a sad spectacle of wilting flowers and dying leaves.

But I haven’t given up on it yet. If I trim back all the dead foliage and leave the roots alone for a while, tiny new leaves might eventually emerge. Even if they don’t, all is not lost. Over the years, I’ve used cuttings from this violet to start plants for several family members and friends. It has alternative selves all over the place, so I can easily start it again.

And that makes me feel warm all over.

Categories: Travel | Tags: , , | 1 Comment

Signs of Hard Times

When you own a very small business in a town whose heyday was a couple of generations ago, you do the best you can with whatever you have to offer.

Like the restaurant in a tiny Nebraska town, doing its best in an old building too big for its business. The place may not have had endless varieties of coffee like Starbucks, but they did have the essential 21st-century amenity, high-speed Internet access.

Maybe. Because the sign written on the front window didn’t actually say, “FREE WIFI.” It said “FREE WIFE.”

My partner wondered—out loud, which wasn’t especially tactful of him—whether you got to pick any wife you wanted or had to take whichever one was offered. Or, perhaps, if you could leave one for free.

Then we began to consider the other possible ways to interpret the sign. Maybe it wasn’t an offer at all. Maybe it was a call to action, like “Free Willy” or “Free the Chicago Seven.” Maybe the owner’s beloved spouse was in the hoosegow and he was recruiting help to stage a jail break.

Or maybe the sign was meant as a celebration. Maybe the newly-divorced owner had finally thrown the bum out and was announcing her liberated status. Although, technically, then the sign should have read, “FREE EX-WIFE.”

Sadly, since we had to finish our hash browns and get back on the road, we will probably never know the truth.

The next day, we noticed another struggling business in a tiny shop on a New Mexico street where half the storefronts were empty. Painted on the glass was a larger-than-life skull enhanced with menacing designs. It would have looked right at home on the kind of biker you don’t want to meet in a dark alley, on either his leather jacket or his hairy chest. Two similarly painted plastic skulls grinned in support from the window ledge. Next to them was an electronic sign announcing “Rocky’s Custom Tattoos.”

Above this, taped to the inside of the glass, a little white hand-lettered note added, “Mary Kay Sold Here.”

I should have gone in. After all, I’ve been meaning to find a Mary Kay distributor and get some eye makeup. It just hadn’t occurred to me to look for this kind of place. It did make a certain amount of sense, though. If Mary Kay didn’t have the exact shade of eye shadow I wanted, I could have just had Rocky apply the permanent version.

Being a small business owner in a struggling town can’t be easy. In spite of snarky comments from traveling writers, may they all live long and prosper.

Categories: Travel | Tags: , | 2 Comments

Baby of the Woods

When he grows up, he's probably going to be the kind of Christmas shopper who buys all his gifts just as the stores are closing on Christmas Eve.

Sylvan Lawrence, due a few days before Christmas, didn't make his appearance until December 28.

To be fair, his late arrival wasn't for lack of trying on his part. He spent more than two weeks working at being born, giving his parents a series of "this has to be the real thing" false alarms. But since he was facing forward instead of backward, he wasn't in the best position to complete the journey. It finally took induced labor, a very hard night's work by his mom with serious help from his dad, and the assistance of an intimidating but effective vacuum pump to get him here.

But he made it. He's healthy and eating and growing, and he's still looking face forward at the world. We're not sure whether he approves of it, though. He resembles Winston Churchill even more than most newborns do—mostly because of the "don't bother me, I'm thinking" scowl that he shares with the great man. Fortunately, so far, no one has given him a cigar.

He's grandchild number 13, but the first one to live within spoiling distance. Not, as any of the older grandkids would probably tell you, that I am a spoiling kind of grandma. I plan to take Sylvan hiking up Harney Peak as soon as he's sufficiently ambulatory, but he's going to have to carry his own lunch.

His name, chosen by his parents because of their love of the Black Hills, means "someone who lives in the woods." As the child of actors, he'll probably be on stage at the Black Hills Playhouse before he hits his first birthday. Given those two factors, it's a good bet that the kid will spend his teenage years in a windowless basement playing video games and will grow up to be an engineer.

But given his forward-looking perspective, he may well invent or create or discover wonderful things that no one has even considered yet. Of course, in common with many other visionaries, he'll probably continue to need a little help with the practical details. Like having someone around to take care of the vacuuming.

Categories: Family | 2 Comments

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