Peninsula Highlights

Last week one of my coworkers came in with a new haircut and color. A magical, double-take, is-this-the-same-person cut and color. Said coworker lives in Bremerton, on the peninsula. Exotic territory to me. The hair salon she went to was even further out. After two and a half years in Tacoma, I'd only made it as far west as Gig Harbor, right over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. It was time to see the peninsula, and it was time to get my magical cut and color. I'd had my hair dyed about three weeks ago. The shade of red approximated vomited-up tomato soup. I hadn't realized I hated it that much, but yeah, it was bad. The Asian stylist was not impressed with my cut either. "I hate your bang" she said, flicking at the thick, blunt-cut curtain over my forehead. "You look like eight year old." She shoved my bangs aside disdainfully. "Who do this, Super Cut?"

She was more charming than I'm making her out to be, and I trusted her. I shrugged and told her to do whatever she wanted. "I always do!" she laughed.

She worked faster than anyone at the more glamorous salons I usually frequent. After spending 20 minutes or so slapping thick purple goo onto my hair, I was sat under a dryer so hot it turned my face burgundy. Will suffer for good hair. When the timer went off she removed one of the foils and studied a strand. "Too yellow! I hate yellow!" Back under the helldryer I went.

When she was drying my hair, she held up a lock to show me the bold highlights. "You see this? Now you can see this, right?" I had to agree. It was like seeing a thick stripe of white paint on a red barn. From outer space. I knew I was going to love it.

She then went on to cut my hair. The aforementioned 'bang'? With one diagonal swoop with texturizing shears, a giant chunk of hair fell onto my lap. I picked it up with detached, morbid fascination. More volume got razored out, which was fine with me. My hair is more than thick enough, and less drying time sounds delightful.

The cut and color came out awesome. The peninsula was pretty cool too. I have pictures of neither for you. But I do have a map:

Driving Directions from 319 N Tacoma Ave, Tacoma, WA to 9222 Silverdale Way NW, Silverdale, WA

Stepping on it

I think I know why I've been photographing stairs lately. Stairs represent climbing toward something. Incremental but steady progression. Moving up toward a goal. Everything I've haven't been doing.

Career-wise, relationship-wise, everything-wise, I've been waiting for escalators - Yes, escalators! - to appear out of nowhere and with their gleaming pearl banisters transport me to my lofty, nebulous, extremely-unrealistic goals,

Should happen any minute now.

Autumn

Zen Autumn

"Where do I go from here?"

Get it? The puffin is on a cliff, overlooking the sea (Ok, a ledge at the zoo) and he's wondering if he can fly...and if he can't, then where is there for him to go? It's a metaphor for my turning 50 and...

I really shouldn't post such silly drivel on my blog.

I otter know better.

In My Element