There’s not much to say.
Reservations in an hour.
Ciao!
Month: June 2013
“I have a friend that cuts hair”
When you are alone in a new city, especially an expensive one, you have to ask around for recommendations.
I asked the concierge last night, Alex, a fabulous Colombian man, if he knew of any good salons nearby the hotel, he said he’d check on some for me.
He works the night shift so I wouldn’t see him again until after I needed the appointment.
A girl needs to have her hair did for a formal wedding.
Especially when the girl in question only really knows how to air dry her hair and pray to God that it dries cute.
Which, since the Lord has been merciful, it usually does.
However those big messy curls wouldn’t work for this wedding. I needed professional help.
So after going for a swim and sunbathing this morning I meet Ricardo, the morning concierge, and he recommended his friend Jay.
“He’s been cutting hair for years.” He says.
After I set the appointment, in Spanish of course (this is Miami after all), he says, “You’ll know him. He’s the bald one with a tattoo across the back of his head.”
It is a credit to my parents that I don’t even blink when he says that; they raised an overly polite child. In spite of the dark sense of foreboding that last sentence gave me I smiled and said thank you before running to my room to wash off the sand and salt water.
I changed, basked in the glory of air conditioning before heading off towards the area around Lincoln Avenue. I located the salon first, but since I still had about an hour and a half till my appointment I wandered towards Lincoln mall to grab something to eat. But wandered too long, so indecisive about what I wanted and I ended up getting a small cup of gelato and sat in the outdoor seating under a palm tree.
I really cannot get over those palm trees.
Once it came time for my appointment I walked back over to the little salon.
Now, I’m not a snob, but when it comes to salons I am a super snob. I once pulled wet feet out of a pedicure tub when I saw the guy clean the one next to me with dish soap. Guys, I do not fuck around.
I like them fancy, and I like them modern. However, I don’t have South Beach “fancy” kind of money so this little neighborhood salon had to do. Also, it’s a Friday afternoon, everyone knows that’s the busiest time for a salon. I took what I could get.
So Jay, the bald man with the tattoo on the back of his head, leads me over to get my hair washed.
There was no gentle scalp massage and my top got a little wet. Small strike. But I let it slide because of the small talk and he sent someone to bring me coffee.
We head over to his station and he starts to blow dry my hair. He doesn’t really ask me what I want, which bothered me. I am very particular about my hair, down to the point of micro managing. So I tell him I like volume and that I would like him to use the round brush.
The ladies from the salon are watching me. They like my hair color. They like my hair.
A nail tech asks Jay if I want a manicure (in Spanish). She looks at me. I say no thank you. She grabs my hands. Looks at my nails. Shrugs.
My manicure has not held up. I do need one. I will not pay for one.
I just a lot of pulling and brushing and mild teasing.
I am concerned but I don’t say anything.
A lady is trying to sell me shampoo to brighten my red.
She says it looks good.
I’m like ok.
He asks if I want hair spray. I beg for it. The humidity here is not a joke. Keeping my hair straight under these conditions is not a game, it is a battle to be waged.
He turns me around and I look in the mirror and I hate it.
It looks old fashioned and helmet-y.
I don’t know how to say that.
So I smile and formulate a plan to fix it in my room. There is too much spray and my hair feels crunchy.
I cannot stand crunchy hair.
“Have you tried having your hair longer?” He asks. “Not that this doesn’t look good. You can pull it off because you have a pretty face (tienes la cara linda), but you should try it long.”
“Thanks.” I say. “It’s usually really long. I just chopped it off.”
I go to pay. This is South Beach. It’s pricey, even for this small place. I pay. I leave a tip. I put on my sunglasses and head out.
I bought a curling iron at CVS. I combed out the hairspray.
It looks much better.
Every Dog Has His Day
When Baloo was a puppy, he would squeeze through the bars of the wrought iron fence in front of my house and run down the street towards me when I was coming home from school.
He would do this every time he happened to be outside on the steps.
But there came a point when he wasn’t tiny enough to squeeze through.
One afternoon I got off the bus as usual and I saw him sitting on the top of the steps. He had seen me and ran down the steps. I kept walking, waiting for him to meet me halfway. When I heard crying and saw his little head through peeking through the gate.
He had gotten stuck.
I started laughing and ran towards him. He had tried to squeeze the bars of the gate like he usually did but his tummy had gotten too big to slide through.
I pulled out my keys to unlock the gate while he squirmed and kept giggling.
One of our biggest pet peeves with that dog was that he would sneak out of that gate and we would have to run around the neighborhood trying to find him. So all I could think was, “that’s what he gets.”
I swung open the gate and locked it again. I sighed and set down my saxophone case as I squeezed him and shimmied him out.
I cuddled him, which he hated, and set him down.
I wish I could say that was the last time he tried squeezing through the fence and that he had learned his lesson.
But it wasn’t.
Baloo is feeling better, the vet prescribed him some antibiotics and he found that there is something wrong with his liver. He wants to see how he reacts to what he’s given him before making any other decisions.
He is fighting.
Miraculous
It was a dark and stormy night.
Scratch that.
I’ve heard that line before.
It was raining outside, lightning lit up the sky and the thunder kept Butch-Cassidy running around the house in hysterics.
“Calm down crazy. Why can’t you be calm like The Sundance Kid?” I pointed at the fish tank where The Sundance Kid swam happily.
He stared at me, and for a moment I knew he understood me. He knew exactly what I was saying and was upset at me. Mothers should never compare their children to each other. I felt like in that one look he was threatening to eat The Sundance Kid while I watched.
And then he barked and ran around the coffee table.
“Idiot.” I rolled my eyes.
“Geni, stop talking to the dog and tell me where the coffee can is at.”
My mother was over “taking care” of me. It was more like keeping her eagle eye on me at all times to make sure I didn’t do anything silly like, try and off myself again.
I could understand her concern.
No parent can get the call telling them that their child was found half dead in a pool of her own vomit and not be a little worried about their general welfare afterwards.
It was eight at night and my mother wanted to make coffee. She was just as much of an addict as I was. We could both drink coffee and still fall asleep immediately.
“Ma! It’s behind the giant apple shaped cookie jar in the cabinet next to the fridge.” I yelled.
“Ya busque ahi!” She yelled back.
“You didn’t look hard enough, it’s there.”
“Stop yelling and come here.”
My mother was notoriously bad at finding things. Something could be right in front of her and if she wanted you to get it for her she would be unable to see it until you got up and pointed it out to her.
I got up from the couch with a disgruntled sigh. “Voy!” I walked into the kitchen to find my mother standing there with her arms crossed.
“I found it, but I can’t reach it.” She pointed in the direction of the cabinet with her lips. “Get it down.”
My mother is 5’1 and she has trouble reaching things on the top shelves. It was kind of hilarious, especially when I was younger and already taller than her. Thank God I had my father’s genes and was tall. Well, taller than her.
I went to get the can and I could feel my mother’s eyes on me. I’d been wearing the same thing for the past week: a hoodie I stole from Steven and a pair of pajama shorts with hot pink paw prints all over. I hadn’t left the house and hadn’t had the energy to shower either. I’d taken to pinning my hair up in Princess Leia-esque buns to keep it from bothering me.
I could feel the disapproval oozing from her eyes.
“What is it mom?”
“Mi’ja que es esto?”
“What is what?”
“This. This look you have going on right now. Get in the shower y para de ser cochina. When you get out I’ll have come coffee made and something sweet for you to eat. Andale, bañate, y dame esa ropa sucia para quemarla.”
“I’m going, I’m going, stop calling me a pig. And don’t burn my sweater, I love it.”
She rolled her eyes at me and went to make the coffee.
“Mami?”
“Hmm?”
“Mami, do you believe in miracles?”
She turned around and looked at me with a sad smile on her face.
“Mamita, you don’t need a miracle. What you need is time.”
I shook my head and fought back the tears. “What if time isn’t enough? What if I’m defective? What if there is something wrong with me?”
She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around me. “Chiquilla, it doesn’t take a miracle to heal a broken heart.” She let me go and smiled up at me. “Now go bathe, you smell.”
I Don’t Believe in Doggies Getting Old
December of 2000– I was 14-years-old and a freshman in high school.
One afternoon my parents came home from work and my mother was lamenting how her coworker had already sold all the chow chow puppies and we weren’t able to get one. I almost believed her until I noticed that her coat was moving and she started laughing. She opened up her coat and inside was a small black ball of fur.
He was the meanest and smelliest little jerk I’d ever met, but he was so damn cute I fell in love with him anyway.
My mom came up with the name Baloo and it just worked.
When you get a dog for the first time you don’t really anticipate them getting old.
I mean you know it’s going to happen, but you’re too busy enjoying their puppyhood and their prime years that you think, my guy is going to be sturdy and strong forever.
Sadly that’s not the case. My Baloo is 12-years-old, he’ll be 13 in October, his muzzle is white and his hips aren’t what they used to be. I watch him struggle to get up and go get water or struggle to go down and up the stairs to go outside and it hurts me.
The past couple of days he’s been a little odd, he’s not barking as much as he usually does, he’s been a bit unsteady walking around and he’s been very lethargic.
I don’t like it.
Tomorrow we plan on taking him to the vet to see what’s wrong and what we need to do to ensure that this doggy lasts a long time yet, because I am in no way ready to let him go.
That’s my Baloo, what am I suppose to do without my crochety old man?
He is the King of Dogs.
The Secret Life of Pandas 