While I’m putting the finishing touches on my project, over the next few days, please enjoy several entries about my hair journey.

original post first published January 04, 2010*

As I’ve talked about again and again, I’ve got this thing with my hair. Well, here we go one more time.

This was me in 1999.

I was 21, looking more like 12, but pretty cute overall. Bright eyes, big smile and pretty forgettable hair. I had worn it relaxed for as long as I could remember. My hair was just that — hair. It was not something I worried about much until I needed to get it touched up or trimmed. The Hubs and I were dating and he invited me to a formal (you probably recall this story from a previous post). At the time, I couldn’t afford to get the full on relaxer that I so desperately needed. Somehow, I had gone years not knowing that I could have picked up a $5 box kit of Dark and Lovely at K-Mart off of Bypass Rd. I couldn’t go to this dance with several inches of new growth, so I just cut my hair.

As in cut it all off.

I hadn’t told anyone I was going to do it. I didn’t’ even know I was going to do it until I was in the chair and said, “Let’s just cut it.” Little did I know how my relationship with my hair would change. I’m not just talking about the day to day maintenance of my hair, but how I viewed my hair in relation to myself and to society. I had unknowingly started down a path that would come to define a large part of who I am. Once it was cut, I just let it do it’s own thing which I quickly found out was to just spiral around and around. My hair became an entity unto itself.

Over time, as popularity for natural hair began to swell, terms like “Big Chop” and “hair typing” became more common place. Instead of just washing and going, I swapped out my regular products for those designed for natural hair. I can remember discovering Miss Jessie’s products and feeling pretty high falutin’, having to order ordering Miss Jessie’s Curly Pudding all the way from New York. When my brother-in-law relocated to Harlem, I tried to recruit him into picking up some bottles for me to bring home so I could save on shipping. Curly Pudding was my first natural hair product and unbeknownst to me, I was using it the way Anthony Dickey suggested. SN: If you don’t know who Anthony Dickey is, please click on this link. It’s a great article and helpful video. As for the Miss Jessie’s, I know the Hubs thought I was eating the stuff, the way the jars would empty out in a matter of weeks. My hair was (and is) thick and saturating those strands required a lot of product.

The next few years found me just rocking the curly ‘fro. At this point, it has been over 10 years. 10 plus years is a long time with the same hair-do. Think about all of those make-over showers you see on TLC and Bravo. When someone is stuck in a style rut, what’s one of the first things they do? Change up the hair.

I was definitely in a hair style rut. Sure, I could I mix it up now and then by pulling it back, blowing it out, wearing pig-tails and whatnot, but for the most part, it was out, large and in charge. I had become known for my hair, often joking that I could never rob a bank because. . .well my hair enters the room before I do. It has gone from unforgettable to “Look at me!” type hair. I have experienced an in and out of love relationship with my hair. I won’t say hate, because even on the days when I just want to take some clippers and buzz the whole thing off for being uncooperative, I love, love, love my hair. Sure, I don’t like strangers wanting to touch it. Combing out the tangles, blowing through conditioner and hoping for low to no humidity every day can get old. And my hair has been very forgiving of me when I have tortured it by pressing it out, not moisturizing it enough, combing when dry (oops!), not going for trims frequently, and who knows what else. I can blame some of that early neglect on just sheer ignorance and lack of skills. Now, I know better. I love my hair. I’m cultivating it and learning what it needs.

Aside from the year the Hubs and I got married, it’s been natural a full 10 years. Within the last few years, though I have been toying with the idea of cutting it off and starting over. My chronology may be off, but when Posh debuted her bob, I was like, “That’s it! I’m doing it! I’m cutting it off!” and the Hubs was there to talk me down from the ledge with what has become his standard response: “Why don’t you get some braids?”

Ugh, how I loathe getting my hair braided! I love how it looks, but I can’t sit still for that long. I almost added “anymore”, but I was never good at sitting still period. If I have 8 hours to give up, is the braid shop really where I want to be? Nope.

Usually after this conversation with the Hubs about my hair, the moment I set foot out the house I, at least half a dozen people would compliment me on my hair. So I would relent and leave my hair alone.

Then Michelle Williams showed up with her pixie, I said, “That’s it! I’m doing it!” and DH pulled me back in. Then Rhianna caused a style frenzy and I said, “I’m all over that!” And even Margene (a.k.aGinnifer Goodwin) got in on the act. It was a vicious cycle until about two days ago. I saw an old picture of Kiera Knightley and dragged DH into that familiar dance of “That’s it! I’m doing it!”

And, then I did.

*This hair cut got progressively shorter as the year went on. While I completely loved the style, by the end of the summer, I’d had enough.

Come back on Friday to see how I transitioned from the pixie to my natural curls.

IN: hair ON: May 28, 2014 TAGS: hair, writing BY: Hilary

hair

From the Archives: Hair Today. . .What’ll It Be Tomorrow?

While I’m putting the finishing touches on my project, over the next few days, please enjoy several entries about my hair journey.

original post first published May 21, 2008

I have been having a love/hate relationship with my hair for the past few weeks. I have a reputation for changing my hair color as often as I change my mind. The Hubs often says he doesn’t know who he’s coming home to. I keep box of Hydrience by L’Oreal under the sink right next to extra toilet paper rolls and spare toothbrushes.

My hair. . .where to begin. I get it from my grandma. Apparently, back in the day, Gram was quite the femme fatale with her curly, reddish golden ‘fro. So along with her penchant for cooking, she passed onto me the Phillips family hair — the whole thing, the color, the curls, all of it. The funny thing is, Gram always asks me, “When are you gonna fix your hair?,” to which I reply, “It’s not broken! It looks just like yours!”

My Gram, circa 2007

I used to relax my hair, meaning, I would have some chemical relaxer slathered onto my roots to make it lay as straight flat as an Abercrombie and Fitch model’s stomach. Every 6 weeks, cause my hair is thick, I’d drop my $45+ and get that creamy crack smoothed onto my scalp. The Hubs and I had been dating for a while and he had invited me to a formal event hosted. I definitely wanted to get my hair done for that. After I got the dress, the shoes, and all things in between, there wasn’t much left for me to spend on hair. I didn’t know I could have gotten a box kit and had a friend hook me up. I didn’t know box kits existed! I didn’t know I could have asked the stylist for just a press and curl. I didn’t even know what that was! What you have to remember is that my hair comes from my father’s side of the family. My mother’s side has thinner hair, hair that needs way less maintenance than mine. When my mom could no longer manage my hair, she took me to have it relaxed. I don’t think she’d used a hot comb growing up either. Anyway, when it came time for the even and I needed to get my ‘do done, I was short on funds. So, I told the stylist to just cut it off. I did a Big Chop before that term was even in the vernacular.

I rocked the TWA (teeny, weenie, Afro) for about 2 years. When the Hubs and I got married, the natural hair care machine was not nearly as robust as it is now. Infusium 23’s Leave-In conditioner and Sebastian’s Wet Gel were about the only products that allowed reasonable curl definition. The acceptance of natural hair was not very far reaching. My parents leaned on me considerably to “think of the wedding photos!” They were holding the check book, so I caved. Back to the creamy crack. It took two (2), TWO, applications of the relaxer to get my hair to lay flat. The force was strong with the curls! After the wedding, I did the straight thing for a while until I got tired of burning my hairline with the curling iron. I threw in some braids and went on my merry way. After that, I decided to cut off the braids and start over with the natural. So here we are.

What I love about my natural hair is that when it comes down to it, I don’t have to do anything. No appointments at a salon. No worrying if I’m going to “sweat out my perm” if I go to the gym. No worrying if my hair will keep because the forecast calls for about 78% humidity. Simply wash and go, on most days. The problem is that no matter what product I put in lately, my curls are rebelling. I’ve tried Miss Jessie’s Curly Pudding, Curl Junkie Curl Fuel, Mixed Chix Leave-in Conditioner, Tresemme Flawless Curl, Sebastien’s Wet Gel, Queen Helene Coconut Hair Milk. I’m about to just say “Screw it” and turn myself over to the stylist to be shackled back up to the relaxer — Affirm, Super Strength. Super. Strength. Did I mention super? Thanks, Gram!

What kills me is that every time I get the nerve to do make the appointment, without fail, I am bombarded with compliments about my hair. It’s as if my hair knows that I’m plotting against it, so it starts to behave, thereby eliciting comments from strangers. Each curl becomes highly moisturized, forms a perfect “S” shape, no sign of split ends, and the curl pattern is as precise as a corn field of concentric circles. And all I can think is, “Well crap, how come it didn’t look this good when I had to go to the Urban League Dinner/Smithfield Christmas party/casting/audition/go-see/actual job or some other function where I was trying to look good? So the cycle repeats. And as a little side note, I’ve got to get a grip on my own hair ’cause who knows what kinds of locks are going to sprout up from Mo and Co as they get older!

Today, I think only half of my hair got the message to act out. From the crown of my head to about a quarter of the way down, the Frizz Contingent is striking out threatening to overrun the lower quadrants of Semi-Respectable Looking Curls. There is a small hold-out of curls near the nape of my neck (also known as the kitchen) that have happily sucked down the curl hydrating goop I used this morning and have consented to fall into a nice tangle of bouncy spirals. The rest, oy! Naps, knots, kinks, coils, frizz, and fuzz. Par for the course with natural hair, I know, but instead of fighting it, I’m learning to work with it. The results change from day to day, but that’s all part of the journey.

IN: hair ON: May 26, 2014 TAGS: hair, writing BY: Hilary

Something Big is Coming

I’ve been dropping hints.

I’ve been alluding to a major project that I’m working on.

Something big is coming.

Remember this name.

IN: ON: May 25, 2014 TAGS: hair, writing BY: Hilary

recipes

Recipe Friday: Salad Days, Again

I am a creature of habit. When it comes to food, I know what I like and what I don’t. I know what tastes good, what tastes meh and what I would rather leave on the shelf. Lately, I’ve been having a lot of working lunches. Don’t confuse that sentence for white table cloths and artfully arranged centerpieces or anything. My working lunch consists of a stack of folders, a ream of papers, my laptop and a salad with a side of popcorn on my dining room table. Seated next to me, my tote bag, erupting with additional folders, pens, magazines and power cords. I’ve got my slippers on and my jewelry off, with a half of a paper towel tucked under my keyboard to catch wayward crumbs. It’s all very high end, CEO level lunching over here.

While I would much rather have lunch out with friends or even lunch in, for that matter, I’m grinding, grinding, grinding. The school year is coming to a close, so I’m coordinating the schedule for the summer. I’ve got a folder for that, stuffed with finished applicatoins, calendars from the respective camps, brochures for camps for next season and the like. I’m working on consolidating my presence on the Internet and trying to brand myself. I’ve got a folder for that. There’s the packet on how to maneuver through Google Analytics (which is taking years off my life). There’s the packet on how to use Bit.ly and Buffer. There’s the packet my awesome social media consultant put together to keep me on task (it’s like a social media syllabus).

I’m writing, writing, writing. I’ve got a folder for that. Several drafts of my book are wedged between spreads of illustrations. There are post it notes reminding me to send out drafts to the editor, to ~~revise~~ write an “About the Author” paragraph, narrow down who will be included in the dedication.

I’m working on my photography. I’ve got a folder for that. I recently received an order from SmugMug that included over 150 prints that I plan to put in albums. See, I’ve got photo albums from elementary school, one for every year of high school, one to two for every year of college, and one to two for every year after that. It’s a lot. I also have several photos boxes (9) to hold the photos that don’t make it into the albums. When I took V’s photo in for her birthday, I realized I couldn’t remember that last time I put a picture of her in an album. I pulled out the latest one and the last picture was from that time V came home from the hospital. Ooops.

I’m blogging, blogging, blogging. I’ve got a folder for that. My hand written notes dividing each post into a specific category book-end a ream of paper that it is the sum total of all the posts I’ve ever published. Per my father’s urging, I’m trying to select my favorite as well as most well received posts for a collection of essays. Easier said than done. As I’ve amassed all manner of working implements, I’ve constructed an improbable wall around myself comprised of my favorite books, my dog-eared planner, several electronic devices and cords, three magazines that I’m planning to read, two catalogs that I want to peruse and 1 sweating bottle of water.

There’s just enough room to slide my salad plate in so I can fork baby lettuces and avocado into my mouth. Lately, I’ve been munching on my old tried an true of baby lettuces, grape tomatoes, red onion and grilled chicken drizzled with garlic infused dressing. Dinner the other night was taco night at our house, so lunch the next day was an amalgamation of the usual salad and the Mexican leftovers. What I’m craving, though, is the simple clean taste of the house salad from Can-Can Brasserie. I was talking to Jessika over at “Oh My Goji” about it last week and have had a taste for it ever since. Just thinking about the shallots and the slight bite of vinegar couples with the sweet crunch of sliced grapes is enough to get my mandibles tingling. I’ve tried to duplicate it myself, to no avail. It’s not the ingredients that fail me, it’s the dressing. Some kind of oil, vinegar, shallot, and maybe champagne concoction? There’s an herb that I’m missing, I think. I have no idea and all of my iterations have fallen short. Guess that means I need a field trip to Can-Can to sate this palate!

In the mean time, try your hand at a simliar recipe and tell me what you think. Happy Friday, y’all!

Butter Lettuce Salad with Champagne and Shallot Vinaigrette

recipe courtesy of Williams Sonoma

Use the best-quality ingredients you can find to prepare this simple salad, which combines butter lettuce and fresh herbs with a Champagne and shallot vinaigrette. A garnish of chive blossoms adds a splash of color.

Ingredients:

1 shallot, minced
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup Champagne or Prosecco
1/4 cup Champagne vinegar
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
2 heads butter lettuce, larger leaves torn, smaller leaves left whole
2 Tbs. snipped fresh chives, tips and blossoms reserved for garnish (optional)
2 Tbs. snipped fresh tarragon

Directions:

In a small bowl, whisk together the shallot, olive oil, Champagne and vinegar. Season the vinaigrette with salt and pepper.

In a serving bowl, combine the lettuce, chives and tarragon. Toss with as much of the vinaigrette as needed to evenly coat the salad. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with the chive blossoms and serve immediately. Serves 4 to 6.

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma Cooking for Friends, by Alison Attenborough and Jamie Kimm (Oxmoor House, 2008).

IN: recipes ON: May 23, 2014 TAGS: baking, cooking, food, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes BY: Hilary

Salt Water: 3 Ways

Sweat

I work out five days a week. There are days when I don’t want to. There are many days when I don’t want to, but I continue to go because I know I will feel better, both mentally and physically, if I do. Sometimes, when I’ve wrangled myself into my swimsuit and topped it with a warm-up suit, I think about how I’d much rather be in my pajamas under the covers. Sometimes, after I’ve dropped V off in the child care center and I’m unloading the contents of my backpack into my locker, I think, “I could just sit on this bench here and just do nothing until I have to pick up V in two hours.” Sometimes, I have a poor performance in the pool and think, “That was a waste of time and energy”. Despite all of those scenarios, though, I know I would feel much worse if I never crossed the Fitness Center threshold at all. Truthfully, I don’t consider a workout successful unless there is a full on flop sweat coursing down my face. Physical exertion is one of the best ways to move through and beyond a sour mood. The ordeal that is our morning routine is sure to leave several of us (okay, me) cranky and uptight before we’ve even left the driveway. When I’m gripping the steering wheel like Homer on Bart Simpson’s neck, I know that once I get situated on the Elliptical or the Stairmaster and get the sweat flowing, I will be in a much better place. Even as I type this, I’m struck by the thought of being bathed in sweat, the sweat actually cleansing me of negative energy. All of the nasty feelings, critical thoughts, nuggets of self-doubt or what have you are being carried out in rivulets of sweat and evaporating into the air. Poof! Gone, leaving me red-faced and soaked through, but considerably lighter in temperament. The release of sweat re-calibrates my internal metronome, enabling me to march to my own beat without missing a step.

Tears

The Hubs and I are both in the midst of serious professional growth. It’s been challenging for me in that I work from home. There are precious few hours that I can 1) devote to my projects and 2) work on my projects with some semblance of focus. I am getting up at five in the morning to put in some work before we start our day. I sneak in an hour or two while V naps, and then if I’m lucky (i.e. not delirious and cross eyed with fatigue), I get squeeze in another hour after lights out for the girls. Then it’s to bed and back up for a repeat performance the following day. It’s a grueling schedule to keep. I’ve never been much of a night owl; I’m more of an early to bed, early to rise kind of gal. The cumulative effect of these early morning, late nights began to take its toll on me. The day came when I could no longer keep it together after manning this ship on domesticity while the Hubs traveled for work. I was tired. I was cranky. I was feeling unappreciated and overwhelmed. I was resentful of the Hubs and his ability to just get up, get dressed, and get out the door unencumbered by the petulant whines and cries of three little people each with their own very strong opinion. I was mad that I had passed another sleepless night and that I was caught in the hamster wheel of Monday through Friday. I flung the covers off, got out of bed. I stewed about what had happened and what needed to happen and I began to cry. Hard, angry, hot tears that caught the Hubs completely off guard.

“I’m just. . I’m so tired,” I snotted and sobbed into the shirtfront of my bewildered husband. And when the Hubs in a Herculean attempt to calm me offered to go get bagels for the girls, I snapped out of it. I grabbed my big girl panties off of the shelf, stuffed my tears and general malaise up on the shelf in their place and carried on my day. Despite his best efforts, bagels weren’t going to suffice. Shelving my emotions was not a solution that would prove to be an enduring one, either. As we continued in our roles, the feelings ballooned up until one day, I found myself clicking on the television to babysit the girls so I could go upstairs, lock the door and cry. And cry. And cry. I lay face down on my bed with the comforter balled up in my fists, the corner of our decorative throw pillows catching the onslaught of water sluicing from my face. I cried furiously, thoroughly, in body-wracking disgusting sobs, hiccuping and snorting like truffle pig searching for chanterelles. I cried until I was scooped out and deflated, until the only sound in the room was the raggedness of my breath coming in ever diminished bursts. It was a cry for the ages. When I peeled myself off of the bed, I saw how the shedding of tears left a soggy, Hilary-sized impression on the bedclothes. I felt clean, like a slate had been wiped, like someone had hit the re-set button. While my situation was the same, I was now empty of everything that had been weighing me down as I tried to manage it. With each tear, I jettisoned anger, frustration, fatigue, and resentment. I was hollowed out and determined to be replenished with only good things.

The Sea

I love the beach, plain and simple. I didn’t grow up near the beach. We didn’t vacation at the beach growing up or with any regularity as adults. I could choose my vacation destination, however, with the exception of Paris, I’d be going to the beach. The calming, repetitive nature of the surf coming in to and pulling away from the shore is hypnotic. I love the feel of the sand between my toes and watching the sugar-like crystals be swept away by the angry fingers of an ocean wave. I’ve been lucky enough to visit beaches on the East Coast and West Coast, in both warm temps and not so warm temps. It doesn’t matter, I love it all the same. I’d be just as happy in a rolled up jeans and a chunky sweater, strolling down Chick’s Beach in October as I would be in a bathing suit and Ray Bans laid out getting tan in Costa Maya in August. I’ll take it all and every point in between.

Our immediate family is trying to keep a tradition of a bi-annual trip to Martha’s Vineyard in motion. We’ve been more successful with this than we have been with Pancake Saturday, but I digress. The beaches on Martha’s Vineyard are both public and private. The Atlantic is cold and sometimes is met with rocky shores or smooth, windblown sandy beaches. Whether it’s Tashmoo Beach, Longpoint Beach, the Inkwell or State Beach, it’s of no consequence. The 12 plus hours it takes to get to the Vineyard are magically erased when I lay my towel down and pop open the umbrella. Everything is right with the world. I don’t know much about astrology and zodiac signs, so I don’t know if or how my birth sign corresponds to the elements. According to the books, I’m more earth-centric, but given my way, I’ll take the ocean any day.

I remember laying back in the waters in Costa Maya, thinking about this old Foxtrot cartoon I had read. Over the course of several installments, the Fox family goes to their cabin for the week The husband, Roger, locks the keys to the car in the ignition. The rest of the family goes about the week while he tirelessly tries to unlock the door with a hanger. Once he successfully liberates the keys, he tries to share his joy with his son who replies, “Mom told me I have to pack.” The next panel shows Roger floating in the lake, imploring the waters to soothe him, calm him, restore him to his balance. By the fourth panel, we see his wife yelling, “C’mon, Roger, the car’s packed and running! It’s time to go,” to which Roger replies, “Hurry up, water! Hurry up!” It’s easily been ten years of more, since I’ve read Foxtrot, but I can’t ever float in the ocean or in a pool without thinking of this cartoon and how we rely on the water to heal us.

What about you? How does salt water cure you?

IN: ON: May 23, 2014 TAGS: honesty, life, summer, vacation, venting, working out BY: Hilary

From the Archives: In Anticipation of Summer

original post first published June 1, 2012

Image

The girls get out of school in about 5 days. Then the summer will officially begin. Oh sure, there are a few camps in the mix, but when those requisite summer activities are completed, it will be a summer of no plans. Shock of all shocks, right?

I’m hoping that me and the three love-bugs will spend many days outside just watching the clouds roll by and waiting for the delicious melody of the ice cream man rolling through the neighborhood.

There will be sidewalk chalk.
There will be bubble juice and every conceivable contraption to make bubbles.
There will be sprinklers and new bathing suits.
There will be trips to the pool.
There will be trips to the playground.
There will be Popsicle stained mouths and dirt stained knees.
There will be bug bites and lightening bugs trapped in jelly jars.
There will be cook-outs with ketchup stained paper plates.
There will trips to the Vineyard, to the grands.
There will be smiles and laughs and happiness.

Let’s get started. . .

IN: ON: May 22, 2014 TAGS: activities, my girls, summer, vacation BY: Hilary

That Time Vivi Turned Two

About nine years ago, when I was pregnant with M, my beside table was overflowing with parenting magazines. I had “Parents”, “Parenting”, “WonderTime” (awesome and so sad it’s no longer in publication), and everything in between. Of all of the articles that I read, there’s only one that I can readily put my hands on if I choose to. The title of the article escapes me, but the concept doesn’t. The author created a project to capture the growth of her daughter over the years. Every year, on or around her daughter’s birthday, she pulled out her bathing suit – a fetching orange, pink and white flowered maillot — and dressed her daughter in it. Once situated, the author snapped a photo and tucked the suit away for the next year. Along with the story, there were 16 photos, starting from when her daughter was a newborn through her 16th birthday when her mother’s maillot fit her like a glove.

I was amazed and inspired. I ripped the article out, stored it with my other important papers and gave my baby bump a pat, promising to create something similar for her. Fast forward through M’s birth, first few months, and well past her first birthday. We had relocated from Richmond to Norfolk, where the Hubs commuted to work, and I psyched myself up to forge new friendships in our new zip code. During one of M’s naps, I unearthed the aforementioned article from my piles of papers and did a mental head slap. A year plus had passed and I hadn’t made good on my promise. Rummaging through my dresser, I dug out my Lands End Bathing Suit and pulled M out of her clothes. It was October, a good while past her first birthday, but she still had the chubby baby look about her. I slid her into the suit, grabbed my Sony pocket camera and snapped a few photos. I have to admit, the quality on them was not the best. I had not yet discovered my passion for photography. At this point in time, it was more like a casual fling. Still, the image was captured and I vowed to be more on top of things for the following year.

This year, M will turn nine and that bathing suit will certainly ride a little higher on her long legs. C, who is going to be 7 at the end of the summer, wears a dress that I bought from a long ago trip to Greece. As for Miss V, I did something differently with her when she was a baby. I did a monthly capture of her growth. Every month, I snapped a picture of her with a sticker denoting her age decorating her chest. Because I was so dutiful in this endeavor, I didn’t really think about doing a yearly snap as well, until M & C called me out on it. So, I bestowed upon her that J.Crew sweater that I just could not make work into a suitable outfit. It’s well past her knees, loose in the neckline, and the sleeves cover her hands, but it’s already way more flattering on her.

They say the days drag and the years fly. Watching my girls literally grow into my clothes means I know this to be true.

Happy Birthday, V.

May 18th, 2012

5lbs. 2oz.

6:50pm

IN: ON: May 20, 2014 TAGS: birthday, funny stuff, my girls, photography, photos BY: Hilary

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