Get a coffee at the Pret a Manger on Saturday morning. Drink half of it, then resolve to drink less coffee, more water. Make this resolve every single day for seven years and keep doing it until notified otherwise.
Pay your money. Sign the insurance release for the Segway tour. Marvel at how you always first write, “Sequay.” Wonder genuinely if you have mild dyslexia, because it’s always been like this with the “q’s” and the “g’s” and the “b’s” and the “p’s,” a little dimple in your composition, strawberry jam in the gear shift. See pods of marathon runners and whirr past them, carefully but not without the sniff of a cool kid.
Think about Nike (human engineering) vs. Nike (Greek god.) Decide it’s an even match.
See the city from A Beautiful Spot and marvel with your best friend how lucky you are to be alive and breathing. Get hungry “after all this Thoreau-ing.” Go to the new pizza bar; fuel up.
Kiss.
Smile.
Snap picture.
Have six great ideas before you even leave the pier.
Finding a home for your hair is no small task in the big city. Salons grow like weeds in every neighborhood from Cicero to the lake and stylists pour like water out of so many beauty school faucets. (Note to self: check and see if “beauty school” is derogatory.)
But two years ago, I found my spot. It is Charles Ifergan on Oak St. and it is a magical place. If you don’t live in Chicago, you likely won’t know that Oak St. is one of our poshest roads. There’s a Lanvin store there, if that tells you anything, and if you need to be told something else, there’s a Harry Winston, too. (Note to self: check and see if anyone’s ever coined the euphemism, “a Harry Winston.”)
But my salon, while not a bargain, isn’t outrageously expensive simply because it’s near a shop that (successfully) sells purses for $35,000. In New York or L.A., this proximity would automatically mean that your hair — just a trim! — would be upwards of $400 bones. But this is Chicago. You can’t charge $400 for a haircut. You can try, but most people will laugh at you and then you will go out of business. We eat bratwurst here. So Charles Ifergan is competitive but not gouge-y, so I can give them a sane amount of money and feel very, very fancy without going bankrupt, which is where I would go if I gave my money to nearly any other place of business on Oak.
The elevator up to the fourth floor is entered into from the actual street, first of all, and that’s just rad. The first time I had an appointment, I got in and the doors shut and I was whisked up in that elevator; okay, it actually heaved me up — not a new elevator. It’s okay, because when the doors opened to the salon, it was love at first sight/smell.
The noise of dozens of hairdryers, at least a dozen stylists, and the chatter of every client in the place nodding heads full of highlight foil created a marvelous clatter and whir. Someone was calling to someone else and a handsome woman was tapping a foot with a high heel at the reception desk. The smell was intoxicating: chemicals, botanicals, mists of Avalon and sprays like waves on a beach. The layout of the salon is circular, which makes it feel like more of a beehive than it already is.
George does my color. I think he’s Greek? He has a lovely accent. I found him — and the salon — because a “Best of Chicago” report in Elle magazine called him out by name. I said, “Well, I like the best, so… To George!” And the mention was well-bestowed: my haircolor has never been more lovely and George, I think, truly sees me as one of his clients now. You do have to prove yourself, you know. It’s still the big city.
Phoenix cuts my hair and does my blowouts. He is an adorable creature. He’s hella smart, too, and friendly, and we cackle and commiserate while he works his own magic.
This is not a post that I was paid to write. It’s just that I’m composing this at Charles Ifergan at this very moment, getting my roots done and then seeing Phoenix for a cut and style. I have a good weekend planned and one must always be prepared.
Hats off, Mr. Ifergan…because you’re worth it! And I will accept a coupon, but no biggie.
Like a little black alligator chomping my happiness.
The riot of pink in the picture above is a dress, and that’s my leg, and that big black annoyance hanging from the bottom is the new anti-theft system recently deployed at Bloomingdale’s in Chicago and, I assume, everywhere else. Sorry the picture is reversed — I was trying to get a shot that didn’t get too friendly and was up close enough to allow you to examine the device. I partially succeeded. Sorry, Mom.
Department stores have long used electronic sensors on their garments as well they should. Thieving from a store is not cool and those honks and buzzers that sound at the door when someone tries to take a non-paid-for item of clothing past them have surely deterred countless people from trying to do so. But there’s a new game in town because there’s a different kind of theft the Bloomie’s folks are after: buying something, wearing it, then returning it.
In the ephemeral world of fashion, I can see how this would appeal: wear an item once, take it back, get another, etc., like you’ve got your own little revolving closet. I’ve never considered it because a) it didn’t occur to me, b) too much trouble anyway, and c) ew. But it apparently happens all the time, so the Bloomingdale’s corporation has invented an anti-returning system and though I am hardly a thief, I believe it is the death of shopping. At least at Bloomingdale’s. At least for me.
Here’s how it works: There’s a big black tag on the item you purchase (see photo.) It stays on the item after you pay for it. They don’t take it off at the store like the other sensors — yes, the other sensors are still on the garment, too. When you get home, if you intend to keep the item, you take off the big black tag. You break it off, actually, because you have to twist and pull the top of the bottle cap thingy and it shatters in your hand. Once the plastic is broken you cannot return the item. I’m not sure if you get store credit, but I’m pretty sure you..don’t? I don’t know because I decided to keep my pink dress, but then, I had decided to keep it before. In the store. When I bought it.
Oh, Bloomingdale’s. You so strangely killed my shopping joy. You know how when you lose your favorite bra (don’t ask me how this can happen and I won’t have to tell you) and you have to replace it? In no way is it fun. It was so fun when you found your favorite bra! You bought it! It was like your best friend and you were so happy because you chose it, or it chose you! Then it goes missing and you have to trudge back to the store and find it, or search online and find it, and when you hit “buy” or when you plunk down your money, it’s depressing. The thrill of buying something new is gone.
That’s how I felt with that damned tag. I got home. I was so excited about my dress. Then I saw that tag and instantly, I had second thoughts. Did I really want it? I bought it, but did I really want to buy it? This was for keeps. This was like getting pinned by a boyfriend. The gods were pressing me: Mary, you loved this enough to buy it but do you really really really love it enough to keep it? FOREVER??
No! I… I don’t know! It’s a dress! There are lots of dresses! Maybe I should return it! But I was going to wear it! But it’s forever! But! Bloomingdale’s, I hate you! I like this dress but now I hate it!
In my frenzy, I grabbed the tag and twisted and smash! the tag shattered and the dress was really really mine, as opposed to almost being mine before. Total and complete fail, Bloomingdale’s. I fear that all the shops will go this route soon and when you are faced with this, friends, you will understand.
I wore the dress that night but you know what? It drapes strangely on the hanger and it’s never the dress calling to me when I open the door to my closet. Most dresses say things like, “Mary… Pick me… I’m fun…” This one says something more like, “Mary… We’re married and we’re going to visit my mother for the weekend…”
Recently I skimmed a book passage in which the author encouraged single people to practice “self-love.” In lieu of being actively shown love by a partner, in other words, the singles were encouraged to actively show love to themselves. You’ve surely come across this idea, single or not. But in a culture that by and large looks at the intentionally single person as suspicious, damaged, and inexcusably narcissistic, it’s downright dangerous to seriously talk about loving yourself, much less actively practice it. Are you serious? I mean, could you get any more selfish?
I have chosen to remain single since my divorce. I have had several opportunities to “couple up” and I have declined to do so. This has come with some pain for both me and the fellow in question, but I remain resolute: I am single, and I like it that way.
At this point, there is surely the reader who thinks, not without kindness, “Well, that’s easy enough when you’re young enough to change your mind — and you will.” Others are a bit gloomier: “You’ll be sorry when you’re old and alone.” And still others will resent that I proclaim my choice to be single with such unabashed satisfaction and confidence. “People are meant to be married. Who does she think she is?”
I’m quite sure that being single is, for me, the only way to really find out.
There’s much to say about my decisions to go stag, but for the purposes of this post I’m going to corral my thoughts back to the “self-love” article. The concept itself calls to mind sappy scenes: should I run a bubble bath in a candlelit bathroom and float rose petals in the tub? Should I wrap myself up like a burrito and listen to nature sounds? Perhaps self-love is something rather, uh, too private to write about here.
Many of the suggestions for self-love I find are based on suggestions for acts of love between a couple, and those are often sappy and unimaginative. (To wit: rose petals in a bathtub are gross. They turn into blood-colored spitballs that stick all over your wet, naked body. Romance fail.) I pride myself on being a pretty creative lover of people, so when it comes to loving myself, I’m creative about that, too. Because it’s true that if there’s no one to be sweet on and no one to be consistently sweet on me, I’ve got to do something about it.
I’m naked a lot. One of the first things I do when I come home is take off all my clothes. The naked body is so great! We all have one. Being naked and putting the dishes away is one of life’s greatest pleasures, as long as you don’t drop a glass, of course. Being nekkid as a jay-bird is kinda silly, and it’s very important when you’re single to not get too serious about it. Besides, my poor body has been through a lot and it’s a loving thing to let it be visibly more healthy today than it’s been in awhile.
I keep my house quite tidy. If I lived with my best friend, I would keep the house very tidy and clean because I love my best friend and that is the right thing to do. Well, it’s the right thing to do for me, too. An organized house = an organized mind. This is a fundamental belief I hold. Get me my Windex!
Admittedly, buying myself flowers is not the most creative act of love, but boy does it work. I have fresh flowers in my home, always. Always. I love the gladiolus and I have fresh glads as long as I can throughout the seasons. They are tall and sumptuous, intelligent. The flowers go from these tight little fingerlings to these papery, sashaying blooms and I buy the green ones, the red ones, the white ones. I love them and they love me right back.
And whenever I come home from a trip, whenever I’m gone all day and I put the key in the door, whenever I feel like I’ve been away physically or mentally for too long, I enter the hallway and greet my condo with a, “Well, hello! Hello, my darling! Welcome home! Yes, you are lovely, lovely, lovely!” or some variation on that theme.
Who can I miss? What could be wrong with it? And who could ever regret these days?
We have never met. Would you like to have lunch? A salad and a latte? A slice? What do you like? It’s my treat, I know lots of good places, and yes, we should definitely have dessert.
Ms. Fons, I am Mary Fons, and that’s weird. It’s weird to be me, yes, but it’s also weird that we share a last name. You are a Fons! There aren’t that many of us in the big scary world. In fact, I only know of six others and their phone numbers are in my speed dial. Are we related by blood, Emily Fons? If we aren’t, please pretend that we are. Because here’s what I know about you:
1. You’re an opera singer
2. You’re a very good opera singer
3. You’re super pretty (see photo)
4. Your website is lovely
These are all good signs. Here’s what you should know about me:
1. I am not a stalker
2. but I am coming to see you when you perform at the Lyric next month!
3. that does sound creepy
4. seriously, I’m cool
What do you say, Fons?
God, that feels good! I never call anyone “Fons” except my sisters and it’s boring by now — we’re all adults! We’ve been doing this for years! We need fresh Fons! Be that new Fons smell, Emily. We’re really fun — the whole family! We’re educated, we like word games, we store top-shelf liquor, we support the endeavors of one another (a few boyfriends have gotten the stink-eye, but they probably deserved it) and we are almost dangerously creative. You’d fit right in, maybe? A little?
Email me. Comment. Tweet. You can find me. I’m 100% serious about all this. I’m pretty sure you’re in my town and I think we should have lunch. And the only thing you’ll need to worry about in terms of creep factor is that you might catch me staring at you like a weirdo a couple times. Just a couple. But I’ve never known a real, live opera singer — or a Fons I didn’t know.
