You won’t need directions.

A photo of one of my favorite little girls has just decided my day. Today I will dream big, play hard, imagine impossibilities and do so with my tongue sticking out. I might even wear a cape.

1. Patience, please.
2. Trust more.
3. Stop the shame.
4. Think (at least some) before you speak.
5. Try thoughtful.
6. Be less reactionary.
7. Get outside of your head.
8. Reach out.
9. Fear not.
10. Be present.

I woke up this morning and decided: haircut. I looked online for places that were open on a Sunday, then started calling at 10 a.m. when they all opened for business. I found one place that had a last minute cancellation for noon, so I boogied on over after a quick shower.

I found Vine Street Salon pretty easily since it is just off Shattuck. I arrived early and stopped into Peet’s for a double macchiato. I looked for the Cheeseboard but couldn’t find it, but I did find the Juicebar Collective, which sadly, was closed. Damn commies.

So, instead I just went into the salon early to look at books and magazines, since I had no idea what kind of haircut I wanted. Typically when I go in I ask for “like this, but shorter,” and always just end up with a trim. I felt I needed a change; something with shape. I found two styles I liked in style books while I waited, both sort of shortish and piecy with long, side-swept bangs. This, I decided, was what I wanted. I consulted with Ingrid, my red-haired new stylist and off we went to the sink. After a quick rinse and condition we talked about “shorter in the back, longer in the front–nothing drastic or too “graphic.” This, with the long, to-the-side bangs, I thought would look nice with my hair’s natural wave.

Ingrid started cutting my hair from the back forward. Actually, no, she cut pretty much straight across to take off some length, but after that started in on shaping the style. Her scissors made huge, gouging cuts to the back of my long hair. I thought I might throw up for a second. She cut at a quick clip, and I could tell my hair was about two to three inches long in the back. I felt a hotness run over me, and I suddenly didn’t feel so well. What the fuck just happened to my hair?

I was suddenly transported back to that fateful day in 6th grade. My mom took me to the salon for a cut. I thought I might want to get it a bit shorter for the summer. Mom agreed. Off we went to Debbie, her stylist, and after a relaxing scrub at the sink and the plastic front-cape, the scissors were raised.

“Shorter?,” asked Debbie. I nodded. “Short on the sides?,” she quizzed us.

I paused. Short on the sides? What would that look like, I asked myself. But before I could even imagine it my mother said yes, and before I knew it I had a mullet. Sorta. Kinda. Close enough; I hated that horrid haircut. And it took me a good two years to grow it out. Most of middle school, and you know this is a very viable time to have a goofy-ass haircut.

Anyway, as soon as Ingrid started hacking away at my hair in the back– I mean, really cutting it short–I thought I might pass out. Call me shallow, but those years in middle school came flooding back in waves. Sharp, painful ones. All I knew was that it would take a while to correct this mistake.

Then something happened. I opened my eyes, and she’d pulled the front down from the clips, and while it was short, it didn’t look bad at all. In fact, I kinda liked it. I’d never have gone that short on my own, but–despite not being what I asked for–it is a nice, new change of pace after spending 90% of my life with long locks.

Isn’t it funny how much a haircut can change the way you look? And is it any wonder women are so loyal to those who turn hair into flattering, flouncy looks they never even knew they wanted? Maybe it is shallow to devote a whole blog post to haircuts, but of all the things that influence the way we look, besides weight, haircuts really make the most difference. After being scarred by some pretty bad shelf-style hairdos at pivotal moments in my life (senior pictures!), I can safely say there is a lot invested when you turn your head over to someone wielding scissors and a razor and toxic chemicals.

[Haircut Flickr Set]

I went with Ian MacBean to San Diego. The occasion was his big brother Ed’s first ever marathon. Ian’s sister in law arranged to have as many people as possible cheer her husband on, so it was the perfect opportunity for a mini-vacation to a sunny city. I’d never been before, and since the flight is short and airfare is cheap (provided you don’t procrastinate), I was thrilled to get away for a weekend.

Packed a duffel bag of a weekend’s worth of things and lugged it with me to work on Friday, then we took BART to SFO after work Friday afternoon. The train dropped us off right at the airport, which was very nice, since apparently you used to only be able to go to Colma, then you’d have to take a bus the rest of the way. Boarding passes already printed, we headed straight to security, since we weren’t checking any luggage. Things were moving smoothly.

After my bag went through the x-ray the security guard said, “Wow,” and motioned for a colleague to come over. She did, and I wondered what about my pack had alerted them. She pulled out my family sized bottled of shampoo and conditioner when I suddenly remembered. No liquids larger than three ounces! I had totally forgotten because I always, always have to check a bag. This rule has never applied to me, so it completely slipped my mind.

I was pretty embarrassed. I was lucky that the girl the guard called over was pretty lenient. “I’d hate to have to lose my Biosilk,” she told me, so she let me keep all my toiletries but three. Not bad, considering. [”Little do they know that Biosilk and orange juice combined make napalm.”]

The flight was quick and easy, and we touched down in San Diego less than an hour and a half from when we took off. Got to meet Celia and Ed and Jamie and Lola and a cat whose name has escaped me. All were awesome, and I was very grateful to be welcomed into their lovely home.

The next day Ian and I went sight-seeing in San Diego. It’s delightful! I had no idea it was such a gorgeous place. We went to Balboa Park, which was incredible. So much to see–botanical gardens, koi in ponds, amazing architecture and prime people watching. I was told before I left that I couldn’t come back to the Bay Area without having had a fish taco, so Ian and I made a special trip to Zocalo. And it was worth it–the taco was incredible, especially paired with a margarita.

We ate a little late in the day, so I was stuffed when later we attended the carbo-loading party for Ed at their neighbor’s place. The carbanara was delicious, but I couldn’t eat more than a few bites. Afterwards we met up with some internet friends at a local tavern for drinks outdoors. It was so nice to sit outside and enjoy a cocktail in short sleeves at night, something that rarely, if ever, happens in San Francisco. We didn’t stay out too late, however, because cheering Ed on in the marathon was scheduled for bright and early.

Spent all day long in the sun on Sunday watching a very inspiring footrace. Ed finished 26.2 miles in 4 hours flat. Amazing that anyone could run for that long. After the marathon there was a pool party. I swear, I hadn’t been swimming in years. I spent entirely too much time sucking up rays (while I had the chance), and wound up looking like this:

The burn has subsided a bit, but strangers are still alerting me to the fact that, “You got some sun!” Yes, Sherlock, I did.

The trip was far too brief. San Diego is a charming place, the people we met even more so, and I hope to go back sometime very soon.

View entire San Diego Flickr set.

I made yet another mix for you.

“A wonderful electronic remix of “Alice In Wonderland” using sounds and images from Disney’s 1951 animated film.”

For someone who regularly warns readers about “smut” at the Nashville Scene website before linking to them, and who also dissed Musica because the statue features naked people, I was surprised to see the following ad on Kay Brooks’ blog:

“Would you like another cocktail?,” I asked.

I was working my first night behind the bar. She was drinking Marker’s Mark & 7-Up. The bar actually was hooked up to Coca-Cola products, so in reality it was a Maker’s & Sprite. But no one ever ordered that. At a bar it’s 7-Up or else you couldn’t order the classic 7&7, and that is that.

Her drink was about three-fourths of the way dry. I heard the wet thud of melded ice slide into the flat, glass bottom of her beverage.

She was blonde. Even in her mid-30s I believe her hair was naturally very pale. She was short, athletic looking with ruddy cheeks. She leaned forward onto the bar’s top on her forearms, one shin in the barstool. She used her other leg to push against the brass banister near the floor. She got very close to my face.

“Would you like a cocktail,” she said. It was not a question. I peered back at her, a wet rag in my hand.

I was nervous about being a drink slinger. Bartenders know shit, and I didn’t know shit. “If you don’t know how to make something, speak up. Just tell them. There is no shame in being a rookie.” Words of wisdom from my trainer ran laps in my head.

“Would you like a cocktail.” She repeated herself. Again, this was not a question.

The bar was relatively empty that Sunday night. There was NFL football on both big screen t.v.s. I was scheduled for my first shift on a slow night so I could get my sea legs. Despite a small number of patrons, Sunday night was when the regulars came out en masse. At this bar, perhaps at any bar, the regulars were also fully committed alcoholics.

“Lemme give you some advice,” she slurred at me with an old money accent that reeked of Kentucky, disappointment and privilege. Her empty drink was the first she’d ordered. From us. “Never ask if someone wants another cocktail. Don’t be gauche.” Her final, declarative sentence clung in the air.

Her eyes were glassy and blank. She was still leaning onto her arms at me over the bar. Her fists held the laquered wood, and her knuckles were white. She pulled her lips back over slick teeth, and smiled a smile draped in bourbon and condescension.

“Can I get you one more, man?,” I heard my trainer ask a guest in the corner.

“Yeah,” the gentleman replied. “One more.”

• Eating virginal vegan salad. No cheese even. Just lettuce, beans, carrots, avocado, mushrooms and peas. Disgusting.
• Going to attempt to bathe the itchy boy dog tonight. Gonna have a drink to take the edge off first. Wish I could give him one too.
• OH: “If I were Obama I would be like, ‘McCain is a hater. He needs to quit hatin.’ That is my doctrine! The Parker doctrine: Don’t Hate.”

A Bay Area blogger asked me to share a few sentences about corporate or professional blogs. Basically, those built for PR purposes. He works for a museum that is thinking of starting a blog, and he asked me to impart some wisdom. I gave him this instead:

Things I think are important to consider when working with a corporate or otherwise professional blog:

• Be authentic and genuine. Have personality. Bland, boring press releases will be ignored. Consider have the blogger write in first person.
• Have fun with it. People need a reason to come *back* to a blog like one for your museum. Sure, they may go there the first time for info, but having engaging writing is key. Don’t be afraid to loosen things up a bit.
• Participate in the blog community. If you don’t read, link to or otherwise engage other bloggers your site will not see much traffic.
• Be transparent. Don’t lie to people, they’ll figure it out. Don’t use wormy wording as businesses are so inclined to do. Don’t use a bunch of industry lingo unless your site is geared specifically toward a niche group.
• Encourage participation. Don’t make people jump through hoops to comment. Welcome dialogue and exchange.

I think there is a lot more to explore here, but this is a good jumping off point. Just remember that blogging provides an opportunity for readers to get to know the person behind the site or learn things they can’t get elsewhere. Make it engaging and make it genuine and you will be surprised how much mileage you will get.