I have never enjoyed ironing. In fact, I have always actively avoided ironing. For many many years, I tried to buy only things that did not require ironing. Clothes that probably should have been ironed spent a lot of time bouncing around in the the dryer with a damp towel. I often wore slightly wrinkled things anyway.
My mom bought me an iron of my very own when I started college. I used it mostly for basic sewing projects, and before internship and job interviews. Then I ironed a synthetic black skirt with the heat too high, melting the skirt and ruining the iron. I bought a replacement at a thrift store, but it didn't work very well, and no one wants to iron for 20 minutes and still end up with a wrinkled shirt. My ironing board sat unused in my guest bedroom, except for when I needed it for craft projects or when the cat wanted to use it for a bed.
AND THEN....I house sat for some friends, and after living out of a duffel bag for a week, could not pretend any longer that my clothing did not desperately need an iron. So I used theirs and...
It was the best iron ever.
I didn't realize that having a really good iron -- a heavy duty one with a good shape and good steam -- made such an enormous difference. I asked my friend what kind of iron she had (a Rowenta, as it turned out), and went out and bough one that was nearly identical. Last night, I ironed two year's worth of hand washed silk tops, a bunch of very thin knit tops, a couple of button downs. I ironed until midnight. And tonight, I shall move on to pants.
I feel a bit silly writing so much about an iron, but it was a small thing that I can already tell will make a big difference the the type of clothing I wear, as well as how often I wear some of my favorite things. Have you ever bought a household appliance or gadget that ended up changing a part of your life for the better?
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
The coolest girl in Lincoln/Omaha
Eight years ago, I made an appointment at a salon chosen at random from the Lincoln phone book. I was young and broke, and hadn't had my hair cut in an entire year. I didn't care what happened to it, just that something happened to it.
When I showed up for my cut, I was greeted by a tiny girl with long dark hair. She had bleached a star over her ear. She also had thick, heavy bangs and leopard-print tattoos. I immediately trusted her to do whatever she wanted.
That visit, she gave me layers and bangs. Over the next few years she gave a few bobs and many incarnations and colors of a messy pixie cut. Every time, it worked. It wasn't too heavy. It made my fine hair look thicker. She did weird stuff sometimes -- crazy colors, asymmetrical cuts -- but she knew how much crazy I was comfortable with and worked within my personal crazy spectrum. I referred tons of friends to her, and even an extremely snobby friend conceded she was an artist as much as a stylist. And she always looked awesome in vintage dresses or shredded jeans and her ever-changing jet black hair. One of my friends began calling her "the coolest girl in Lincoln."
Then the coolest girl in Lincoln left town.
Not far, but to Omaha -- far enough that it was impractical to see her after work or even on weekends. I found someone else to cut my hair, then someone else, then someone else. Some haircuts were good or really good, and most haircuts were OK, but none were as good as hers.
Then I moved here, too.
My friend who called her the coolest girl in Lincoln had also moved to Omaha and begun referring to her as the coolest girl in Omaha. One of the first things he asked me was if I would return to her to get my hair cut.
Last night, I did.
Her hair was still jet-black, she still wore vintage dresses with tights and heels. And she gave me the best haircut I'd had probably since she moved away -- another incarnation of the messy pixie cut, similar to the way she'd cut it before.
The style, the conversation, the weirdness of remembering what someone's scissors feel like in your hair, made me feel both more like myself and also as though I really live here now. Welcome to Omaha, haircut. I have missed you.
When I showed up for my cut, I was greeted by a tiny girl with long dark hair. She had bleached a star over her ear. She also had thick, heavy bangs and leopard-print tattoos. I immediately trusted her to do whatever she wanted.
That visit, she gave me layers and bangs. Over the next few years she gave a few bobs and many incarnations and colors of a messy pixie cut. Every time, it worked. It wasn't too heavy. It made my fine hair look thicker. She did weird stuff sometimes -- crazy colors, asymmetrical cuts -- but she knew how much crazy I was comfortable with and worked within my personal crazy spectrum. I referred tons of friends to her, and even an extremely snobby friend conceded she was an artist as much as a stylist. And she always looked awesome in vintage dresses or shredded jeans and her ever-changing jet black hair. One of my friends began calling her "the coolest girl in Lincoln."
Then the coolest girl in Lincoln left town.
Not far, but to Omaha -- far enough that it was impractical to see her after work or even on weekends. I found someone else to cut my hair, then someone else, then someone else. Some haircuts were good or really good, and most haircuts were OK, but none were as good as hers.
Then I moved here, too.
My friend who called her the coolest girl in Lincoln had also moved to Omaha and begun referring to her as the coolest girl in Omaha. One of the first things he asked me was if I would return to her to get my hair cut.
Last night, I did.
Her hair was still jet-black, she still wore vintage dresses with tights and heels. And she gave me the best haircut I'd had probably since she moved away -- another incarnation of the messy pixie cut, similar to the way she'd cut it before.
The style, the conversation, the weirdness of remembering what someone's scissors feel like in your hair, made me feel both more like myself and also as though I really live here now. Welcome to Omaha, haircut. I have missed you.
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