The Wedding Rabbit in Red: Celebrity stylist of the star-struck

I am not a confident woman, when it comes to my looks. Over the years, all of my self-described strengths have been systematically debunked. Swan-like neck? Rippled with wrinkles with a triple chin cherry on top. Dainty, gazelle-like ankles? Sturdy, like a peasant.

So I didn't exactly embrace the notion of being transformed by a stylist for Sydney's wedding. You are talking to a woman who once accidentally glued her eyelids closed. Little did I imagine that, years later, I would learn that you could also perm your eyelashes. Just picture those tiny rollers!

Sydney is fearless. She may be the one credited for bringing the belly shirt from California to Wyoming County.

We should have known because, even as a child, she refused to bow to popular convention. She created "The Unicorn," proudly pointing her long, blonde hair heavenward in a single silken spiral. She modeled a braided look based on the museum display-cased model of a Pacific-Northwest Native American girl dated from well before the pre-colonial era. She'd gazed intently at the diorama, taking mental note, before turning to me and saying, "We can do that." Ha. We. Adorable. I had to have the neighbor girls teach me to braid off of My Little Pony toys because I'd never learned before becoming a mom.

And now, all these years later, it was we again.

And Doris.

Oh my gosh.

Doris.

I frequent hair cutting places that feature the words shed, shack, and cave in their titles. Fifteen dollar hair cutting rates delight me. When I succinctly describe the style boasted by the little Dutch boy on the can of paint, my stylist does not even attempt to question my choice and, snip-snap, I'm being fitted for wooden shoes. 

"She styles the hair for that woman on Shark Tank," Sydney mentioned, minutes before my being introduced to my tiny-but-toned tresses technician. Oh boy. Cue up the Jaws theme music.

I began as I always do, by apologizing for my homespun hack-sawed bangs.

Realizing she had an anxiety-ridden, emotional basket-case in her chair, Doris distracted me with small talk while performing magical sleights-of-hand in my hair. Delighted to discover that we were "neighbors," I followed a young 21-year-old Doris from her family home in Toronto out to LA to pursue her passion in make-up and hair. She taught me the art of flipping houses and the struggles of male cat incontinence all while effortlessly wrestling my startled hair into an elegant chignon bun. 

And then it was Sydney's turn and I could not look away as art was created before my very eyes.

Sydney has had a flair for hair for as long as I can remember. She is also ruthlessly pragmatic and adaptable. She is not afraid to experiment; learning with each experience. For Sydney, it's just hair. A blank canvas. It'll grow out/grow back. And with Doris, Sydney had a studied practitioner to bring her vision to life.

And come to life she did.

Not out of marble. Or sandstone. Or still-life.

Shimmering red waves...Venus emerging from her shell...

Rita Hayworth.

Jessica Rabbit.

Sydney Mosiman.

Wedding-day ready.

We bid a reluctant farewell to our fascinating and talented new friend.

And now it was just Syd and me, staring at one another in the mirror. Me...reflecting upon the little girl she once was...my little girl...and the amazing woman she's become. As my daughter began the timeless process of applying the paints and powders that shape and color the landscape of a woman's features, I reveled in her careful and patient ministrations...confident of one thing. Our journey through the Looking Glass together was far from over.

Flying stinks

I may have reached the point in my life where cost should no longer be the determining factor in regards to cross-country travel. If we were on a boat, our seating would be considered steerage. "No," groused my sleep-deprived spouse as we stood in line for two hours because of a broken conveyor belt, "We're in the back of the bilge." We'd left the house at 4 am and were not versions of our best selves. 

The first thing you check, these days, when you enter an airport is your dignity.

With our not-so-far-in-the-distant-past obsession with masks, I can't help but wonder as I stand, barefoot and vulnerable, why we are not provided those little disposable shoe covers that snooty realtors demand so you don't sully their sale. Instead, I walk in the literal footsteps of the masses...my journey of a thousand miles beginning with a single staph.

I watch my meager bag of belongings undergo serious scrutiny with more meticulous care than my healthcare provider offers when going over an MRI. Sighing, I am not surprised when my backpack is diverted off the main thoroughfare onto a side, rolling exit for further questioning. This is not the time to bring up open borders, was my meditative mantra as I prepared to emotionally prostitute myself in exchange for the safe passage of two jars of horseradish. Imagine my daughter, Savannah's horror when she discovered that she'd moved to a land that mistakenly believed that horseradish sauce was an acceptable substitute for actual horseradish. We've been transporting it across state lines ever since. The TSA agent gingerly extracted the two jars of horseradish. "You can't take this past this point. "This is not the time to bring up fentanyl and human trafficking, I chanted in my head. I nodded solemnly, outwardly acknowledging the wisdom and seriousness of this situation. Thanks to my ever-present anxiety, tears shimmered but stoically refused to fall. "My daughter lives in California," I said, shakily. My agent was immediately sympathetic. I lowered my voice. "They think horseradish sauce is the SAME as horseradish." She looked at me in horror. "Hold on a second," she said, before disappearing. Within minutes, I was dispatched, barefoot, clutching two jars of horseradish like they were the family relics.

Finally, it was time to board. Brad and I wedged our way to our number range and then held our ground like we were floor brokers at the New York Stock Exchange following the opening bell. Why doesn't the airline provide us with numbered pinnies like at high school basketball practice? At least a sticker so that we all don't look at one another with suspicion and disdain as we fight for the front.

Without an assigned seat, strategy is seriously at play. Normally by myself, I hadn't noticed the diabolical placement plots because I would just throw myself at the first window or aisle seat I saw. With a partner, my eyes were opened and my sense of justice riled. "You can't call dibs," I said indignantly to one woman who'd filled the two empty seats on either side of her like she was at the opera. Brad unceremoniously pulled me down the aisle. "People going to the opera don't have to save seats," he told me, "This is a puppet show."

My husband scored us two aisle seats across from each other...close enough that I could reach into Brad's sharing-size bag of M&Ms. 

Seat belt on and M&Ms in hand, I readied myself for my journey when tragedy struck.

I glanced at Brad who is MUCH better at hiding his emotions than me.

His eye-lid twitched. 

Uh-oh. We were in real danger.

A smell...no...a stench of epic proportions encapsulated our section of the plane. I gasped. This could not be politely ignored. Brad sat, statue-still, stoic. I raised my hand to my nose, wishing for a fragrant hankie. On occasions such as these, one might opt for the nose discreetly plugged, mouth open method but I did NOT want that vapor to infiltrate my inner-being. 

In the midst of battling that monstrous mist, I turned to face my husband. Our eyes met in a forlorn farewell. This was not how we imagined going out. The passenger on the other side of Brad leaned forward and I looked at him to include him in our pocket of pungent pain. Startled by his glare, I realized that he believed Brad or me to be the Ground Zero as the origination of the odor. Before I could dispel his mistake, an announcement was made about a trash collection run (preceding the flight). Relieved, I realized that the flight attendants were making a valiant attempt to rid us of the diaper or drawers that, if not removed, would doom the flight.

They tried. The empty trash bag moved slowly down the aisle, filled only with the silent supplications of my fellow suffering passengers. 

Deflated but not defeated, the flight attendant returned, her hands folded in a sort of downward prayer. I watched as she blessed us, a steady stream of scented sacrament sprayed upon us...freeing us from this hellscape.

Brad and I made it to and from our destination safely.

Imagine our relief when we landed back in Buffalo without incident.

Unbuckled...we were patiently waiting our turn to disembark this broke-d*ck bus with wings when it happened again...

Sulphurous rotten eggs rolled up the aisle. The Easter Bunny's evil cousin dropped these black jelly beans of doom on the poor passengers trapped in the back. "Let me out," a plaintive voice from behind us pleaded. "Can you hurry up, up there?" another voice called out. Exhausted, I began to laugh hysterically. Brad shook my arm. "They're going to think it was us," he hissed. At this point, I didn't care. By now, everyone should know: Flying stinks.

Oh, What a Knight, Part II: We signed up to be directors but it was just an act

Okay. So, after a lot of hemming & hawing, vehement refusals, running away, hiding, swearing, and crying, we finally agreed to sign on to direct the much-anticipated middle school play.

Now what?

Mostly paralysis. 

Interspersed with despair.

Which evolved into violently turning on one another. After an exhaustive stretch of emotional, verbal, and physical abuse, we resigned ourselves to our self-imposed fate.

"So, how did Bev do it?" we wondered, reminiscing about all of the Broadway-quality productions performed under the expert tutelage of our renowned predecessor. This, of course, resulted in a downward spiral of self-loathing and additional recrimination. 

Suddenly, we had it.

We are NOT Bev. 

Self-sacrificing. Focused. Serious. Knowledgeable. A patron of the arts.

We're Erin and Amy. 

Obviously, I can only speak of myself here: Self-serving. Distracting and distractible. Ridiculous. Clueless. A patron of Patron. 

The clouds cleared. We shifted into gear and, giggling, began to lurch forward.

There was only one clear established rule:  If it wasn't fun and didn't amuse us...we didn't do it.

Enter: Auditions.

Two hours of sitting, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching kids, ages 9 to 13, singing and dancing to the chorus of "I Want It That Way" by the Backstreet Boys. We couldn't have been more delighted as our aspiring actors earnestly auditioned, tossing in spins, sways, and sashays. Erin and I communicated with discreet shoulder bumps and inappropriate side pinches. I froze when one of our honeys borrowed her choreography from the gas station scene in Magic Mike. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever witnessed in my career as a director. Little did I know, it was just going to keep getting better.

We didn't know how to run rehearsals. We knew about limited attention spans. We knew if it wasn't fun and engaging, the kids wouldn't want to do it. We understood the importance of routine and consistency. We knew how to be camp councilors. 

Wait.

We knew how to be camp councilors.

"What are you doing?" a colleague asked, catching the beginning of one of our scheduled rehearsals. "We start each rehearsal with some improvisational exercises and team-building collaboration activities," one of our actors answered as we hopped over imaginary marbles, moo-ed like cows, and yodeled "An Old Austrian." Our colleague looked confused. "Funny," she said, "That looks like a game I played in summer c--" Erin slammed the door in her face.

We played to our strengths. Erin developed and taught the musical numbers while I tackled script reading and character development. I had to explain a LOT of puns. We discovered a LOT about ourselves. Erin and I have always balanced one another but, until now, it was surface-level stuff. Bright, sparkly, positive extroverted energy (Erin) balanced by normalcy (me). But, as co-directors, we somehow swapped roles. Erin wasn't a director...she was a dictator. The children and I were terrified. She ordered us around. Expected us to start on time. "You can be replaced, you know," she snapped one day. The children comforted me as I cried in the corner, assuring me that she didn't really mean it. When did Erin become the mean one? I complimented, coaxed, and cajoled. However, we both really enjoyed yelling "Cut! Do it again," so much that we had t-shirts made. Yelling "Pause" usually resulted in our actors yelling back "Hands" so we limited that so as to avoid an up-rising.

We shredded the script.

Obliterated the ending.

Our actors were fully-versed on the term "4th wall" and were devilishly intent on breaking it as often as we wanted.

 We created guest-starring cameo appearances. 

We interrupted the play, mid-scene, for an interactive dance party with the audience.

We dumped the final song and replaced it with a re-written version of "Oh, What a Night" and let the cast free-style the finale. 

Erin and Amy had fun.

And, because of THAT, our actors had fun.

And, hopefully, because of THAT, our audience had fun.

As our experience didn't feel like a complete failure, we've been perusing possible scripts for next year. "Here's one about a little girl who gets swept by a storm into a new, magical land," Erin said. "How original," I commented, ignoring her glare. "Ya know," she snapped, "You can be replaced." 

You heard it here, folks...our next production should be pretty Oz-some.

Maybe the finale can be "She's a brick...house."

Low-waisted pants are a result of recessive jeans

 At 54, I am still searching for my signature fashion style. It was t-shirts and jeans for most of my life. Real outside-the-box, cutting edge stuff. Basic black EVERYTHING. The low-waisted trouser era completely traumatized me. I didn't sit down or bend over for three years. I developed a deep-seated curtsy that served me in picking up items from the floor. Tunic shirts were a welcomed addition to my wardrobe. Twin sets made a reappearance from the 1940s into my closet like Draco's canary next to my new friend, the cardigan. Palazzo pants and rompers wandered in. Turns out my fashion style is long, loose, lounge-wear.

Social media began sending me ads catered to my clothing preferences.

I made a purchase and, a week later, came bounding out of my bedroom.

"Whatta ya think?" I said, spinning around. I could crouch the living tiger out of this outfit.

Stunned, my husband stared at me, speechless.

"Interesting," he said slowly, "Are you happy with it?"

"Well," I admitted, "it's a little more blue than I anticipated. More Cookie Monster than Grover. And more wrinkly than the no-wrinkle promise stated in the ad." I smoothed the fabric gently like a disgruntled Shar Pei.

"Well, you really nailed the I worked on the transcontinental railroad look," Brad assured me before kissing me good-bye and leaving for the day. I took a picture to send to Sydney and then changed immediately. At lunch, my friends were treated to the pictorial fashion show and about died laughing. "You could be in the cast of Aladdin," they howled. Oh dear.

But you know what they say. When you get kicked in the face by the fashion horse, you have to get off your ass and try again.

My flawless friend Michelle had really been pushing patterns. "They're very forgiving, Amy," she encouraged. What fashion faux pas had I committed that warranted an apology, I wondered. Nevertheless, I bought another social media produced product from another unknown origin. "I can't believe the price," I'd told Brad. Then it arrived. My apologies to the third world women and children who'd manufactured this ill-fitting Halloween costume that I'd ordered. It swept behind me dramatically as I faked the confidence that I would need to survive the day in it. The cheap patterned pants encased my thighs like a reduced-priced rubber. My pale, sickly flesh flashed through the stretched out, straining strings of fabric. My legs looked like a scored ham. "From a distance, you looked magnificent," my friend, Julia told me. Thanks.

The terms dictating my fashion style needed an update:  Long, loose, LOCAL lounge-wear. 

Or maybe it was time to go back to jeans and t-shirts. Nothing fancy for me. I mean, seriously, I'm more Weather Tech than red carpet. I just need to hold up against the elements. Wind. Rain. Rust. And wear. Maybe I need to resist the need to be appreciated and, instead, just try to resist depreciating.