The Fiery Quill

Only one subject could pull me out of hiding to write.....my hair. There is a cardinal rule when it comes to a woman and her hair: never make drastic alterations to one's hair in a time of great emotional stress. And I what did I do? I went out and got a massive haircut, the kind you should never get within close proximity to a break-up. But I ask you, what would you expect from a girl that doesn't follow protocol concerning pants-wearing in upscale salons? I have had hair this short before, but it always cracks me up to see the response of the public at large concerning short hair on a woman. Some act like it's a personal affront, "Why did you cut your hair?" And then there is the classic look of horror: excuse me, could you please turn down the volume of your face? Believe me, my haircut is an adjustment for me (and it's on my head). I admit that it's difficult to not have a curtain to hide behind.....the hair is, after all, a woman's ultimate acces...

I got my hair done yesterday at one of those big city salons. Just the sort of place that one would envision in a cosmopolitan city. European techno music, all stylists in black...you know the sort of place. These salons are like a foreign country to me, complete with customs of their own. I am just enough of a country girl, that I haven't completely absorbed these customs. I am not used to the concept of a shampoo girl, or wearing a robe provided by the salon. My inner redneck didn't know how to handle removing one's clothes and donning a robe for a haircut...What for? All your clothes? The latter custom was the most troubling to me; and I'm pretty sure I came to the wrong conclusion in pondering how to handle this request. As I was sitting under the hairdryer in my little robe, bare (pale) legs crossed.....I was feeling pretty hotsy-totsy. Thought I had this whole sa-lon thing figured out. Then I noticed I was the only client without pants. Mind you I was decent in my...

I recently ran a 10k to benefit Western Washington Habitat for Humanity . It is always satisfying for me to complete a race, especially when I see the fruits of my labor as I run. The mid-point of the race goes through one of the Habitat neighborhoods, right when energy levels are sagging and muscles are hurting. I panted around a bend and up a hill where men and women in hard hats were working towards the completion of a family's dream. I felt a lump in my throat as I considered that unknown family and the little house that would be theirs. Charitible organizations like Habitat, and their events, obviously draw a variety of generous spirits. My favorite such spirit was a cheerful little boy of about seven, complete with impish grin and arm in a cast. This one small boy, for the second year in a row, raised the most money for the Home Run Charity Run/Walk. Last year, he walked into the Habitat office with a jar full of a year's worth of birthday money, allowance, savings. He ev...

Plastic charm bracelets, Free to Be You and Me on the record player, sliced turnips with sea salt for snack, taking turns reading pages of The Berenstein Bears with Dad, pink jellies worn with everything. The Lorax, Monkey, the leopard cub, Penguin and Theodore Bear guarding my bed: the furry brotherhood. Doing laps around the basement in my roller skates, Whitney Houston on the boombox. Stealthily bumping down the stairs on my blanket sleeper-clad rear end, hoping to catch an extra Saturday-morning cartoon before Dad was on to me. Feeding the dog scraps of whatever we didn't want from our dinner plates, homemade muffins on Sunday mornings, pirouettes in the outfield at softball games. Opening Christmas presents in the living room, my favorite wooden doll ornaments, making sour cream Christmas cookies and singing along to John Denver and Alabama. "Dancing" with the turkey before we cooked it on Thanksgiving. My Christmas stocking hanging down to the floor because of the o...

I had the pleasure of seeing Brandi Carlile last night at the Moore. I am sure I will not be the only one to write about this event or venue. But it was such an extraordinary show that I still want to put in my two cents. Brandi is local girl that is well-loved by her hometown, and her fans where in full force at this show. The Moore was a wonderful place to hear her, due to the layout and acoustics of the theatre. The acoustics are so good that she was able to sing without a microphone and be heard clear up to the rafters. It was absolute silence until she finished the last note of that song, then everyone rose up in their seats to express their appreciation. Brandi delivered an emotional performance, singing old favorites and covers with her own touch. The crowd was given a real treat when Brandi did a duet with her sister. When the song ended it was silent until one voice said, "wow." That adequately sums up the whole night. It was especially cool that we were able to shar...

For as long as I can remember, I have been receiving comments about my weight: "Better be careful when you take a shower, you might go down the drain." Or "Heather's so skinny, when she turns sideways...she disappears." I have had people ask me outright how much I weigh, after giving me the once over. I remember being insulted in middle school with the old adage, "Heather is a carpenter's dream: she's flat and easy to screw." My personal favorite is been repeatedly asked if I am anorexic. Then there is also being asked why I need to work out, or how many times I work out in a week. Women also seem to feel free to ask me what my clothing size is: can you believe how tacky people are? Most people would never walk up to an overweight person and make comments about their size or ask them their weight. So why do people feel entitled to do both to a person who is on the slender side? Many people may read this and wonder how I could possible complain ...

Tomorrow morning will be the kind that everyone can identify with: the crappy-feeling, first after a break up kind of morning. It will be that much harder to pry myself out of bed, on a Monday, when NPR starts blasting at 5:58am. Nothing is particularly pretty at that hour, especially when I remember that it is the debut morning of my singlehood....super. Warning: possible sarcasm dripping from the rest of my commentary. Normally I prefer to keep my personal life out of my blog. However, the method of this particular break-up was so noteworthy that I couldn't resist. I'm hoping that this story makes others who are in in my predicament feel better about being unexpectedly single. I preface further commentary with the following statement: no men were injured during the making of this blog. I have been dumped in a variety of equally unfortunate circumstances. But I do have to say (in fairness to former boyfriends)that my exes were all kind enough to end things in person. Now I rea...

All it takes for an incredible performance, is to have exceptional musicians. I could be in a hotel room crowded with people in folding chairs. Or I could be at showcase, people murmuring and shuffling in after the music has begun. Or it could be absolutely ideal, like it was last night: perfect lighting, intimate venue, and an audience of loyal fans. I have seen Girlyman in all of the above settings. Predictably, last night was the best. But it wasn't the external factors that made the show so ideal. I hold fast to my first statement. All I needed was to have Ty, Doris, and Nate up on the stage, smiling and singing in their perfectly intertwining harmonies. The music was made even better by how radiantly happy the three of them looked as they played and sang. From time to time, they would look at one another and just beam. I have never seen people who so clearly love what they do. And all of them had effortless rapport with the people in the crowd. They joked and told stories as ...

The sun was burning down upon me, making the top of my head feel like it was on fire. There was only a slight breeze from time to time, almost an insult in its infrequency. The slender trees did little to abate the scorch of the Greek sun. I was standing a stone’s throw away from the legendary city of Akrotiri, on the island of Santorini. This city of ash served as my backdrop as I talked of Byron, Keats, and Shelley. My fellow students sat on a small gathering of boulders and listened as I compared Pygmalion to the Stepford Wives. My professor swatted at flies and nodded encouragingly when I faltered. Where Athens had been dirty, the people suspicious, the streets chaotic and noisy: Santorini was lanquid, the locals beaming and welcoming us in. The white buildings with touches of blue cast a spell on all of us. Children played near the fountain in the town square, old women chattered on a nearby bench, a scruffy dog sat in the shade. By night, young people crowded the cafes and restau...

It has taken 9 years, 3000 miles, 5 bags and a lot of nerve to get to Seattle. And I wouldn't take any of it back. This is only the second full day in my new city, and it already feels like home. This place has always felt that way to me. Seattle has been pulling me back since I spent the summer of 1999 here. It was the best summer of my life, exactly what an almost 21-year old would want. I worked in a neighborhood coffee shop and was best friends with everyone at work. I went to concerts, water parks, street festivals, a nude bike race (yep, it's the truth!) I was able to spend quality sibling time with my older brother, something I hadn't been able to do in quite some time. I lived in Seattle for three months that summer, a time that really changed my life. I was here in the Pacific Northwest again over this past Thanksgiving. The pull to be in Seattle was stronger than it ever had been before. It didn't matter that I would have to quit my job, change coasts, break ...

This is not an anti-Valentine's Day message, as tempted as I am to write one. No, this missive is in honor of a time when the red-and-pink holiday was still exciting. Back when "Faith" was on every radio station , when my hair curled in a ponytail, and my feet were still in Zips. Every February 14 th , I remember finding a little treat at my place on the breakfast table, courtesy of Mom and Dad. I always dressed the part for this special day: a red jumper or pink tights, a length of red yarn in my hair. It all seemed so exciting when I was eight. I couldn't wait for the class party, the cupcakes, the chalky hearts with their dusty words. The best part was the little pocket made of construction paper that hung solemnly from the blackboard. If I was lucky, I would find a variety of colorful squares (or hearts) of glossy paper with my name on the outside. Beaming, I would clutch them to my chest, cherishing the cartoon messages. I couldn't help but count how many Val...

As a preteen, I met one of my greatest foes: zits. I have been plagued by those pesky red bumps ever since. I have finally figured out how to manage my skin as an adult, but it has been a very long road. I have been on just about every cream, pill, skin system, etc. The road to good skin has been a long one, rife with crappy products and bad experiences. When my skin had gotten particularly bad in middle school, my mom decided it was time to go to the dermatologist. My nice doctor put me on everything from tetracycline to various nasty-smelling creams I put on at bedtime. After little to no good results, he finally put me on the grandaddy of all zit-zappers: Accutane . I recall really having to push him to let me go on it....but all of the pleading, mandatory blood tests, and peeling skin was completely worth it. Within about a month, people started complementing me on how nice my skin looked. More importantly, I could look into a mirror and feel good about what I saw. I was on Accut...

13 women in a dark, hot, cramped room for 60 minutes. This is a description of one of my favorite places and times: spinning class. No, this does not refer to a group of people spinning in place for an hour....To the uninitiated, class members sit on stationary bikes, led by an instructor. The class is dominated by pounding music and shouted encouragements....or insults, depending on the individual in the lead bike. In my case,I was lucky. Laura was equal parts "you ladies are lookin' good" and "don't cheat yourself...I'm watching you!" Just when I got to point where I didn't have anything left, she'd look at me and sing along with music:"Clowns to the left, jokers to the right." It was just enough to give me the pick up I needed. The perfect spinning class is equal parts motivation, camaraderie, instructor and music. I had all of the above for one hour, three times a week. For that hour, I could let go of everything while singing along...

Far outside of Cancun, lies a tiny town that tourists have never heard of. It is a sleepy place with dusty streets, where the friendly locals nod as you walk by. There are no nightclubs, no cocktails with umbrellas, no beautiful people. But you can get a cool drink and plenty of hospitality. I was 16 and wide-eyed. This was the first time I had been to a different country without my family in tow. I was in Mexico with my Spanish class, two chaperones, 7 other giggling girls, and Max: my best friend and the only boy on the trip. We had spent the day exploring Chichen Itza and were on our way back to the hotel in Cancun. Our little group stopped for lunch, and a break from being trapped in a VW bus with no AC. We tumbled out of the bus into the hot, dusty streets. The sun shone on a village with buildings painted in an equally sunny hue. They all had white trim on their stuccoed facades, lined up like old friends. Our first stop was a small, open air church with large shady trees bowing ...

Amid crowds of hopeful runners dressed in Mickey ears and Tinkerbell wings, Laura and I set out in the pre -dawn blackness. The air was thick with excitement from all the bodies jostling for position. Adrenaline was coursing through our veins, as we blindly entered our first emotional phase of the race: euphoria. This phase is exemplified by cockiness and the phrase, "hey, no problem!" We maintained this air of false confidence all the way through the 6 th mile ("if we keep this pace up, we'll finish in 4-and-a-half hours!") and well into the 12 th . The sun was shining, we both felt good,untouchable even. Little did we know that we were getting ready to hit our first wall....funny how it happend at mile 13. Ironically, things started to fall apart after our first food station. This is when we arrived at the next phase of the race: doubt. The first phase was so blissfully long, that we were lured into a false sense of security. Which is why the next one hit ha...

This past Sunday I visited three amusement parks, got a suntan and ran a marathon: all before lunch. Not to mention going through every possible emotion and getting a blister so big it earned its own nickname (Pinky and the Brain). I felt as though I was running for days, even though it was only for 5 hours and 47 minutes (and 3 seconds). It seemed so long partially because the race began a couple hours before the sun rose. The wake-up call came promptly at 3 am. I remember my first thought being: "whose idea was this?" But it didn't take long for the adrenaline to start flowing. Tying on my pink bandana and strapping on my shoes felt like putting on battle armor. By the time I walked out the hotel door, I was ready. I joined my running partner, Laura, at the staging area where we chatted nervously and sized up the competition. After a final visit to the all-important Port-o-Potty, all the runners made the solemn 10 minute march to the starting line. Hip-hop blared from ...

It was the last plane out from San Juan to St. John. I was the only passenger on the tiny, eight-seater plane. The pilot was a local who was going home for the night. When he realized that I was his only passenger, he quickly invited me to sit next to him at the very front of the plane. As we climbed higher into the night sky, the pilot encouraged me to lean closer to the curved window at the front of the plane. He assured me that this was the best way to view the myriad of stars on display. The glow from the stars was brilliant, and became even more so the farther we got from the lights of San Juan. I had never been so close to twinkling stars, it felt as though I was among them. As we made the short descent into St. John, I was briefly sad to see the constellations get smaller and smaller. But one first was replaced by another. I had never been the only passenger in a plane, and I had never had the pilot morph into personal taxi driver. It turned out that the pilot lived close to the...