You're In The Army Now

High and tight.

Now really, how hard could that be?

Granted, I was sorta learning on the job. There was no clipping experience on my resume. No Barbie dolls. No little brother. No dog. But, even with this full disclosure, my husband Andre wanted me to cut his hair. In true Rhode Island fashion, he was tired of making the trip from our West Side home to his East Side barber.

Yup. Those ten minutes on the road were killing him.

Andre sports a skin fade. Translation: it's a haircut that's one step away from, well, bald. It's not an afro. Not dreads. Not a boxtop. I've been telling him for years that I could handle it. When his old barber drew blood, I told him. When he got a horrible cut in Charleston, SC, I told him.

When he got mistaken for guest of honor, ex-Patriot Troy Brown, by the organizers of a charity event two years ago, I didn't tell him. But for some reason, that night was THE night Andre looked deep inside himself and decided to give my mad skillz a shot.

Perhaps he thought a fresh cut would better help differentiate him from, say, a retired pro football player, next time 'round. Regardless, on the way home, we hit up the personal care aisle of Walgreens.

Duh. Where else would a barber go?
 
Back at the ranch, I set up shop in the middle of the kitchen, using a dining room chair, then set the overhead lights to blazing. After carefully draping Andre's shoulders with a tiny dishtowel, I got to work. Forty long minutes of work. This, as you'll see, was a precision cut.

I broke the process down into two parts, just in case you want to recreate this look at home. Step one: Eyeball an imaginary line near the top of the head, then straight up shave everything below. Step two: Attach a .5 guard to the clippers and bring the hair on top down to 1/16 of an inch.

Unfortunately, for Andre, on night number one, we had no speciality .5 guard in our possession. So I improvised with the next best thing: a 1 guard, which I can now say, with all certainty, is the same tool used by military barbers.

The next day, Andre got saluted.

Not once. But twice. By two different people. And just to be clear, he was not in uniform.

Apparently, on my first time out, I had perfectly recreated a standard issue cut.

God Bless America.

But more importantly, God Bless Andre's Chrome Dome.

ID'ing the Path to Success

Sometimes you get to connect the dots in life.  

And, sometimes, you gotta stand back and let, say, Stedman Graham, do it for you.

Dot Number One: Mr. Van Hunt

Last Saturday, Andre and I indulged in an outstanding show by one of our favs, Van Hunt. Who? Mmm-hmm. All part of the story. The short recap goes back to 2004, when he busted into the R&B mainstream, classified as a neo-soul artist. Sure, the brilliant songwriter was more than capable of being a comfortable crooner, but this was someone else's vision, not his. So he moved away from this established 'safe' sound, and the guaranteed fan base that came with it, to a more punky funky groove, which less people know about, but is hands down his best work yet.

Dot Number Two: Ty Taylor, lead singer for Vintage Trouble

The opening band, Vintage Trouble, didn't feel much like an opener. The guys were older. More polished. The lead singer? Complete showman. Dude was swiveling his hips. Dancing on the bar. And in an only in Rhode Island moment--during a urinal-side chat--much more interesting than a fireside--Andre found out Ty was from LA, via Jersey. But it wasn't for another two days before I figured out why he looked so familiar.

Back in 2005, Ty, then sportin' a mohawk, competed in an INXS reality show, on CBS, for the spot as the band's new lead singer. He didn't win and at the time, I remember feeling crushed for him because I thought he should have. Fast forward eight years and he's transformed himself in a mutton chops wearing, crazy cool James Brown song and dance machine. It all looked so comfortable, that I initially thought, mistakenly, this tight band was his life long passion.

Dot Number Three: Well, me

This occasionally frustrated freelance writer wonders and worries, where this professional ride is going. Sometimes, I just wants to catch a glimpse of the future to make sure the engine-that-could is indeed on the right track--and not about to get smoked at the top of the hill by an Acela.

The Connector

Well, who else would it be other than, Oprah's boyfriend, Stedman Graham, and his new book, Identity: Your Passport to Success. The gist? In order to find success, you've got to figure out who you really are. The process involves digging deep, tossing labels aside and not accepting any boxes that don't fit, even the ones you were born into. It's only after you peg down your true, authentic identity, that your limits will be lifted and true success will be achieved.

What I hadn't realized, until I saw Stedman hawking his book on CBS This Morning, was this was exactly the lesson of my weekend o' live music. Sure, I could see, and applaud, how both musicians had actively chosen to engage in this process of self-discovery, toss aside the safety nets of what brought them acclaim in the past and bask in the rewards of evolution. But what I hadn't realized, was just like on my journey, their muscling over to the other side, probably wasn't all that simple, pretty or without blood, sweat and tears. (The emotions, not the band.)

Simply put, I was privy to the end result, but not the journey. "It's all a process," said Stedman, from a studio in NYC. Argh. Someone's told me that once or twice, right,  Andre M. Brown?

And if you're true to yourself, the rest can't help but fall into place.

The Magic of Journals. Or Why I've Never Needed Counseling

Friday, December 26, 1980

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was fun! I got Merlin. Santa Claus bought him. I've been sick all today. I need flash bars.

Got to go.

-----------

For Christmas, when I was nine, someone gave me a Diary. Literally. That's what it said on the cotton candy pink vinyl cover, right beneath the illustration of a knock-off Holly Hobbie lying on her stomach in a pinafold dress, clutching a quill pen, while her cat napped beside her.

It should have read: Life Changer.

My supreme emotional health, mental resiliency and balance? No accident. No counseling. No prescriptive drugs. I give all the credit directly to where it belongs.

My journals.

After thirty plus years, eleven completed volumes, with a twelfth in progress, I've recorded a whole lot of amazing stuff. But I'm most proud of the intense self-reflection that's come from writing about the challenges of life, both big and small.

The act of taking a pen to paper provides an opportunity to slow time. It allows you to analyze each situation objectively, from every angle, not just your own. It provides a forum to dig deep to really figure out how you're feeling. It legitimizes your emotions. Journaling gives you a chance to return to the scene of the crime, take back your power and even rework the ending.

And once, you pour it all out on paper? That's when the real magic begins. Those emotions you've worked hard to explore? Turn the page and leave them in the past. Reflect, then move on. Say see-ya-later conflicts. Buh-bye to difficult personalities. Adios to anger, disappointment and sadness. In a few glorious strokes, they've all been, literally, written right out of your life.

Writing is a healer.

Write on.

The Soundtrack of My Life: The Van Hunt Edition

Van. Hunt.

Not Van Halen.  And, please, for the love of god, not Van Who?

If you haven't had the pleasure yet, Van's the Man. Yeah, there may be rumors that he grew up in Ohio, but the real story? Clearly, Van Hunt is the funky musical love child of Sly Stone, Lenny Kravitz and Jimi Hendrix. Don't even try to deny it. My ears don't lie.

My love affair goes way back to the Summer of 2004. Van and his band, all suited up, yup, even with ties, performed to a packed house at the Black Rep in Providence. My husband Andre and I managed to snag a booth right in front of the stage, where we got down with our pal Rhodes, before he decided to move on out for the bright lights of the Big Apple.

Sure, VH had it going on with his stylized neo-soul sound, layered brass and smooth vocals, on tracks like 'Dust', 'Her December' and my all time favorite, 'What Can I Say'. (Go on, play it live if you must. I'll accept the dedication.) But what really got me hooked was Van's depth of character. Saddled up to the bar after the PVD show, Van Hunt thanked me for buying his album.

Sincere. Modest. Grateful. And you call yourself a rock star? Consider me hooked.

July 2006 brought the celebration to the Middle East in Cambridge. This time, the guest of honor was album number two, On The Jungle Floor. And while we came for Van, we left with two major discoveries: The Brand New Heavies, or more specifically, for Andre, lead singer N'Dea, as well as the eventual crazy realization, that my-not-yet-pal Vickie, was the one grooving stageside in that red hat.

My first visit to Western, MA, in July, 2008? Courtesy of Van. For reasons I still don't quite understand, and he probably doesn't either, he touched down in the R&B bastion of the Northeast--Northampton--because nothing says funk like a historic coffeehouse, serving up hummus platters in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he was looking for a little anonymity, to regroup after two labels foolishly dropped him. And oh, he got that. We passed Van in the scary basement on our way to the rest room--without a bit of recognition. Upstairs, he turned it out. Solo. On a piano. And not for one instance did we feel like he was doing us a favor.

Humility at its finest.

The next chapter? Saturday. March 31, 2012. Fete. Providence. An outstanding new club. A brilliant new album: 'What Were You Hoping For?' A complex psychedelic new sound that's a bit more raw, but features the same brilliant songwriting. Tickets are a crazy $15 in advance.

And, best of all, Van Hunt has given Boston the bypass for us.

So, please, whatever you do, don't leave him hangin'.  

My Own Private Antiques Roadshow

It's all so easy when you're watching Antiques Roadshow from your couch.

Twenty grand for someone to take that moderately creepy wardrobe off your hands? You know, the one you dropped $300 for in 1987, even though those realistic baby faces, burned into the wood, seemed to stare through you from beyond.

Where's the dilemma, here? Buy low. Sell high.

But what if you sorta like what you've got?

Enter our latest thrift shop score. My dad gets complete credit for the find. We put him on the case for heavy, metal, vintage patio chairs. The kind you'd see outside motels in the 1950's. (Shout-out if you've got some.) He stepped it way up and expanded the search for any type of outdoor furniture.

Sadly, this might be the last time. Dad has a good eye.

"They're really neat," said Dad. "I've never seen anything like them before. I'd buy all of them."

Yup. You probably should have.

Because beneath the seat bottom, next to the wads of gum, was a label:

40/4 Chairs. David Rowland. 1980.

It didn't mean a thing to us, but a quick Google search revealed we were in possession of something kind of special--drumroll please--a small collection of the world's first stacking chair.

Apparently, back in 1963, industrial designer David Rowland developed these as alternative to folding chairs, creating a product that could store compactly, with 40 chairs fitting in a space 4 feet high, without compromising style or comfort.

Other fun facts: Mr. Rowland's chair is in the permanent collections of the Museum of Modern Art, the Louvre Paris, the Design Museum London, and for now, our basement. According to his obit in the New York Times, the original steel and plastic model sold for $16. Today, prices start at $100. Um, let's just say we bought low.

So the question remains: Will we sell--high or otherwise? Verdict's still out.

The truth is, I kind of like owning piece of history. And I'm not sure you can put a price on that.