I became a brunette last week. It was not an effortless change, not a spur-of-the-moment decision as many of my ill-timed beauty experiments have been. This was not Sun-In, or perms. It was calculated, a mass text to my girlfriends, asking for explicit instructions on my next hair adventure. Go dark, roared the crowd, and
I used to write gift guides. I’d write them for magazines, or websites – gift guides for the smelly co-ed, gift guides for the Ohio stockbroker cousin you see once annually, gift guides for the receptionist that, when cornered at the office Christmas party, admits that she really and truly wants to be an artist
We know that labels are for jars, and we know that we are not jars. And yet, it is an easy trap, boxing ourselves into characters or avatars, for brevity’s sake, of course. We have 140 characters, 5 minutes in the elevator, 10 minutes at a dinner party to explain ourselves, to introduce the passion
As much as I talk about less, about purchasing less and striving for less and working toward less, I have quite a bit of more. My job, this brown swirly mix of writing and styling and designing and producing, creates a tornado of stuff. Daily, there are cardboard boxes arriving at the door, ready to
Here’s what I want to tell you today. I want to tell you that, if my words are causing vibrations that are running opposite to the truths you hold – sound waves striking dissonance or resistance or choppiness in the good and worthy balance you’ve been working toward, close this browser. There is a difference
I do not profess to dislike the Internet. This invention – if you can even call it that, being that its advance has changed our entire world in such a short time and is actually more of a movement, an evolution, no, a revolution – is a gift. We can tap on the keyboard and
I didn’t want to write this post. It feels scary and raw, and there is a deep temptation to stay in my lane – my self-imposed lane, of course – where I share throw pillows and toys and memories. Things stay fluffy and good; positive and bright. Bright is my specialty, my second set of
The reunion had been planned for what, six months? A weekend away in Chicago, just our tiny group of women and the many hats we pack in our suitcases: chefs and mothers and designers and musicians. And it sounded perfect. Until it didn’t sound perfect, and the days grew closer and the nights grew longer.