People watching

A moment of panic this week, in which the city snob was revealed. Ok, the Diva came out. I apologize to all friends and loved ones who had to bear witness.


I've agreed to pose for some photos. I thought I had another eight months- at least- to prepare. I was wrong. My tan lines are funky, my hair was a long-time-since-a-haircut-should-have-scheduled-it-months-ago mess. I would have loved to spend eight months working out to get ready. My photo shoot is this coming Sunday.


I found out about the shoot this past Sunday, and I have enough of the practical Alaskan in me to realise that there isn't anything I can do about the wish-I-would-have pounds. The tan lines probably won't fade. However my hair I could do something about... if only I could find the right stylist at the right salon, with an opening. Remember: this is Fairbanks.


I haven't found true happiness, until death do us part kind of happiness, with a salon or a stylist since I left Montréal. I desparately miss Mélanie, the avante garde stylist who could speak to my so-called granola girl soul.


Mélanie worked at Au Premier on Monkland, an Aveda salon. So I've tried a few Aveda salons. Much to my consternation, none of them ever compare. Au Premier made each client feel like the most important client. Mélanie made me love to get my hair cut.


I, like many long haired women (and maybe men), hate to get my hair cut. I've had too many people start out by taking just a little off and end up by cutting off six inches trying to make it even. To top it off, my hair is baby fine. Mistakes show. And I'm a Leo, so I admit to pride over my mane. Not just anyone can put their hands on this hair. (Look out... there's Diva again.) So I shop around and around for hair stylists and salons, until I find the Right One. As of this morning, I had not found Even Close here in Fairbanks.


When I realised I couldn't take a vacation every time I wanted a hair cut (trips to D.C. seemed conveniently timed with the point at which my hair reached a desparate state of frizz), I asked a friend for a recommendation. She is trendy, with decent hair. And her hair is curly... extra tricky. She sent me to Hair Palace, to her stylist of several years. I might have run screaming from the parking lot when I saw the plywood cutout sign of onion domes, but I needed a cheap cut. I figured a recommendation for this cliché had to be better than Supercuts. I did escape unscathed, but I was also unimpressed. Next came a recommendation to try Hair, Body, and Sol. I received a great cut there, but I didn't feel pampered at all. My stylist seemed bored. (For the record, I would go back. They're one of the best options in this town.) I figured for my next cut, I'd go back to an Aveda salon, since one had just opened in the new section of town. Here I also received a nice looking cut but again no pampering. I figured this could be a last resort sort of place; but who really looks forward to having a teenager with purple streaked hair cut their hair? I totally believe in artists who cut hair (aka Mélanie) and could overcome the purple streaks, but don't come near this head with a wad of gum hanging out of your mouth.


There is another Aveda salon in town that I hadn't yet tried, and I was able to get an appointment for tomorrow. Something about the phone call spoke that ominous word "pouffy" to me. Upon further discussion with a patient friend, who handed me a mediocre recommendation from a friend of hers for the place, I decided to cancel. The friend of a friend had used the word "pouff". However the friend of a friend also handed my friend a short list of places, and she seemed to totally get my concerns with hair cuts. Each place came with an asterisk (*it would take months to get in). I temporarily ignored the list and scheduled a Wednesday appointment at a popular place in town. However this was a place I have sworn I never want to go to: I hate the name, I hate the web site, and I don't like the hair cut that they regularly give to the only woman I know who goes there regularly (evil Big Hair, but I admit it was probably at her request).


Not feeling satisfied with my looming appointment (which has since been cancelled), I requested that Ken accompany me around town for window shopping last night. After all, no matter how my haircut ended up, I would have to stare at it for years. There would be no chance to correct a hair nightmare, and I'd been hearing about plenty since asking for recommendations. I was close to an anxiety attack. Or at least, for purposes of dramatizing this story, I was close to one. Ken even asked me if I wanted to go to Anchorage for a hair cut. I don't know if he was serious, but I do know that I was totally serious when I said, "Yes!" We drove arround Fairbanks anway, and I immediately fell in love with the first place we looked at: Ti Ja's. This also happened to be on the short list of the friend of a friend. However their wait list is generally months long (according to the asterisk accompanying the recommendation), so I considered five more places. I didn't like any of them.


I called Ti Ja's this morning, with bated breath and crossed fingers. When they asked me when I could come, I responded, "Whenever." When they asked me who I wanted to have cut my hair, I responded, "Whoever." I received an appointment for this afternoon. Feeling a slight flutter of anticipation, I came home to prepare.


You can't walk in to a hair appointment with just any old outfit on. A good stylist will judge what you're wearing when envisioning the cut you will receive. I put on blue jeans, to show I'm low maintenace, and my hot pink boatneck tissue shirt with a tribal design, to show that I'm young and hip. Or at least I hoped that's what Scott, my stylist, would see. I was purposely a bit early, although I knew their prior cuts would inevitably be running late. I wanted to see the artist in action.


After I was checked in, I was handed a gown to put on, so that my shirt would not get wet from my wet and dripping hair. I knew immediately, based on this attention to detail, that I was about to feel pampered. Hearing thick Spanish accents coming from men with great hair and edgy scissors in their hands, I gained some confidence. Watching Scott at work, I relaxed. He was finishing up with two women (one a cut, one a color) as I waited, and they both looked fabulous and happy with their results. When he came over to meet me and gently held my hair with just the right touch, I decided I was looking forward to sitting in his swivel chair.


After an hour of having Scott call me, "girl," and feeling him carress my hair as he cut it to get just the right, "movement," I felt pampered. It's been almost four years since I didn't have to use the term "layers" with a stylist to not end up with a blunt cut. (Always being careful to specify that I don't want chunky layers but more like wisps.) Scott and I can talk about everything from sledding to the bar in Ester, to eating Colombian food and missing variety in restaurants, to the wonders of the Sassoon salon in Montréal. This is someone my hair and I could have a real relationship with. And Ti Ja's itself is marvelous. It stands for Tico and James, two brothers who own the salon and cut hair. They even sell Aveda.


Although Scott won't replace Mélanie, who requested that I come back to visit (and not to have my hair cut but just to catch up) when I left her lovely city, I am looking forward to having Scott as my new stylist. I already have an appointment at Ti Ja's in October.


And I promise to make the Diva go back into the closet.

What does a Fairbanks-locked girl do when faced with a formal event, less than two weeks away, and in need of an outfit?

Four choices:

1) Buy something cheaply-made and overpriced at the local Department Stores. (No Thanks.)

2) Buy something middle-aged at the local boutique. (Why make myself look like I have wiggly arms before I have wiggly arms.)

3) Shop at Value Village for something cheap but well-made. (This sometimes works. I found a BCBG Max Azria skirt last summer for $5.00. I have always wondered how that skirt ended up in Fairbanks, and then how it found its way to the local thrift store.)

4) Call mom and ask her to send your Lola and Emily dress, from your former days of shopping choices. (It probably is time that I face the fact that a closet is not practical when it is five thousand miles away, even if it is a real closet that actually has a door and doesn't accumulate dog hair.)

You recognize the shapes of the back-lit cars and trucks driving past you on the highway.

... and regret leaving a city where everyone rushes around like they are addicted to speed, and everything stays open to accomodate the hectic schedules that this produces...

I left work on Friday looking forward to a weekend with nothing that needed to get done. Except for buying new tires. Tires need to be bought in time for May 1st, when the studded tires have to come off. And tires must be shopped for on Saturday, as the tire shops are not open on Sunday and only open until 5:00 during the week. Because the Element's stock size is a bit unusual, and because this is Fairbanks, I knew there was potential for my tire shopping excursion not to go as smoothly as I might wish. I don't live in town, and snow persists beyond May 1st. And so does mud. Highway tires just won't do, but I knew exactly what I was looking for: BF Goodrich All Terrain TA KOs.

Fast forward to Saturday morning, when I frantically down two cups of coffee in preparation for my un-busy day (which turned into a very busy day, what with an unplanned kayaking trip and contra dancing). Ken and I drive into town, sun shining, feeling good. First stop, Arctic Tire, where there is nothing my size in stock. Not a problem, since we have three more stops. I should know better, after our experience buying refrigerators. Second stop, TDS. Closed on weekends and evenings! Don't these stores want my money? I have this same problem with hair salons. Don't people in this town work? On to American Tire. They do stock tires in my size, and they even have some in store. But they're cheap tires, with a fairly steep price tag for what they are. Oh, Fairbanks, why can't you see the bigger picture and demand quality in your tires and in everything else, for that matter? Our last stop is Sears, and I know they will at least have the brand I am looking for. But as far as the size and type of tire, they only have one in the store and no idea when the next three will arrive. I will not be defeated! I will go home and call all the stores in Anchorage! We will make our limitations work to our advantage and use this as an excuse to visit the "big city".

An hour and a half later, I have not located a total of four BFG TA KOs in 215/70/16s between the cities of Fairbanks and Anchorage. This should not surprise me, and it does not; but it does make me exceedingly frustrated. I am so frustrated that I am grouchy when the salesman at Alaska Tire World in Anchorage tries to sell me highway tires for $160 a piece. As a savvy consumer, I have done my tire homework. I let him know that I have done my tire homework and know what I need for my daily driving in my car, thank you very much. When I later discover that I can order my tires from Wal-Mart, and they can arrive within one week, I am ecstatic. I attempt to place a web order and am told this service is unavailable to Alaska. Ever the optimist, I call our local store. I tell them I want to special order some tires, and I am asked to hold. Fifteen minutes later, I am told that I have to call back on Monday. I hang up, and we call the store's manager. Or rather, I have Ken call the store's manager. I feel that perhaps it will not benefit me to tell the manager exactly how unhappy I am with the product of my tire shopping day, especially if I hope to not pay shipping on my special order tires. (I've already looked into this, and shipping will run just under $200.00) End result: the manager will call us on Monday, when we can perhaps order tires and not pay shipping. Even so, after installation, these tires will cost over $100.00 more than they would in any other state (except, perhaps, Hawaii). It is times like this that I must chant my mantra of, "I live in the greatest state there is..."

As I said, this whole experience should not have been a surprise. Last fall, the refrigerator in our rented cabin breathed its last breath in what was really a rather slow death. The refrigerator was that mustardy yellow color that went out of fashion in the early '80s. We weren't surprised to find it on its last leg, given that we'd had to have the oven replaced the month before. When the freezer melted and puddled on the lower shelves of the refrigerator, we decided it was time to call the landlord. He lives in Valdez, and so we offered to shop for and buy the refrigerator ourselves and knock it off the rent. He jumped at the offer. We must have seemed so naive. We should have known better, after our experiences shopping for smaller items (such as jeans). But we didn't.

Our landlord suffers from typical Fairbanks syndrome in that he likes small price tags, so we knew we'd have to be extra frugal in our purchase. We shopped a bit online, and we had a good idea of what we would find. Insert maniacal laughter. Ken and I went out to the various home improvement stores, including the national chains. And we found that in the entire town of Fairbanks, there were five refrigerators in stock that were bigger than a mini-fridge but not as big as a side-by-side. Five. We were told that we could special order a refrigerator, and it would take three weeks to arrive. Just what you want to hear when your old refrigerator no longer works, and you expect to eat this month. If it had been November, and we could have kept everything cold outside in a truck box, we would have agreed. Since no one was willing to sell us a floor model, we eventually convinced our landlord to spend a little more than he would have liked. He did it willingly enough, considering it was the second month in a row our rent money wouldn't be paying his mortgage.

Sometime I'll tell you about the creative fixes in our cabin...