31 March 2009 - Dear Doritos, Cholula and Whole Foods

[Choose any song by the Spice Girls for this blog]

I like spicy food. Not really hot stuff, but I like to have my mouth catch on fire every now and again and my efforts in this regard have been rather frustrated here. The three-chili rated Thai food is as closed to spicy that I have been able to experience. So, while I'm not normally a salty snack person, when I saw in the grocery store all the bags of chips advertising themselves as "extra hot" and "spicy pepper" and the like, I got all excited. I was particularly drawn in by the Fuego brand spicy hot salsa chips. Mmmmm..... Spicy AND Mexican. Woohooo!

It was soooo disappointing. The chips were triangular and left a weird orange powder on my hands that might well light up in the dark, but other than that, they bore no resemblance to Doritos. And they were not at all spicy. Strangely, even though I'm not, again, a salty snack person, the idea that I couldn't get good salty snacks drove me to try even more. That and Stephen T. Colbert's conspicuous consumption of Doritos on The Colbert Report as downloaded through iTunes. (Thank goodness I'm not a fan of Sierra Mist!)

My next foray was into the extra hot fake Pringles. Wretched.

African spice recipe. Seriously?? They're supposed to taste like dirt?

Sour cream and onion potato crisps. Like generic Ranch dressing served over Cheez-Its.

Texas BBQ chips. If Texas knew its name was being taken in vain like this, that dormant Republic would rise up and come over to settle the score.

I have identified, after nearly three months here, only three salty snacks that I find palatable. 1) Salsaria Pringles (which I can no longer find, so I assume I ate the entire stock). 2) Salt & Vinegar chips. And 3) Fuego brand salted tortilla chips (which even come in a bag larger than the Big Grab bags of chips in the US, which is generally the size of most bags of chips here -- and we wonder why Americans are fat....)

Yes, we're back to Fuego. That is, apparently, the Old El Paso of grocery stores (and I never liked their stale hard taco shells in the US, either). What I initially found intriguing and a bit alarming, though, was their web site -- www.mexican-food.de. Dot DE?? Seriously? Couldn't get the .com version? Because when I think dot DE, fine Mexican cuisine is not top of mind. But I gave them the benefit of the doubt. Um, yeah, try that web address out. No pictures of people enjoying fine faux Mexican cuisine. No recipes for making chili cheese dip in your microwave (I can't imagine they have Velveeta over here anyway). Not even mariachi music playing in the background. No, it was a lame placeholder for Theodor Kattus GmbH that brought my browser to a standstill (clearly it was as shocked by the failure to supply a visual fiesta as I was).

I gave Fuego one more try, though. A bottle of Fuego brand hot "salsa dip." Dip? Hmmm.... It's not so good. Like sweet and sour sauce with chunky tomatoes. Being a cheapskate, though, I did what anyone with a set-my-mouth-on-fire thrill seeker would do. I added real hot sauce. Normally I like Cholula sauce. Mexican. Hot, but not too hot. Perfect for scrambled eggs. Not available in Germany. But one of the things Dena brought over with her was some hot sauce recommended by her sister called Sriracha Chili Sauce from Huy Fong Foods. Yes, Asian. It is quite hot and with several seconds of healthy squeezing into the Fuego vat, created a rather palatable hot salsa. Latin-Asian-Euro fusion. Yum.

One of the things that put me over the edge with food tonight, though, was my pre-mixed salad. Like Barack Obama, I enjoy some arugula from Whole Foods from time to time. (Rumor has it that the Obamas are having an organic garden somewhere on the White House lawn that will be used to feed the family. True? Pretty cool, both from a green perspective as well as budget-conscious perspective, since they do after all have to pay for their food, as I understand it.) I don't know what the German word for arugula is, but the Rewe has some pretty good pre-mixed and washed salads. Great. I brought one home as I often do tonight and was a bit surprised to see a new additive to my salad. No, not spicyness. Not wilted lettuce. Not even insects. But corn kernels. Corn! What, a light harvest for lettuce so you needed some heavy filler? Or were they just feeling festive? So I give the fiesta award not to Fuego, but to Erlenhof brand mixed salads. They don't even have a website advertised on their bags. Probably because they're out starting a fiesta someplace.

24 March 2009 - Time out for attire

[While I'm certainly not in Paris, "I Love Paris in the Springtime" -- whether sung by Sinatra, Nat King Cole, or Ella Fitzgerald -- seems somewhat on point here. Or perhaps Fergie's, "Shopping for Labels, Shopping for Love," since spring seems as good a time as any to "shop" for love. In some other blog I will discuss my recent experience with match.de.... Or maybe just a simple Madonna, "Dress You Up In My Love." So many possibilities.]

Anyway, I have decided to declare that spring is finally here. I'm sorry, but it's been really rainy generally, there was a beautiful warm and sunny day on Saturday, which schizophrenic weather pretty much means we're in spring, right? So today I donned my somewhat obnoxious and really, really not "me" spring coat. It's a lavendar on lavendar floral (see why it's not me??) pattern that vaguely reminds me of the tapestry like material that Julie Andrews, as Fraulein Maria, fashioned into playclothes for the Von Trapp children in "The Sound of Music" -- but in a springtime color. Oh, and the buttons are matte finish lavendar flowers. I. Love. This. Coat.


When I put it on and reached into the pockets, I found a penny. Admittedly, an American penny, so not as valuable, but sooooo full of luck, right? AND it's a little bit of Abraham Lincoln over here, which seems appropriate in this, the 200th anniversary year of his birth. (Sidenote: Obviously, Lincoln is a huge icon in the US generally and, of course, Obama's frequent references to him and his cabinet, as covered in Doris Kearns Goodwin's "A Team of Rivals." If you are an attorney, it becomes an even bigger deal, with every legal magazine having pieces on Lincoln's impact on law and human rights, if not an entire series. If you are an attorney licensed in Illinois, hold onto your hats and your recycle bin because you will be positively overwhelmed by the mail you receive discussing upcoming celebrations. If you want to "get your Lincoln on," I'd recommend checking out the Illinois State Bar Association (http://www.isba.org/). You will be greeted by an image of Abe himself on the home page AND you can download a free calendar for the year with an image of the commemorative bust compliments of the bar association fees of me and others (http://www.isba.org/teachers/lincoln/calendar/).


I am a bit sad to see winter behind us as I found interesting the extent to which people here bundle up for what I consider relatively mild weather. It's all relative, I suppose. In particular, I find the use of scarves here fascinating. I have a scarf for my winter coat that is, admittedly, primarily decorative. It has a crepe layer of fabric connected in the center to a piece of silk fabric with a nice modern paisley pattern, creating a frilly yet functional for mild weather like this scarf. And it perfectly matches my coat. (A shout out to Rose at Mark Shale for making this ensemble, including a wicked pair of leather gloves with paisley pattern that looks like a henna tattoo, possible, because I never would've figured it out.)


That said, my choice of scarf stands out a bit over here because it is not crazy thick and knotted up around my neck creating a suffocating barrier between my neck and all that fresh air, the latter being the preferred type of scarf here. And I normally think of women as more likely to wear scarves because, well, we would use them as accessories, but that's not the case over here. The thicker the scarf, the more likely it's cravatting (yes, I know that's not a real word) its way around the neck of a guy. A guy may be too manly to wear gloves, but a scarf is an essential.


Another area in which my attire is a bit noncomformist is workout attire, particularly for running. On the weekends, I like to head up to the river and run along the paths on each side of the river. Great view of the beautiful museum buildings on the "Museum Shore," you can get in some mild hill-climbing by climbing stairs and crossing bridges, lots of people out and about, and of course the opportunity to see boats and barges on the river. Unless it's actually freezing, my typical attire is knee-length running tights, a long sleeved wicking shirt, and a lightweight nylon vest with a pocket in the back for the evil CrackBerry so I can pretend that I am running away from it. Prior to the experience with Mario, my hair would be pulled up in a pony tail. Compare this to the typical runner I would encounter on the trail -- full length tights, turtleneck shirt, long sleeved jacket (often a thick fleece), gloves, and a hat. I would die of heat exhaustion in that get-up before I even left the house. I am curious to see what summer running attire looks like here, though. I mean, if the guys are willing to wear Speedos at the beach, I imagine I am in for some sightings of tiny running shorts on the path. If spring's already here, shouldn't be long before I find out!

[Okay, so I drafted this posting last night and was planning on posting in when I got caught up on the posts from the past few weeks. However, I feel compelled to release it now because I may have been quite wrong about spring being here because it was snowing this morning. Hmmm.... So I'm back in the winter coat, but the lavendar one is at the ready in the car if things change later in the day!]

7 March 2009 - Hammer (drill) time (or, I Am Sparky's Sister)

[Obviously, MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This" with reference to "Hammer time" would be an appropriate track for reading this blog. Or perhaps, "Electric Avenue," though I can't recall who sings that.]

Most of you are probably aware that I have a thing for tools and gadgets (see also the blog regarding my tendency to name such inanimate objects like Bonnie). But I am positively a tool slouch when compared against Seth. Tim Allen's character in Home Improvement has nothing on him. When you put the two of us together, even in Germany, he becomes quite the enabler.

The Saturday of his visit here to Germany, we set out in the morning for a few tool and toy-related destinations. First destination was the Peugot motorcycle dealership. Seth obtained an old Peugot moped (yes, one of those combination bicycle/motorcycles that you probably haven't thought about in a while unless you're an incredibly green thinker with a long memory) that was missing a particular spring. His attempts to contact Peugot from the U.S. (which ended up being answered being answered by a delightful woman from France with an equally delightful name that eludes my shorter-than-moped memory), didn't result in contacts to purchase the spring, so he asked if I could see if they happened to have a store in Frankfurt. Well, indeed they do, so we thought we'd swing by.

The store sold both motorcycles and scooters and didn't really have anyone wandering around to tell us where the service department was. Seth noticed a sign and a spiral staircase going down into a basement level. Surely they didn't mean for customers to descend into the dungeon on a tiny spiral staircase that wouldn't seem to meet any sort of construction code, did they? Then I recalled we were in Europe where people are supposed to exercise common sense rather than suing at the drop of a hat -- or at a drop from a spiral staircase. So down we went and, sure enough, there was the parts counter, which looked like a parts counter anywhere in the world. There was a young guy at the counter, which I thought bode (is that right?) well for him speaking English. Um, not so much. Hmmm. I asked in my best German what I think was, "Do you have parts for old Peugot mopeds?" He responded that they only handled new models. I couldn't think of an appropriate follow-up question because, "Do you know anyone else who does?" is way beyond my nascent German skills, not to mention I might not understand his answer/directions to another vendor. So we were outta there.

Our next stop was the hardware store. Knowing how Seth likes gadgets and innovative construction materials and techniques generally (I take this opportunity to note he was the first in our family to be published -- I believe his work can be found in The Journal of Light Construction), I thought he might be interested in seeing a local hardware store. So I took him to Hornbach, which is the hardware store conveniently located next to IKEA and bears a striking resemblance to Home Depot, right down to a lot of orange stuff inside. He was as fascinated as I suspected he might be. He later admitted when I said I wanted to take him to the hardware store that he was wondering why I thought that would be interesting since he (rightfully so, I think) assumed that most stores here would be smaller than the big box stores we favor in the US. He figured it would be a five minute walk through a small store, but later said he could've spent hours in Hornbach. Good times.

While there, we looked at some of the lighting and he suggested that I buy some temporary fixtures and he would help me install them before he left so that I would at least have some lighting. While I didn't relish the idea of him working while he was on vacation, it was an offer too good to refuse. So we bought some fixtures and some other electrical supplies. The electrical techniques here are a bit different than in the US. For example, for ceiling fixtures, the romex wire is basically run in the concrete and a wire is hanging out with a temporary cap. So forget about trying to install a fixture where there isn't already a wire. And if there's not much wire to work with, you just have to add more yourself. And, oh yeah, there's no box like I'm used to where you can just hang the fixture from the box. No, if you want to hang a fixture, you have to drill a hole into the concrete ceiling. Which brings us to (go ahead and clap your hands in glee, here) the need for a new tool!! Specificall, a hammer drill.

Now, I had a great cordless drill in the US (which somehow didn't make its way over here and is either being enjoyed by my movers or is in my storage room), but I had never had the need to purchase a hammer drill (not that real need is required for a Preuscher to buy a tool, but I speak only for myself in that regard, lest I get Seth in trouble!). There was a very knowledgeable sales guy at Hornbach who introduced us to available options and encouraged the purchase of the Bosch, but which was over twice the price of the Pattfield E-BH 750. The sales guy seemed a bit horrified and practically whispered, "But do you realize it is made in China?" Of course, I wanted to buy fine a German engineered and manufactured product, but given the number of times I will need to use the Pattfield, I suspect it will survive the four years of my stay here.

So I now have lighting in the kitchen, master bath, study, hallway, and even the storage closet. The overhead fixture locations in the living room are in really strange places, so I'm not sure what I'll do in there, but lamps and the light that streams in from the hallway are fine for now. I don't think I mentioned it before, but I attempted to install a temporary fixture over the sink in the master bath (you know, since it's kind of difficult to apply makeup in the light of a floor lamp). When I turned on the switch, though, it just flickered, creating one of those seizure-inducing effects. So I was still using the floor lamp when Seth and Dena arrived. Well, it turns out that I actually installed the fixture correctly. However, that fixtures is (somewhat inexplicably) tied to a dimmer switch, and dimmers don't work with fluorescent fixtures. Who knew? I am Sparky's sister after all.... Have hammer drill, will light your world.

6 March 2009 - Hello Kitty

[To the best of my knowledge, there isn't a Hello Kitty (yes, from our friends at Sanrio) movie. If there were, the theme song to that movie might make a good soundtrack for this blog. But now that I think of it, I don't recall any animation of the figures, so perhaps we don't know what sounds they make so it's a bit more difficult to adapt their tragic stories (do they even have stories or are they just really pink and irresistible to little girls?) to the silver screen. Who can say....]


So the cats have finally joined me here. That is, perhaps, the understatement of the year when you realize what it takes to get felines from the US to Germany. Initially, I was going to make this a joint blog with my sister-in-law, Dena (yes, she has given permission to use her name), as she is more of an expert in these matters. But that would've required me to remain current on the blog which clearly I have not succeeded at of late. So I will sketch the outline and invite her to comment or submit a clarifying/correcting entry because I'm sure I will forget some of the details. Some of you have heard pieces of this saga along the way, so bear with me.

In a nutshell, cats with up-to-date vaccinations in the United States that have a Euro chip implanted in their bodies (accomplished through a shot between the shoulders from a really large-for-a-cat needle) are allowed into Germany without going through a quarantine period so long as you get a veterinarian to examine them and certify to their health within 10 days of their travel. Swell! Well, as those of you who ever tried to take an exam based on a reading of Cliff Notes, the nutshell version often omits some important pieces of information. (For the record, I have never read a Cliff Notes version, but I will admit to having purchased some Nutshell books in law school and, um, I'm still waiting for my invitation to join the Order of the Coif.)

Now, I realized that since I would be living in temporary housing for at least a month over here, I couldn't bring the cats (aka the Lads, aka 'Banes and Oxley -- yes, it's as pathetic as it sounds) over here when I came. While there are dogs everywhere over here (not just restaurants and outdoors, but also in airports, on the subways, in the grocery store, and even in department stores), cats don't seem particularly welcome in public or, perhaps I should say, reasonable accommodation has not been made for them. I still wonder whether, if I could get them to wear leashes or maybe don a sled team harness, they could, because of their corpulent size, friendly demeanor, and penchant for licking people, pass as dogs. Perhaps that's something to try once they get used to their Liederhosen. (I'm kidding. Truly. But don't you feel kinda bad for all the kittens I had on the farm as a child?)

So I looked into pet relocation programs. Yes, they exist. Do a search sometime for pet relocation or pet moving and you will be amazed. Contact them and ask for pricing and you may need to reach for the defibrillation paddles. (After my initial inquiry, I keep my pair close at hand, which helped with the kitchen pricing.) To pick up the Lads from wherever they were, transport them to the airport, load them into cargo, pick them up on the other end, walk them through cat control, and deliver them to me in Frankfurt was $1,600. EACH. PLUS I was still responsible for taking the cats to the vet for the animal health certificate, having the Euro chip implanted, and boarding them until I was ready for the shipment. I then went online and found a place that basically laid out (for $6) the process for shipping the cats and the paperwork required. Hmmm.... And a round-trip coach ticket from ORD to FRA was only $1,000. Hmmm.... All I needed was something akin to a cat mule.... Figuratively speaking.

So Dena agreed to take care of the cats until I was settled, would do the health check with veterinarian that was required 10 days before their departure, and then I would just buy her and the Lads a ticket to come over. I ordered a supply of food for them, some herbal anti-anxiety pills for the trip, and the right size cages and dropped them off at their new temporary home in the burbs a few days before I departed for Germany. Simple, right? (You know what's coming, right? Say it with me...) "Not so much."

For starters, while the Lads seemed calm when I dropped them off, they went nuts later. These are VERY friendly animals, but when they were allowed into the main part of the house, they (particularly Oxley) started attacking the official cat of the house, Sigma (who would be so cruel to name a cat after the summation icon in Excel?), and he even attacked his buddy Banes. There was, I believe, the feline equivalent of weeping and gnashing of teeth. They eventually settled in, but I felt bad not only for the cats but also their hosts! In the end, though, they undoubtedly got much more attention there than they get with me as they would keep Seth company when he was working in his office and my niece also spent a lot of time with them.

The good news is that airfare prices came down, so I was able to get tickets for both Seth and Dena to come over for less than $1,000. Deal! So I booked their flights and, a few days later, called American Airlines to book the cats on the same flight since there are limitations on how many animals are allowed in the cabin. On this call I learned that no animals are allowed in the cabin on transatlantic flights (which I guess makes sense, given the length of the flight and the need of the animal to eat and, um, do their business during the flight, which wouldn't be conducive to an under-the-seat cabin configuration). Instead, they would be in a temperature and pressure-controlled environment in cargo. Hmmm.... Reservations could not be made for the cats, they would just be checked in as excess baggage on the day of the flight. And oh yeah, if it was forecast to be colder than 45 degrees Fahrenheit or warmer than 85 degrees at any point on the itinerary on the day of travel, the cats would be denied "boarding." Uhhh.... Average high temperature for 5 March in Chicago? Fahrenheit 42. Ruh roh. I checked the fine print on the web site, though, and found an exception (maybe those Nutshell books DID make me into a quasi-lawyer!). If the veterinarian issuing the international health certificate specifically authorized travel in colder or warmer weather, the cats could fly when it was as cold as Fahrenheit 20. Hmmm.... After all this hassle, I certainly didn't want them freezing on the tarmac, but this might allow them to at least travel when the weather was colder than 45 but still above freezing. And I was feeling lucky as I crossed my fingers for a manifestation of global warming on 5 March.

As the departure date grew nigh, I finally started reaching out via email to some of what appeared to be the main veterinary clinics to find a place where Dena could take the Lads for their pre-departure check-up. The pre-departure check-up results in the issuance of an international animal health certificate, which only certain veterinarians can issue. My vet in the city, City Cat Doctor, was able to issue them, so I figured it wouldn't be that big of a deal to find someone in the suburbs. I was wrong. Fortunately, Dena volunteered to assist in the search, called some local places, and was able to get them in. Of course, if the weather didn't cooperate, we would have to get another certificate before their next travel attempt.

So they had their appointment a few days before the scheduled departure date. During which appointment, if I recall correctly, the vet broke it to Dena that we also needed to have some sort of approval/certificate from the US Department of Agriculture. Uhhh.... Their office for Illinois was in Springfield. Uhhh, there was no way that would work to get the paperwork down there, stamped, and back in time for the departure. And you know how quickly the government generally works anyway. Fortunately, though, they had established a satellite office in Des Plaines near O'Hare. So Dena had to make an appointment and drive all the way in there to get this darn paperwork. Where she was told that in addition to the information on the rabies vaccinations of the cats, they also needed the certificate the vet issues when the vaccination is performed. So she called up my vet, which was able to fax over the form, which met the US requirements. But as she was leaving, the person there said something to the effect of, "Good luck getting them into Germany. They normally want original documents." Sweet. I, of course, had the original documents with me here in Germany.

So the day came. The weather cooperated. Dena packed the Lads up in their crates with the requisite absorbant pads, tiny litter boxes, food and water bowls, a package of food taped on top, a bunch of documentation, and a lot of crossed fingers. The vet has also prescribed a "little something" to make the trip less traumatic on them. I didn't receive a call or text message from them before they met, so I continued crossing my fingers. I went to the airport with documentation at hand and the cell phone in hand in case the pet health/immigration people needed to talk to me. I also had a colleague at work standing by to be conferenced in in case there was a language issue.

I heard them before I saw them in the arrivals terminal. I'd recognize those yowls pretty much anywhere. They were both very much alive and very much cranked at being in the cages. Seth said that when they first picked up the the Lads in baggage claim, they were very quiet, just sitting there and chilling. But as soon as they got any sort of attention they went into their attention-seeking, "the end of the world is nigh" yowling, and pawing at their crate doors.

The crates do not, unfortunately, fit into the car (at least not if we wanted Seth and Dena to also fit in the car with me), so in the parking garage we had to get them out of their crates and put them in the smaller carriers I had brought along. I was certain that they would try and bolt at the opportunity to be free and we'd never see them again, but somehow they consented to being recrated in the cozier carriers and were quiet on the drive home.

As soon as they saw food, they settled in quickly enough. Within a few days my mild cat allergies had blossomed, paw prints were appearing where they shouldn't be, my bed was no longer my own, and the plants had been attacked and regurgitated on the carpet. But the place did have better positive energy and feng shui, so I'll try to focus on that.

And I'm pretty sure that's the longest blog I've ever done....

4 March 2009 -- Conservative death by a thousand haircuts

[I'm going to have to go with the Super Mario Brothers theme for today's post, though I have no idea what it's called. But you probably already have it stuck in your mind if you know what I'm talking about. Or, if you prefer, think of your favorite performance of Puccini's opera, "Tosca" when Tosca realizes Cavaradossi is truly dead and cries out, "Mario, Mario" before plunging to her death -- but I guess that's kind of a downer way to begin a blog, so maybe not so much.]

So, first of all, apologies for the delay in posting. There's just been so much going on it has been hard to keep on top of everything. So a quick catch-up entry from two weeks ago (hence the backdating in the title).

Hair is a tricky thing. I think I've spent most of my life just trying to cope with the myriad cowlicks (yeah, it's a real word, not necessarily related to my rural childhood) on my head and just trying to minimize the number of bad hair days, rather than thinking it possible to have a great hair day. It's not exactly a priority of mine.


(I feel compelled, though, to share some anecdotes from my childhood here. I generally had short hair growing up until around high school when my brothers' incessant chiding that you "can't trust a woman with short hair" and other niceties finally got to me and I grew it out. I HATED it long. This was also the late 80s when perms were popular so I looked like I had a curly pyramid -- like a hair topiary or something -- on my head. Marge Simpson's hair style had little on me except the handsome blue color. Anyway, I finally couldn't stand it a day longer and got it chopped off to something more manageable. After which my brothers said it was about time I cut it because the long hair looked really bad on me. Oh, teenagers can be so cruel.... Twice since then I have grown it out again. This last time was perhaps the best, but I'm still not saying it looked good. And it took forever to grow out all the layers, etc.)



So forward to me showing up in Germany with a mop growing mangier by the day as the end of my second month here approached. There are some kind of nutty haircuts here, so I was a bit concerned about the idea of going into a salon and having a stylist start whacking away and be unable to communicate in German to tell her to stop. And I was particularly concerned as it relates to color as there are women here with true red hair or blue hair and I couldn't see that working at the office. Fortunately for me, my Chicago hairdresser came through. She gave me the recipe for the color for my highlights and lowlights before I left, which are for Wella products that are, after all, German. All good. AND she apparently reached out to some of her colleagues around the world and e-mailed me the names of two hairdressers in Frankfurt recommended by what appears to be a friend of a friend. His first name is Mario so, to protect the innocent, we'll call his establishment Salon Mario.



With the assistance of one of my colleagues at the office, I was able to schedule an appointment and asked for a stylist who spoke English. The woman said that would not be a problem at all. So at the appointed time, I wandered over to Salon Mario, which is about a 10 minute walk from my apartment in a nice little townhouse kind of building. When I walked in there was a guy standing behind the counter and I started to say, in my best German, that I had an appointment and my name was Priser before he cut me off, started speaking in rapid German, and apparently confirmed that I indeed had an appointment before taking my coat and ushering me into the next room. I took a seat in a chair at a station that was outfitted with various German-version-of-People-Magazine publications, all of which had one or both Obamas on the front cover. I felt at home already.... And then I was offered some coffee, cappuccino, espresso, where my German was "busted" when I said "Yeah, that'd be great," without thinking. Doh!

There were three people working there (the guy who initially greeted me left shortly thereafter) -- Mario himself, a young woman who appears to wash people's hair and assist with the coloring process, and another very young woman who just, um, stands there quietly. Not sure what she does, though she might have been the one who brought me coffee. In any event, an interesting staffing model. There were several styling stations (I don't know what the official salon name for them would be), though since I was the last appointment slot of the day only two were in use. I'm not certain whether the place is normally humming with activity and there are several stylists working there, but I was nevertheless honored to have Mario himself attend to my styling needs.

Mario is, of course, a wickedly good looking and stylish guy. More importantly, though, he speaks English and likes to laugh. He seemed fascinated and delighted that I had been referred to him through contacts in the US. I told him that Salon Mario had truly gone global, versus just globally available information on his website. He took a look at my hair and said that, based on our conversation, he thought my style was too conservative for my personality. Huh? That my hair didn't look like that of a person who likes to laugh and have a good time. I reminded him that I am a nerdy accountant/lawyer and our clients expect a certain degree of conservative behavior and appearance. He showed me a style in a book that I thought was nice and I thought we were on the same wavelength as he set to work.

That is, set to work destroying all the growing-out-of layers that had been going on for years. Creatings bangs that also had been carefully grown out. And, um, seeming to tease my cowlicks into a degree of unruliness I hadn't imagined possible. But I figured that after he finished drying the hair he would continue to clean things up. Um, no, not so much. This was the intended look. He described it as "natural" but I see it more as a perpetual bedhead look, tending towards the organic. I asked how to, um, recreate this carefully controlled chaos, and he said just dry it without a brush, smear some product in my palms and crunch it onto the ends of the hair (which product he actually gave to me since I had apparently delighted him by the "going global" thing and perhaps because I had let him destroy my conservative 'do), and I'd be ready. Uhhh, not so much. It's hard for an accountant to deliberately create and maintain chaos. I'm trying, though.