Why I Did It!

Not to be confused with O.J.’s book “If I Did It”.  I did it, and after fifty years.  My story is forty years when I talk to my friends because there was once I did it when my first child was born.  It was not a good experience. At the time I vowed, never again.  I don’t want to fudge the truth.   Forty years.

This blog is about food and wine.  Two things I love dearly.  This event actually started with food and wine and digressed and then grew a bit.  It is a story worth telling because it is germane to my age and to your age group if you are a Baby Boomer.  If you aren’t, just wait a few years and you will be.  Oh, you won’t be called the same thing yet you will be encountering the same things.

We are all affected by the aging process.  The beauties airbrushed on the cover of the recent mags at the grocery store might be air brushed, yet they still look incredible.  I get some relief out of “real life” photos in the mag next to the beauties, nevertheless, I know they look better than I do.  My excuse, they can afford a ‘round the clock nutritionist, weight consultant, life coach, wardrobe consultant, nanny’s, granny’s and exercise gurus for their fanny’s.

Relentlessly, I searched the internet for best looks after 60.  More than once I ran into the consummate actress Helen Mirren in a two piece bathing suit looking absolutely outstanding.  I kept looking.

My hair looks the same since it was called junior high.  Long, varying shades of bleach blond over the years, and straight.  On special occasions I would curl, but only once or twice a year.  It was a signature that I, or anyone in my family, never thought would change.  Locks of my dear friend, never changing, always there and not failing me.

The tide and the wind were shifting.  Sixty is a powerful number.  My Mother’s 60 is not my 60, yet, striking similarities exist.  More in the knowledge that you are over half way done.  Good or bad, right or wrong, good genes or bad, half way.  Sobering.

Which reminds me of food and drink.  The night the deed was done, I was sober.  Sober, gung ho and not afraid to go all the way.

Geneva, Switzerland.

An evening began at home with the introduction to raclette.  I had read about the Swiss named cheese and dish literally meaning “to scrape”, born in the Alps region of Valais and adored by skiers and non-skiers alike.  A machine was holding center court of the dining room table, the raclette grill, and was primed warm and surrounded by petite potatoes, gherkins, sliced raw bacon attractively placed on a platter and pickled onion.  A dry white local wine was amply poured along with the instructions for cooking.

Mentioned in Swiss-German medieval writings found in convents dating as far back as 1291, the result is described as a particularly nutritious meal consumed by peasants in mountainous Savoy region.  Herders used to take the cheese with them while working their cows.  The cheese, melting on the fire would be scraped on top of bread for an unctuous and tasty dinner.

Current practices not allowing campfires within city limits have given forth new options for old treats!

We were given a brief cooking lesson about the individual baking trays called coupelles and left to create our own style. As the individual tray grills at the table, lively discussions about politics, work and academic futures of the younger host, held court. The meal was relaxed, informal and long lasting.   All the attributes of a perfect evening, a European evening.

She is a hair stylist and doesn’t speak a word of English.  She didn’t have to, woman to woman, I knew what she was thinking.  After dinner I went straight to the kitchen with her bilingual son in tow.  “OK”, I asked the young man, “I want to know what she is thinking about my hair.”  Proving to be a wonderful translator during dinner, I said, “the truth too!”  She turned on a dime and shook her head side to side deliberately.  “She says,” the son translating the non-verbal answer, “it needs to be short.”

I asked if she had time in her salon the next day.  Then I said, or now.   She said, “I will see if I have my scissors. I usually don’t bring them home so I must look.”

With a view of the cold, clear evening sky, the arena was set.  A single chair holding court with a parted and draped client center stage.  Audience behind with short comments, “are you SURE this is what you want?” or “maybe this should be done in stages instead of all at once.”  My husband already dreading the next morning.  I was channeling a great quote from Marilyn Monroe, “Ever notice how ‘what the hell’ is the right answer?”

Cameras clicking.

I was not deterred.  Snip on!  Rock on!  Empower the 60 + year old!  Shouldn’t get too carried away, it was only a haircut.

Or was it?

Special thanks go to Torsten for the first cut supervised by the extraordinary scissor-wonder Graziella and to their brilliant  son, Mattias.  He is not only an excellent interpreter of verbal and non-verbal gesticulation, he actually seemed to enjoy himself with this supercharged 60 + year old with short hair. 

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