DISCUSS: Let your hair go gray or dye it? Certainly the advantages of the former leave you with a lot more time and money. And role models include singer Emmylou Harris and actress Ellen Burstyn, who both look terrific with their white locks. But for most of us, white or gray hair leaves us looking washed out. Women of color or those with olive complexions can carry off steel gray or white the best; if you have pink or yellow tones in your skin, it usually doesn’t work, according to Jeremy Buchanan, co-owner of SalonOne80 on 13th and K streets in downtown D.C. Because coloring our hair remains one of those maintenance musts, we spoke to Buchanan to dispel some myths about the process and for advice on how to get the best results.
MyLittleBird: Most hair colorists will tell you that women as they age should lighten up their hair color. What’s your take?
Buchanan: People hold on to adages like that, but it isn’t necessarily true. Hair color formulations used to be very matte and didn’t reflect much light, so dark hair dye was aging. That has changed, so chances are that if you liked yourself as a brunette, the modern formulations of dark shades will still flatter you. Some people choose to go lighter because there’s less maintenance involved. Gray shows through dark strands more quickly and evidently than through blonde hair.
MyLittleBird: Does hair change with age? How so?
Buchanan: As you age, the number of cuticle layers in your hair builds up, making your locks coarser and more difficult to condition. On the other hand, there are benefits: A good blow dry, which flattens the cuticle and also makes your hair look shiny, will last longer. Furthermore, you don’t have to wash your hair as often because coarser hair doesn’t get as oily.
MyLittleBird: We pay a lot to color our hair, but it fades so quickly. Is there a way to prevent that?
Buchanan: Wash it less frequently. Even the most gentle shampoos cause wear and tear on your hair. And just because you work out every day doesn’t mean you have to wash your hair daily. Rinse it to get out the salt and surface smells and then use conditioner.
MyLittleBird:. What’s the latest thinking in hair color?
Buchanan: We’re using techniques that mimic the way hair looks in nature. Consider the head of a 7-year-old child. The ends are lighter than the roots, and color is lightest around the face. This is the effect we’re aiming to accomplish. It’s not a choice between light and dark; color should be dimensional. I have seven different types of hair color to choose from and more than 400 shades. With new chemicals that have less concentration of ammonia and peroxide and more ingredients such as ceramides (which retain moisture in the hair and give hair shine), we’re able to manage the results. Instead of unnatural striations, we can get hair that “blooms” with color.
MyLittleBird: Any other tips?
Buchanan: Color takes darker around the face because it interacts with salt from sweat, which is most concentrated around the face. To prevent that from happening, remember, when you wash your face, pay attention to the area around your hairline.
Instead of a Saturday night date, one couple takes in an exhibit at American University’s Katzen Arts Center, watches the ducks at Hains Point, shops at Union Market and enjoys an early dinner at the red-hot Red Hen. / Couple dining, duck photos iStock
ONE SUNNY SATURDAY morning in March we awoke to birds chirping. The snows were melting, the taxes were filed, elder care was arranged and the college kid was fine. On our agenda was a day date. My husband and I refolded the newspaper and set off on a D.C. adventure.
Stop one: sustenance. We parked on Connecticut Avenue and sauntered into the new Little Red Fox shop (5035 Connecticut Avenue NW, Washington, D.C. ; 202-248-6346) Located on Connecticut Avenue near the corner of Nebraska, it serves an assortment of delightful pastries and made-to-order breakfast sandwiches. After garnering a high stool seat and a corner of the communal table, we sipped our coffee and munched on treats.
From here we plotted our course. We wanted to see some art, but we also wanted to spend some time outside because we were sorely missing the sun. We wanted to see a neighborhood of the city we haven’t explored much before. And, most importantly, we wanted to have dinner at a place where we could hear each other across the table, a tall order for a Saturday night without reservations.
We headed toward American University along Nebraska Avenue to American University’s Katzen Arts Center. The most recent exhibition and the inspiration for our visit was a survey of Washington, D.C., artists from the 1940s to the 1980s. From the densely hung show, one senses the number of talented people creating in Washington over the past 40 years. There is a wide array of styles and materials, but the exhibit hangs together as an explosion of intensity and creativity. The Katzen Center building itself is reason enough to visit, with its soaring ceilings, curved walls, elevated bridges and lovely filtered light. Three floors each house separate exhibits.
We decided our next stop should be outside to take advantage of the sun and surprising warmth.
The terminal point of the peninsula known as East Potomac Park is Hains Point. It lies bounded by the Potomac River to the west and the Washington Channel to the east. At Hains Point you can see the confluence of the Anacostia River, the Potomac River and the Channel. The 300-acre park is the home of a public golf course, a miniature golf course, tennis courts and swimming pool. We took a walk along the Potomac River, little disturbed by cyclists and runners. The walkways along the river are uneven and downright broken in some areas. Because Hains Point lies at water level, the walkways regularly flood. Part of the challenge of our walk was avoiding the flooded bits and the broken sidewalks. But along the three-mile path, the views are lovely and the river current ever interesting. We walked, talked and enjoyed the sunshine. We communed with the plentiful geese and ducks. There are many places to stop along the way for a little quiet reflection; we chose a picnic table close to the point. There were joggers and inline skaters behind us on the road, but between our perch at the picnic table and the river there was only the walkway and the breeze and the constant lapping of the gentle waves against the seawall.
We continued our walk around the point and began the return trip. The views on the eastern side are of the National War College, the charming Fort McNair housing, the soaring roof of Arena Stage and the Marina. We returned to our car skirting the miniature golf course, which is on the National Register for Historic Places and listed as the oldest continuing operating miniature golf course in the country. Although it was closed that day, we promised ourselves we’d return after Memorial Day.
By now we were beginning to feel a little hungry but it is was our goal to save our appetites for an early dinner. We decided to visit Union Market in the NoMa/Galludet neighborhood to stock up on supplies for dinner tomorrow. Union Terminal Market was built in the 1960s as an enclosed farmer’s market, a response to city laws that prevented the open-air selling of foods. Between 1967 and 2010 the building and area had fallen on hard times. The area had been a wholesale warehousing region until the Eden Group envisioned the market as the centerpiece of a residential revitalization plan. We explored the neighborhood marveling at how quickly new apartment buildings were being erected and older structures torn down. On our Saturday visit, the parking lot was filled to capacity. Outside seating was filled with people basking in the sunshine. Children were playing in the green spaces and there was a general sense of fun.
Union Market has emerged as a glorious remake of the earlier stall concept of markets. Today, it’s a combination social center, artisanal foodie heaven and dining destination. When we visit, we have a ritual plan of attack — we go down one aisle, up the middle aisle and finish off down the last aisle. We never miss a single stall. Each time we go there are new purveyors and many new patrons. On weekends there is often live music.
We surveyed the cheeses at Righteous Cheese, the herbs and grains at Bazaar Spices, the wines at Cordial, the meats at Red Apron and Harvey’s, olive oil at All Things Olive, and bread at Lyon Bakery. The new fish purveyor, The District Fish Wife delighted us with the freshness of the delicacies displayed. We shopped at Salt and Sundry for interesting bar mixes and salts. We were tempted by every food stall; cupcakes, artisanal ice cream, soups, Takorea (Korean tacos), Toki Underground ramen, breads, empanadas, pastries, coffees and teas. With our shopping bag groaning we agreed that after we had stowed our goodies in the car we would treat ourselves to a tasty appetizer. It was difficult to decide between a chocolate egg cream at Buffalo & Bergen and oysters at Rappahanock Oyster Co. We chose the oysters for today and took a seat in front of a young man rapidly shucking oysters. We chose from the menu of locally sourced oysters and order a beer. The oysters came cleanly shucked, salty, pungent, and icy.
By now it was 5:30 and our oyster appetizer had prepared us for our dining adventure. We had read about Red Hen and had been curious about trying the food. It is challenging to get reservations there but we knew if we arrived early we would most likely get a table. So at 5:45 we sheepishly arrived at the restaurant to find that although there were tables available we were by no means the first to be seated. The open kitchen is the entertainment for a good third of the diners. The ceilings are high with rustic beams and little to no sound-proofing. Part of our early arrival scheme was to avoid a noisy dining venue. In general, the large rooms designed to promote the excitement of a gathering place prove challenging to conversation for those of us who happen not to hear very well anymore. Our server was charming, well-informed and patient. We ordered and then sat back. The food was delicious, Tuscan inspired, beautifully presented and ample. We loved how it reminded us of our visits to Italy. We had a meaningful conversation and all was well in our world. Quite some time later we looked up from our haven and noticed the restaurant was completely packed. Hungry customers eyed our little corner table enviously, and we were snapped back to the here and now. The noise level had risen and it was time for us to return to our Northwest corner of the city.
Day Date was over, but we know there will be others, and soon.
WHEN FILLERS no longer do the job filling in deep crevices and returning your face to a youthful-looking, rounded appearance, you may be ready to leap to a longer-term solution. But which one?
In researching My Little Bird’s series on plastic surgery, we’ve consulted some of the area’s top doctors for the lowdown on the types of surgery available, which one works for what problem and how much money each will set you back.
Beginning at the top of the face, we spoke with Dr. Craig Dufresne, a board-certified plastic surgeon who has offices in Chevy Chase, Md., and Fairfax, Va. During the aging process, he explained, brows that begin positioned above the top orbital rim gradually descend. He talked about four different brow-lift procedures that can undo that process.
The coronal lift is the most traditional and extensive; incisions go across the scalp from ear to ear. You work your way down to the edge of the forehead skull into what are called orbits and essentially peel down the scalp and take out some of the muscles responsible for frowning and squinting, and, depending on how extensive you want to be, you can control ultimate facial movement. Recovery takes a couple of weeks. Because of proximity to the eyes, expect swelling, black eyes and bruising. Although this procedure can be performed under sedation, a light general anesthetic works best for most people.
Who’s it for: For someone with deep furrows and brows that come down below the rim, the bony part of the forehead.
Pros and cons: The brow gets lifted up completely; it’s a dramatic improvement and a long-time fix. Because it cuts across several sensory nerves in the forehead, it can result in long-lasting or permanent numbness in the area.
Cost: It’s the most extensive and most expensive, $5,000-$10,000.
For the less-invasive endoscopic lift, two to three incisions between 11/2 and 2 inches long are placed behind the hairline, where scars will be hidden. A fiber-optic instrument is connected to a camera and hooked up to a video monitor to provide a clear view of the muscles. This lift is similar to the coronal because you’re working on muscles that cause frowning, furrowing and wrinkling of the forehead, but small instruments allow you to make small incisions for taking out, tightening or loosening and redrawing the skin. To hold the position of the forehead while healing, there’s an option to use dissolving surgical screws and thread, which disappear over a period of weeks. The procedure may be done under sedation or general anesthesia. Like the coronal, the results are long-lasting.
Who’s it for: Patients with average brow wrinkling and sagging, referred to as brow ptosis.
Pros and cons: Advantages are limited incisions and fewer sensory changes because you can avoid nerves more effectively. There is less numbness and a faster recovery time, and it’s a long-lasting procedure. If skin is pulled too tight along the incision, however, you can strangle the hair follicles and cause an area of baldness.
Cost: $4,000-$6,000. It’s a shorter, less-invasive operation than the coronal lift, cutting down on hospital and anesthesia fees.
For a crescent lift, a half-moon incision is made just above the eyebrow to remove a slight amount of sagging. An advantage of the procedure is that for patients with asymmetrical brows, you can take a bigger slice from one side than the other or perform the procedure on only one side.
Who’s it for: Patients with a limited amount of wrinkling.
Pros and cons: Avoids any sensory problems. The scar follows the shape of the eyebrow. You can use eye makeup to hide it.
Cost: $1,000-$2,000
A thread lift is usually combined with an upper eyelid lift, so once the latter is finished, you can pull up the outside corners of the eyebrow with thread.
Who’s it for: Women who want to get back the appearance of a sweeping eyebrow curve.
Pros and cons: It’s possible to overdo any surgery; the art is not to overcorrect.
Cost: This is usually included in the cost of surgery for an upper eye lift, which runs between $3,000 and $5,000.
I WAS EXCITED TO SEE the first signs of spring last weekend. Literally, the signs: “Estate Sale,” “Yard Sale.” DC’s season of secondhand selling gears up in March (and fades in the summer before rallying come fall). There are fabulous finds to be had—but also acres of blankets piled with “#1 Grandpa” mugs and Rec League T-shirts. How to get the good stuff? I’ve spent 20 years outfitting my house, my spouse, my kids and myself with cast-offs, devoting no more than a couple of hours every few Saturdays during the high season. A few pointers:
Who, what, where, when Find ads in local papers’ classifieds, of course, but neighborhood listservs and Craigslist are also key. Check on Friday nights, going back a few days’ worth. Don’t ignore the odd sign on a telephone pole, either—some sellers still go low-tech, and you’ll have less competition as a buyer.
Location In general, don’t bother traveling far. The odds of a major score at a given sale are slim enough that it’s questionable to go more than one or two towns/neighborhoods away. That said, rich people ditch nicer stuff, and can be—can be—quite casual about its worth. Tools, toys, pots, pans: Any sale anywhere may suit. But if you’re looking to snag luxury—high-end antiques, pristine designer clothes, Waterford crystal—an affluent area (or just one swanky house) is worth the trip. (The Village of Chevy Chase is my local favorite.)
Type Sales that sound the most promising can offer surprisingly slim pickings. “Multi-family” or “neighborhood-wide” are worth checking because of geographical concentration, but be prepared to skim and move on quickly. Some participants just put out whatever flotsam is handy—leaky umbrellas, coffee makers missing parts—while a family holding its own garage or, even better, moving sale is seriously invested in divesting. Estate sales are good for furniture, rugs, sets of dishes, but have disadvantages: Pricing is done by pros, so good deals, but few steals; mostly useless relics (cordial glasses, demitasse cups, ashtrays, tchotchkes) galore; here and there a retro treasure, but usually apparel is fussy, fusty and depressing.
Timing Professional buyers sweep through first thing. If you’re on a serious safari, get there early and try flouting the NO EARLY BIRDS warnings—no matter what they say, sellers often relent. But I like my sleep Saturday mornings, and if you’re just browsing, there’s usually plenty of good stuff left a couple of hours in. Go toward the end and you may still find a perfect this or that, plus a seller motivated to negotiate (more on which, below).
Be open to anything I may have a wish list (electric kettle, standing lamp), but I’ll always scoop up new printer paper, emery boards, water bottles, hoodies—things we routinely use or lose—for one-tenth of retail. Mostly, I’m merely looking for what pleases me and costs a song. Some all-time favorites—a prairie-ish quilt for $10, saddle-leather portfolio for $2, herb-decorated mortar and pestle for $1, handsome dining chairs, $40 for a set—I almost didn’t buy because I didn’t need them. But I could use them, and they make me happy every time I do.
But not everything…Cole Haans for $5! Faïence jug, $1! New printer, $10! Can’t use them, don’t have room to store them, would be paying for…clutter, but sometimes I can resist only by generously thinking “Now, now, let’s leave some deals for others.”
Bargaining People want their possessions to go to someone who appreciates them. Don’t talk an item down, talk it up. “Oh, it’s beautiful. I love it! From Cambodia? How interesting! [tentatively] Would you be willing to take $5 for it? No, of course, I’m sure it is worth more. [apologetically] I feel like I can pay only $5 for it [barelyglancing at the $5 you’re holding visibly in hand], but I understand, if you think you can get $10 for it later….” Unless there’s a huge flaw, don’t argue value. Ask the price, decide how much it’s worth to you, and you’ll have no regrets about (pleasantly) putting it back—at which point the seller may cave anyway. Almost always, buying bulk = discount; adding a few low-cost items to a big buy can get you an illogically large discount overall.
Don’t be stupid Some sellers way overvalue their used crud, or are unable to let go of their original cost ($45 for fleece?! Lady, it’s a yard sale!). But don’t surrender to tunnel vision. When tops sell for $2, $20 feels outrageous. But if it’s a brand-new shirt from a designer you love, try thinking, “If I saw this in Saks Fifth Avenue marked down to $20, would I buy it?”
Hazards Lice, bed bugs, cockroaches—just saying. I’ve never bought anything infected (I think). But if it’s washable, wash it right away. And for the unwashable, furniture and such? Maybe someday all the money I’ve saved will have to go to an exterminator.
‘CAN I BUY A PASS to swim?” I asked the sleepy young man working the front desk at our local pool one morning last winter. He paused for a second, and I blurted out that I hadn’t swum seriously in decades and in honor of my upcoming 50th birthday, I planned to reclaim my former national ranking in the 50 freestyle. I refrained from adding that he was bearing witness to the launch of a midlife comeback nonpareil.
“I’ll give you one freebie,” he said, and I thanked him and promised that I would buy a monthly pass after my swim. I looked through the glass window at the pool and spotted several young swimmers I recognized from my kids’ meets. I wanted to brag to the young desk clerk that my ancient times were faster than these swimmers’, but then I’d have to reveal that I’d been checking out the heat sheets at my children’s competitions.
After the pool cleared, I put on my cap and goggles and jumped in the water, expecting my body to remember my freestyle, as it had during the few times I’d swum over the years. I’d lap the lap swimmers.
The water was too warm. My toes hit the bottom of the pool, and I pushed off from the tiles and started to swim. My arms and legs felt like concrete bricks, and my trunk sagged. When I took my first stroke of freestyle, a searing pain tore through my left shoulder. I could not lift my arm out of the water. I swam breaststroke for a few hundred yards, but I was paddling through milk.
I left the pool with deep goggle marks inscribed on my face. The sleepy man asked me if I still wanted to buy that package, but I respectfully declined. I was embarrassed by my grand proclamations to both random strangers and my college swim buddies, whose Facebook posts of impressive nautical accomplishments and cozy reunions at the U.S. Masters National Championships had partially inspired the idea for my comeback.
I’d also already plotted out the narrative arc of my essay, which would appear in a glossy magazine, complete with accompanying photos of myself in a bathing suit, maybe even a two-piece. Perhaps the bikini was a stretch. A few days before my disastrous return to the pool, I’d visited a swim shop where a chlorine-blonde salesclerk sized me up and pulled a gigantic Speedo from a rack of suits. I gaped at the built-in bra and yards of Lycra, recalling how I used to race in a suit so tiny that I could palm it. The granny-Speedo fit perfectly. Bummer.
My plan had been to swim for a few weeks on my own and get in good enough shape to join a Masters program. Then I’d follow the intense sprint and cross-training regimen of Olympic comeback-goddess Dara Torres. Like Dara’s, my hard-earned wisdom would enable me to swim smart and fast. I wouldn’t burn out or choke this go-around, having coached my students and children through performance jitters and disappointments.
After my first painful swim, I didn’t get back into the water the entire spring or summer. Rather, I enlisted the help of both a personal trainer and physical therapist to diagnose and heal my shoulder problem. A bad fall, horrible posture and years of hunching over my keyboard had caused shoulder impingement syndrome. My upper and lower body were also tight as a bass drum. They told me if I wanted to swim, I needed to drastically improve my flexibility and strengthen the muscles around my joints. I’d never stretched before a swim practice or run in my life. Damn hubris.
Instead of progressing from lap swimming to Masters swimming to my Dara Torres-style program, sans the masseuse, I spent April through mid-August cooped up in a gym, lifting one-pound weights, performing wall angels and wheeling my upper torso up and down a foam roller to increase the mobility of my thoracic spine.
By late August, my physical therapist cleared me to swim. I made up a million excuses to stay out of the water. Now that the thrill of parading around my achievements had worn off, I was starting to remember that I hadn’t much cared for training when I was in my prime. In my mind, I’d never swum fast enough, even on the days when my stroke felt effortless. I’d stuck with the sport for the glory, camaraderie and chocolate donuts after practice.
I wanted to ditch my project, but I couldn’t. I’d already told my kids that I was going to start competing again. Yet something else nagged at me even more; I’d always assumed that my swimming would be there for me whenever I wanted it back, and now I was experiencing that Joni Mitchell/”Big Yellow Taxi” you-don’t-know-what-you-got-’til-it’s- gone regret. I felt as though I were standing on the high dive, contemplating my jump. Eventually, you have to either leap or climb back down the ladder. I spent three weeks stuck on that board, agitated as hell.
The answer to my conundrum materialized mysteriously and was as welcome as the discovery of a wad of bills in an old purse. I remembered my physical therapist telling me that during my first few weeks back in the water, I could swim no more than 20 laps of freestyle per workout. No matter what. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t follow my typical M.O. and join a Masters team, work so hard that I would feel fluish in effort to keep up with a faster and fitter swimmer I’d deemed less accomplished than I, and dread returning to the pool the next day. Yes, I could handle 20 laps, nice and easy.
I packed a swim bag and trotted back to the pool. I paid for a one-time pass in silence and suited up. The lanes were organized by speed. The shallowest lanes consisted of ex-swimmers with competent butterfly strokes and over-developed lats. Lean triathletes in swim caps tattooed with racing numbers occupied the next lanes. The deepest lane, my lane, buttressed the section of the pool cordoned off for deep-water running, a cousin to water aerobics. Most of the ladies in this lane were older than my mother.
The water was cold, and I clung to the gutter. My muscles tightened from my shivering, and the inside of my mouth cottoned. I considered high-tailing it out of the pool, but the deep-water runners were huddled around the ladder, and I couldn’t hoist myself onto the deck without damaging my shoulder. “Woman up, Michelle,” I said aloud. I adjusted my goggles and pushed off the wall. I swam breaststroke gingerly at first. No shoulder pain. After eight laps, I tried out my freestyle. One stroke, and I knew that I’d regained the range of motion in my shoulder. I could lift my arm out of the water. I could swim my 20 laps, albeit with great effort and terrible form.
I followed my physical therapist’s instructions to build up my yardage gradually. I focused on kicking steadily and moving my arms, nothing else. I discovered that swimming fires the synapses in my brain. While I’m in the water, my iPhone safely tucked away in my swim bag, my thoughts unspool marvelously. After my swim, I gather them, sit at my computer and bead them together.
A dozen swims ago, my body recovered from its amnesia, and my freestyle came back to me. My arms and legs moved in coordinated independence, propelling me through the water like a real swimmer, at least for half a length. The next workout, my rhythm lasted an entire lap, and now I’m in good enough shape to vary my speed. I can’t sprint yet, but I can swim fast-ish. It’s so much fun. I used to delight in racing my brother up and down the pool, blissfully unaware of the rankings and times that would soon sully my passion.
Yesterday, I squeezed a trip to the pool into a jam-packed day. I still haven’t bought that monthly package, and I’m not so concerned with how fast I will swim when I turn 50 next summer. I’m taking it one swim at a time. I haven’t encountered that sleepy young man who worked the desk the morning of my first swim, but if I do, I’ll thank him for giving me the free pass to swim.
In 1979 I moved back to this area to live close to D.C. and my childhood home of Baltimore. It was only at the ripe old age of 29 that I discovered the Chesapeake Bay. Now you may think that the Chesapeake Bay has been in the same place for thousands of years, but it took moving to New York City, and then back here, to find it. My sister buying a sailboat may also have been an influence in my discovery. While I had been residing in the big city, not becoming a great success “behind the scenes” on Broadway, my sister was growing up and meeting lots of sailors.
Her boyfriend back then liked to sail, so she bought a boat, and Sundays in the summer would find us toodling around the Bay. My job was to cut up the salami and cheese for lunch and between working on crossword puzzle clues I would pull or let go of a rope (a line, in sailboat speak) as I was instructed. This continued for a few years and it was a pleasant way to while away a summer afternoon. But then life changed, as it so often does, and my sister traded her poor sailboat-loving boyfriend in for a rich powerboat (and the guy that went with it.)
All of a sudden I discovered I had developed an addiction. I raced to the sailboat on weekends, to clean and scrub and to do whatever I needed just to be around it. Taking the boat out of the slip was not an option then, because I didn’t know how to sail. Time passed and soon I ran out of excuses to go down to the boat; so I came up with a brilliant idea — take sailing lessons. I signed up with the Annapolis Sailing School and took a week-long course, and the next thing I knew I could captain a boat (although that might be a slight exaggeration of my abilities at the time). And my sister was great at letting me take out her boat.
As the months passed, I became more and more interested in acquiring sailboat stuff. I wanted to add a knot meter to know how fast I was going and a depth sounder to know when I was about to run aground. But my sister was a simpler sailor and wasn’t interested in any additions. I was also spending weekend nights on the boat which was great fun except for the backaches and the charley horses from the boat bunks that were not tall-woman sized. It was obvious I needed my own boat.
Late summer 1986, I made up my mind to buy a new used boat the following summer, but I had a winter to find one and wasn’t in a hurry. However, on the theory that looking never hurts, I started researching 30-foot sailboats which wouldn’t give me leg and back cramps and wouldn’t give my bank account a nervous breakdown. I found one boat for sale that looked promising, a J-30, but it had been raced hard and everything down below had been abused. The salesperson however wasn’t deterred. He started showing me pictures of other boats for sale, until his partner said, “How about an Omega 30?” “What’s that?” I asked. They showed it to me, and it was love at first sight. They also told me that if I bought it I would get a free trip to Sweden, where the boat was made. I thought long and hard for about two minutes and asked, “How about if I skip Sweden and you give me a bigger sail, a spinnaker (the big colorful sail for speed), shore power so I could have electricity on the boat, a knot meter, a depth sounder,” (my dreams were coming true) and anything else I could think of at the moment. They said yes. There were no Omega 30s this side of the Atlantic, and the Omega company wanted desperately for someone to buy one. And that someone was to be me. I was in heaven. I had intended to buy a cruising boat, but somewhere between the time I saw my new true love, and the day I sailed her away from the dealer, I had developed a new passion. Someone had allowed me to crew on a sailboat race, and my life had changed. Not only did I still have an addiction to sailing, I also now had an obsession with racing sailboats. And what’s more, I was now the proud owner of a boat that could race.
Of course things don’t move that quickly in real life. First I had to go through winter before I could sail again. Then when the sun finally came out I moved my boat to its new home in a little marina north of Annapolis. It was a very little marina, and the boat was lonely there especially on weekend nights, so I decided the boat and I would be happier in Annapolis. Our first choice of homes was the Annapolis Yacht Club (AYC), but it was 1987 and both my boat and I were a “she,” and the AYC didn’t accept women. So I found a slip for my beautiful boat at a marina and yacht club that was happy to take my female money. And on July Fourth, Bear Boat and I moved into Mears Marina. She was christened Bear Boat because I had a large collection of Teddy bears that had been given to me as gifts over the years, and to “bare boat” was to hire a boat out without hiring a captain. It seemed a fitting name because I was my own captain and it gave me an excuse to paint a bear in a sailor’s suit on the side of the boat.
When I sailed into my new marina, the first person I met said, “Hi, nice to meet you, want to race with me tonight?” I of course said “yes” as I have hundreds if not thousands of times since then. What was even more exciting was he told me there would be another race the next day and that I should race my boat.
Next day we went out and surprised ourselves and our new yacht club by coming in third place. A couple of the new yacht club members were not too pleased by being beaten by a woman. Thus began Bear Boat’s racing career. For the next two years I raced in the local club races on my boat and the important Chesapeake Bay races on someone else’s boat.
In 1989 I finally decided to kick my racing up a notch and brought a friend out to teach my crew how to fly a spinnaker so that we could go out and play with the “big boys” in the Chesapeake Bay Yacht Racing Association. Sailing with a spinnaker makes the boat much faster, especially when the wind is behind you. It also makes it much more complicated to race and maneuver. Memorial Day 1989 was to be my first spinnaker race.
The sun was up and the wind was behind us so we put the spinnaker up and we were looking good. We just were moving right along when the woman trimming the spinnaker pointed behind and said “look.” The sun may have been up in front of us, but there were some big, mean-looking clouds coming up the rear.
I called to the crew “drop the spinnaker now!” My crew, who had just been through spinnaker lessons a couple of weeks before, said, “but we’re supposed to put the other sail up first.” By this time I was thinking of myself as not only not an expert but someone who at that moment wasn’t afraid to admit that she was petrified. I reiterated, “take it down now!” just in time for the wrath of God to vent on the Chesapeake Bay. I watched three or four spinnakers around me get destroyed. The wind gusts were up over 50 knots at times, which, for landlubbers, is close to 60 mph, so the next short period of time felt like an eternity. We survived the initial fury without losing a sail and we still had our mainsail up so we were still racing. We were sailing very quickly only not in exactly the right direction. Soon we were approaching points of land I didn’t think we should be that close to and I asked someone to go down below to check the charts, only it seemed I was the only one on board who could read a chart because after all I had been to sailing school. Then we saw someone near us with only a mainsail up, like us, take a knockdown. That’s when although the mast is supposed to be perpendicular to the water, the wind thinks it should be lying down in the water, and even though the keel has enough weight in it to make the boat go back upright while it thumbs its nose at the wind, it’s scary as hell. “Okay,” the call went out from my throat, let’s drop the sail and turn on the engine and go to the party (a very important part of racing) without finishing the race. The sail came down nicely, but the engine wouldn’t start. That was when I discovered that one of the jib sheets (a line that controls the sail) was hanging overboard and going under the boat, tangling the prop and stopping the engine.
The next logical step was to call for help. Someone went below and discovered that the radio had taken a bath and no longer worked. I pointed the boat in what I thought was the right direction and, without sails but with a perfectly functioning knot meter, found that we were crossing the bay on sheer will power at 4 knots.
The wind slowly diminished so I put up a little sail, then I put up the mainsail, and then I took down the little sail and put up a bigger sail, and I thought we were actually going to get to the party, when the wind died altogether. And now we weren’t going anywhere. Fortunately another racer came by and gave us a tow into St. Michael’s and we were very grateful until they dropped us off two miles from the party. Well, we finally got to the party and got to hear everyone else’s tales of near death and destruction on the high seas and the next day we got towed out of St. Michael’s, put up our unshredded spinnaker and had a fabulous sail home.
Now, almost 35 years after my discovery of the Chesapeake Bay, and 25 years after that harrowing first sailboat race, two years after my retirement and my first Social Security check, the sweetest words you can say to me are the ones I heard that first day Bear Boat and I pulled into our new marina. “Do you want to go racing?” And my answer is still, “What time do you want me there?”
OWNING a pair of jeans or three is practically a necessity for those of us who have considered them a uniform ever since college, or before. But in the past 10 years or so, our old standbys have turned their backs on us. Designers such as Balmain embellished them with so much hardware and ripped fabric that the only ones who could possibly wear (or afford) them were rock stars. Other brands began turning out uncomfortably if not embarrassingly low cuts and ultra-skinny legs more suited to the profile and lifestyle of a teenager, if not her budget.
Not ready to give up on a wardrobe staple but in need of some advice about how to navigate the new cuts, My Little Bird spoke to 45-year-old Mary Alexandre, an avid jeans wearer who has owned the Denim Bar in Arlington since 2005.
MyLittleBird: Is there a style grown-up girls should gravitate to?
Alexandre: There’s an alternative to skinny jeans. Straight-leg jeans flatter most figures, elongating your bottom half. Most of my vendors are now offering a slim boot cut, a middle ground between a straight leg and a wider boot cut. The key is, you want it to fit through the knee. Plus, a close-fitting leg looks more sophisticated. Throw a blazer over trim jeans, wear heels, and casual becomes dressy.
MyLittleBird: What do you look for in fit?
Alexandre: The jean should lie flat across the small of your lower back. Brands like AG Adriano Goldschmied ($150 to $200-plus) and Joe’s Jeans(about $150) have a contoured waistband, which corrects the gapping issue. I never recommend taking in the waist to solve gapping in the back because it will pucker after the denim stretches out. Resist the urge to buy jeans that are slightly larger; buy them to fit snugly, so when jeans do stretch, they won’t look baggy. Choose a mid to high rise and a medium to dark blue rinse.
MyLittleBird: I’ve heard a lot of talk about pocket placement. What should we know?
Alexandre: The pocket should be located where the top of your hamstring meets your rear. It shouldn’t be too high up or too low, and it has to be proportional to the size of your rear end.
MyLittleBird: White jeans have been so popular for warm weather. Will they continue to be a trend this spring and summer? Any drawbacks to wearing them?
Alexandre: I see the trend lasting. Be sure to consider the weight of the denim and cut when purchasing. Some can be too thin and almost see-through. An ankle-length, straight-leg pair is ideal for hot-weather getaways and for summer outings.
MyLittleBird: Have any tips on how best to take care of jeans?
Alexandre: Never overwash them. It destroys the denim. Wash in cold water and then hang to let dry. Dark denim should be washed inside out.
MyLittleBird: What’s the most common misconception about jeans?
Alexandre: Forget the mindset of what jeans used to be. They’re accepted everywhere you go. Think of them as you would any other pair of pants; you can pair them with a T-shirt as easily as with a sequined top.
MyLittleBird: I’m a believer in getting the best fit possible for the price. A few years ago I paid $185 for a pair of shadow black J Brand cigarette-leg jeans that I love. Still, I wondered whether lower-cost options could also win my heart. I knew Levi’s were priced at about $60 and I had heard about their ID Curve jean selection, which offers four different fits — slight curve, demi curve, bold curve and supreme curve. I was not boyishly built enough for the slight curve; even the demi curve was too straight. I was ready to give up because, how could I actually be a bold-curve fit? But when I answered yes to the saleswoman’s question asking me if I had problems with jeans gapping at the back, I tried the bold curve on. Then I read the label — they’re described for the woman whose waist is much smaller than her hips. Bingo. The supreme curve? Only for Christina Hendricks types. Do I love my Levi’s as much as my J Brand’s? Not quite, but considering I can buy three for the price of one J Brand, I give Levi’s a little slack. Anyhow, the moral of this digression is, when it comes to finding the best-fitting jeans, keep an open mind and keep trying on.
We asked Alexandre a few more questions:
What’s your beauty secret?
Exercise often, inside and out. And Creme de la Mer.
Where do you like to hang out?
Rooftop bar at Eventide in Clarendon; in D.C., Proof.
What are you reading?
“The Paris Wife”
Denim Bar
1101 South Joyce Street, B8
Arlington, VA 22202
703-414-8202 www.denimbaronline.com
