I suppose one day you'll see all of me. But, for now, here is an X-Ray image of my teeth (no, they aren't black---I didn't live in England THAT long!) I'm forcing a big old smile that does not come naturally to me. The reason I took this image with this filter on is because at the end of the day, underneath it all, a smile can really just be a facade and a straight face can be a very happy person but one caught in their thoughts. I dunno--a man once told me I'd be attractive if I'd smile more. Here's my story...

Dear Ether,

I was once told by a man that I would be much more attractive if I smiled more.  I wondered, “Did that stop people from approaching me because I looked like a sourpuss?”  When I catch my reflection in a store window or a mirror, I definitely look unapproachable.  My head is often lowered, my cheeks sucked in giving my lips a down-turned pout and sunglasses usually shade my eyes.

I was never the girl who was bought drinks at bars or was approached on streets.  I never got asked out on dates or was flirted with in public.  And I didn’t get it.  I know you guys don’t know what I look like, but you know I’m honest, and I will try and be humble, but I’m not bad looking.  And when I put myself together, I actually look quite nice.  So when I saw girls who I thought were less attractive, I never knew why I wasn’t getting any attention.

You know, some people have a great smile.  Their eyes crinkle beautifully, their teeth glimmer like ivory piano keys that explode in their mouths welcoming you to their face.  Their lips are full and their grin just makes everything more inviting.  When I smile, I lose my upper lip, my eyes almost disappear and it looks like I’m missing my back teeth because my lip casts a shadow over the last few molars.  I just don’t have a pretty smile.

When I had braces, I learned to smile with my mouth shut.  An almost pucker-like smirk.  I look back on these photos and see how dreadful I appear.  My chin juts out, lines gather around my nose and mouth.  No one would ever mistake me for the Cheshire Cat.

After this man suggested this about my appearance, I tried to take heed of his advice.  I actually felt the atrophied muscles in that region struggle and shake trying to hold the pose.  I felt stupid and foolish. After a few tries I gave up and my face relaxed back into its straight-lined position. The thing is, I don’t NOT smile, I just don’t have that kind of cheerful visage.

I will tell you one thing—(and it’s my surprise)—when I laugh—I give it everything I’ve got.  THAT’S when my teeth come out and sparkle and when my eyes shine and you see my dimples.  So, maybe the secret is you’ve got to make me crack-up.  And when you do, maybe I’m really damned beautiful.  So though I’m not on show every minute, what makes me special is that I come out from the woodwork and glitter every once in awhile.  And it’s the people who matter that get to see the really attractive me.  It’s the people who take the time to invest and not just enjoy the ongoing music of the large piano key teeth but maybe some of the flat notes hidden by my skinny excuse for lips.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I'm not going to say much, because it'll ruin the story. But see this girl. She looks somewhat surprised, but not in a "I'm going to kill myself because someone shaved off all of my hair" kinda way. Well. This photo could have been me....but with a VERY different expression on ol' One of 365's face. Seriously---don't ever fuck with my hair.

Dear Ethers, 

OH MY GOD.  I have the CRAZIEST story to tell you.  Right.  So, you know how I’m always going on about my hair and its length.  I mean, by this time you know the diameter of each follicle.  But you also know how much I treasure it.  I swore the only way I would ever cut my hair is if I became destitute and it was the last thing I had to pawn to eat that night. 

So, I had straightened my hair for an event and had been wearing it down because I usually don’t take much care to make a fuss over it (you know, tying it in a messy bun etc…) and wanted to work my “do.”  I’m walking down the street and this woman comes up to me and says, “You have the most beautiful hair.”  Well, of course I was pleased and thanked her very much.  But she went on.  “Is that your natural color?”  I politely responded, “Yes, it’s my own.”  “So you don’t use any dyes at all?” Okay, now not only was I getting annoyed, but I was getting weirded out.  I said, “Look, I’m real busy…” and she cut me off and started telling me that she worked for this charity called “Locks of Love” and they were really desperate for donors because all of the salon owners were paying a fortune to girls and it was the recession. 

Now, I’m not saying I’m the most benevolent person in the world, but I do give to certain charities.  But they are ones that I choose and that I approach.  I make it a policy NEVER to give to charities on streets or on the phone.  I like to do my research on the net and donate via e-mail.  But regardless, where was this woman’s badge?  Who the hell was she?  And I’m sure “Locks of Love” didn’t have a bombard you policy that freaked young women out on the street.  

I calmly told her that I had no intention of cutting my hair and that I would appreciate her leaving me alone as I felt this was very inappropriate.  Now, a normal person would walk away.  Oh no, this lady got PISSED.  “Don’t you care about kids with cancer?  Women who’ve been burned and lost parts of their scalp?”  Did I mention I’m standing on a street where there were cafes and people were staring at us?  I just started walking away—but she followed.  I started to reach for my cell phone and my keys. 

And then I felt a tug. 

My whole body went numb and I swear to god for a second I thought she took out shears and lopped my hair off. 

I spun around and screamed at her to never fucking touch me again and that I was dialing 911.  I’ve never seen a skinny woman with a bob-cut run so fast in my whole life. 

When I got home I called “Locks of Love” and told them my story.  And Ethers, I’m not joking (and you might think I’m a pussy) I was crying.  I think they were afraid I was going to sue for assault charges.  But the truth is I didn’t have the woman’s name and they said they have so many volunteers that even with my description of her, it was hopeless. 

I think “Locks of Love” do a wonderful thing and I do not want to incriminate them for one woman’s insane breakdown.  But I have to tell you that I will never forget that moment.  I did wonder if that woman was really from “Locks of Love” because they told me that dyed hair WAS acceptable though bleached wasn’t.  And if the lady had cut my hair without it being in a braid or ponytail first she would have done it for nothing—they can’t accept it loose.  Oh and FYI, if you ever DO want to donate, your hair needs to be 10” tip-tip minimum (and they do request it to be clean, thank you very much).  

Later that night I took a shower, used my special Kerastase shampoo that I pull out for special occasions and my Redkin conditioner that is for VERY special moments, and lathered up grateful for something to still be attached to my head.  My waves re-appeared, and as my hair dried, up it went into its lazy bun happy to be protected.  I was just so happy to have given my OWN locks some love that night when it all could have been snipped away by some nutter with a bad bowl cut.  Sheesh.  Only in L.A. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Roses represent life and death. They adorn coffins and newborn's bedrooms. Snag a finger on a thorn and you bleed, but make it to the top and you get to the heart of the flower and benefit from its growth. But a rose without a scent? Why that's like a violin without strings! I think this world has become so mass-produced that it is even taking the most natural things away from nature.

Dear Ether, 

I went into a florist and saw the most delightful array of roses.  Crimson reds with blackened borders.  Blush pinks that looked the same shade as ballerina’s tutus.  Yellow the color of custard. White’s purer than the fluffiest cloud.  I touched their delicate petals and their texture was fragile but strong enough to withstand just enough pressure to let my fingertips glide along their ridges.  Long green stems with glistening, emerald colored leaves were placed amongst yellowed thorns.  

And, sticking my nose into this magnificent array of beauty—-I smelled nothing.  I expected to be hit with glistening florals, sparkly citrus and mind-blowing musks.  But all I smelled was an icy-wet odor of stale refrigeration and wet grass.  What a horrible illusion these beautiful sirens were!  

I remember my summers in England and Los Angeles.  The wild roses blossoming madly on the sides of roads or in people’s gardens.  The tea roses omitting their sweet smell as they basked in the sun.  The giants heads of other varieties blowing in the wind and the breeze capturing their heavenly headiness and just closing my eyes and taking it all in. 

I remember my mother bought me my first fragrance when I was a little girl.  It was very cheap—and simply called “Tea Rose” by a no name perfume company.  I LOVED it.  It captured everything that I thought a rose should be in a little bottle. I used to dab it on my wrist every night before bed and let it lull me to sleep dreaming of a madman’s trellis filled with roses and me standing under it’s canopy sniffing its fantastical fumes.  

And, you sure as hell bet that when I went to Borough Market in London for the first time, I bought rose flavored ice cream.  And my first purchase from Colombia Road market in Shoreditch—a dozen long-stem red roses that were so perfectly formed they looked like tea cups!  

My first fragrance from Jo Malone (on of my favorite perfumers) was Red Roses Cologne and for my senior prom I wore real baby blossoms woven through my bun to match my dress.  

So, when I went into this florist, seeing my old, dear friends, with no smell, I was so sad to see that they had been created in a hybrid hothouse, mass-produced for their looks.  Did no one care about scent anymore?  I asked the florist, and she said that garden roses didn’t last as long, were much more fragile and didn’t come in the varieties that the mass produced ones did.  She said refrigeration and picking them too quickly stole their aroma.  She told me that very upscale boutique florists had magnificent smelling collections and that they could be special ordered—but for a hefty price. 

The next day I went to a local garden center and perused their rose section.  Ahhh, what wonderful names they have come up with.  If you’ve ever visited the rose garden in June in Greenwich Park in England I’d recommend it.  It smells magnificent and they too, have fabulous names for their varieties.  I decided on a stunning sterling silver rose bush.  The owner promised that over time it would produce fragrant, sweet smelling roses that would have full heads and would be a glamorous shade of silvery-purple.  

As my plant was being loaded into my car I felt like I was adding another rose into the world that gave the air some scent—some beauty.  That, especially in Los Angeles, where everything is so concrete and polluted, I wanted to stick my nose in something natural and beautiful again.  I wanted to close my eyes and have my senses overwhelm me. 

Every rose has it’s thorn, but then again, sometimes it’s worth getting nicked to feel something and reap the reward of its beauty than to not have any experience at all.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

A braid is made of a sequence of ties and twists--sort of like life. The hairstyle has lasted generation after generation, just like our families and their stories. Funny how something so seemingly simple as hair can be so very complicated.

Dear Ether, 

I have incredibly long chestnut brown hair.  It hits my shoulders and is styled in a simple blunt cut with a few layers in the front (a few hairdressers have begged me to snip more but I’m one tough cookie in that chair). It’s not dyed and I’ve been told it has a lovely reddish hue.  I’m not a slave to any particular product. I use what I’ve been given for free.  My hair is in healthy condition and falls in very lustrous waves when I brush it (though I usually wear it in a loose bun because I can’t be bothered to tame my mane).  

Why write about my hair? Well, I just saw my great-grandmother’s chopped off braid that my mother has gently kept and cherished for almost 90 years.  What shocked me was that a woman, whose lineage I share but never met, had the exact color and radiant locks that I do now when shears took that braid from the nape of her neck almost a century ago.  Everyone else in my family has black hair.  She and I are the only ones who have the reddish chestnut shade (so I’m told).  It was mind-blowing to look at an actual piece of what makes who I am and that was passed down from my gene pool.  My mom said that her grandmother, when she finally chopped the braid off, cried for hours and when her husband came home, turned over a table, and left the house fuming!  I asked my mom why she cut it off and she said she felt that she was too told to have such long hair.  

So, when is there a “cut-off” for having long hair?  When I was in high school I saw the film “Sliding-Doors” with Gwyneth Paltrow and HAD to have her boyish style.  I went for it, and I looked damned good.  But, I found short hair to be a nuisance and more maintenance and after 2 long years, grew it out.  I’ve had long tresses ever since.  I want to hold on to my length for as long as possible.  I love the way it looks, but it also gives me a certain air of youth.  I know that people would disagree and say that hair length has no age. But the hairdressers I’ve worked with have said that it does come to a certain point where you just get a bit too old to have long hair like mine.  Sometimes I do see older ladies with gray hair who have uber long braids swaying back and forth against their waists (usually tied with a scrunchie…hmmmm….) and that’s fine….but I will admit, an older grandmother type with a sleek, short, layered coif looks a helluva lot better than one with wiry granny coils. 

For now, I will enjoy the extra ten minutes it takes to shampoo and condition.  To do a hot oil treatment once a week to combat split ends and dry spells.  Because eventually I won’t be able to have my Rapunzel-do, and I wanna enjoy it while it lasts. The day will come when I take a final inhale, braid my hair, tie it with a band, snip it off and delicately wrap it for the next generation.  If hers holds up, maybe mine will have the honor of sitting next to that of my great-grandmother.  And who knows, long after I’m gone, a little girl with chestnut hair will unwrap our parcel and touch her own head and realize that she comes from souls who once existed that have given her the radiant locks she twirls every day.  And through our braids, our stories will be told and memories will be “brushed” through too.    

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365