zapatos en la primavera.

I lovelovelove springtime. In fact, it’s the only thing I really miss about small-midwestern-college-town. When you dwell in places where it is dark and damp for months and months…and months, you come to appreciate the significance of weather changes, especially when it changes for the better!

La primavera in Los Angeles is not as shabby as I would have thought, having lived in tejas, where there is no springtime to speak of really. There are lots of very fragrant flores, which is, after all, the most important part. But really, I just want to do some shoe shopping. Okay, so that’s not really weather-related, because I’m a shoe-addict in any weather. But the springtime has me thinking about cute and comfy warm-weather zapatos.

I’ve been on the lookout for canvas sneaker/ballet slippers for a few weeks now. Unfortunately, the ones I really like—the ones that would just “make” my wardrobe—are not made in my size! First rejected at Aldo, I set out to look for others. I found these beauties at Lacoste—they’re even cuter than the ones at Aldo. I like them in orange. Orange makes me happy. BUT the smallest size they come in, is a 6. (I wear a 5 or 5 ½, in case you were wondering. And for some reason, the shoe salesmen—usually men—always ask if I want to try on the size 6 “just in case.” Size 6 is too big. Duh.) It’s small feet discrimination, I tell you! I guess these zapatos are just not my future.

I probably wouldn’t have bought them anyhow. $79 is way too much to pay for glorified keds. And…you know…I’m not an academic baller. Not yet. The springtime shoe search continues! And maybe I should get back to work on the pinche dissertation instead of online shopping. Dang!

desert snow.

As I was preparing for my trip to small-midwestern-college-town, I realized that I was very anxious about the cold. Actually, I was more anxious about the shock of the cold, than the cold itself. But as I packed my suitcase, I was reminded about how much I love winter accessories. When I lived in Tejas, I hardly used them and had been so excited about the cooler weather in the upper Midwest that I went crazy buying funky hats and colorful scarves and fabulous coats. Last week in my LA apartment, I stuffed my cream colored down jacket into my duffle bag, along with my rosey scarf and JLo knit hat. Turns out, I brought the warmth from LA with me and was overheated every time I ventured outdoors. What a disappointment! Well, at least I looked cute, even if my attire was weather inappropriate.

Lucky me, the last few days in Burque have been mad snowy! Blizzards. Blizzards, I tell you! And I love it. There’s nothing like desert snow that reminds me of childhood. Even when I was a kid, I was into winter accessories. My grandmother in NYC used to send boxes of clothing for me. Stuff that she would make with the scraps from the sweatshop where she worked. The memory of those Chinese drawstring pants is what I recall the best. But there was a caramel brown wool coat that I loved and which I was only allowed to wear on the coldest of days or on special days—like for church. Hanging in my grandparents’ house is a foto of me in the coat standing in the snow next to a new-born spring calf at my grandparents meadow down the street from their house. Winter in Nuevo Mexico reminds me of ice fishing with my grandpa at Eagle Nest or standing on the bridge at the beginning of my grandparents’ driveway looking down at the icy cold water of Rio Lucero rushing underneath us. Now that I’m pushing 30, and live far away from mis abuelos, I cling to the small things of wintertime that remind me of them. Winter accessories are like snow gently piled on the blades of yucca next to illuminated farolitos…makes ya feel all warm inside!

asian and "ethnic" hair.

After letting my hair grow rampantly for the last six months, I finally dragged myself to the salon school a block away from my apartment. By a stroke of luck, they had a new customer deal—hair cut and a facial for $25! Of course, you can’t beat that. And since I live in a community that is mostly Chinese and Mexican (along with other ethnic Asians), I figured it was worth a try. I was assigned to a Korean American student stylist, who did a great job even if it did take a full 90 minutes.

How many white girls have I gone to, who butchered my locks? Countless, I tell you! And quite frankly, I have refused to have my hair cut by white people since circa 2000. Not that white people cannot also cut hair well, the ones who have approached my head just never know which way my hair is going to fall. They don’t understand that my hair is Chinese slick and Mexican wavy and really fine (well, the fine part is from the Spaniards who raped and pillaged back in the day—their legacy is marked on my body, particularly in my hair. Damn that colonialism!).

The last time I got a good cut for a comparably low price was when I lived in NYC. I used to go to this great Japanese hair salon in the east village. Everything in New York was so convenient! When I moved to Tejas, it took me a while to find a great hair stylist—she was hapa and she was great, but then she moved and I was again stuck with randoms. In small-midwestern-college-town, I came across a salon that had the following pasted on their door: “We specialize in Asian and Ethnic hair.” The salon owner was a fabulous Dominican woman from NYC who specialized in cutting curly hair. My hair is clearly (and unfortunately) not curly. She even said, “Gosh, you don’t even have ethnic hair!” Whaaaaat? “I am ‘ethnic’ so therefore I have ‘ethnic’ hair,” I responded. That was a weird interaction—as if having straightish/Asian hair means you aren’t “ethnic,” which I assumed meant brown as in not white. What does “ethnic” mean anyhow? But the cut was amazing and it grew out so well. She is quite the miracle worker. Every time I got my hair cut, I walked out of the salon looking like a rock star. During my first visit to her, she was cutting my hair mad crazy-like. “Don’t you know I’m a historian?” I asked. “So what…you trying to be funky?” she responded. “Actually, I’m cutting your bangs like Halle Berry,” she went on. Well, sheeeeit. If she could make me look like Halle Berry (mind you, I never asked to look like Halle Berry), I was never going to get my hair done anywhere else! And for three years, I didn’t. (I also didn’t look like Halle, but that’s hardly the point.) And I didn’t even really mind that she insisted on calling me “Elisa” (not my name) despite several corrections on my part. That’s how much a good hairstylist is worth.

So I must admit that I was secretly (well, as my friends know, it was not-so-secretly) holding out until I visit small-midwestern-college-town again. But alas, I had to come to terms with the fact that I live in LA now. And there must be people who can work with my hair here. And while this weekend’s cut is not nearly as good as it would have been had I held out for small-midwestern-college-town, its probably the best I could get for $25.