On Returning to LA, Wilting Blooms, and Starting a Hair-Care Regimen

(The sun setting over millionaires in Malibu)


Some people move to Los Angeles for the weather. Seriously and truly, they do. I am not one of those people. I moved to LA (the first time) to work in the music industry. And it was work that brought me back to LA two years after I thought I’d left for good.

Having never lived in a place where snow piled up to the windowsill or driveways demanded clearing right this very instant, or you’re not going to work, mister!—I cannot say how much the promise of steady sunshine would be worth.

Instead, I grew up with an abundance of sun and humidity accompanied by a constant breeze of AC. Surviving a hot day called for a glass of iced tea and a medal of honor. The humidity kept my skin looking dewy and young. At least, this is what I told myself when I ducked into public restrooms to mop up the sweat dripping from my armpits.

These days, the California sun annoys me. That is something I have noticed. I have also noticed that I am older, much older, than I thought I was. Obviously, I realize my age. I’m not that far gone. It’s just that what I remember looking like isn’t showing up in the mirror or on glossy 4x6 paper. There are lines that weren’t there before. And my hair. Oh, my hair.

Yesterday I went to have my hair cut and engaged in a long discussion with a nice hairstylist named Ryan—or something like that—about what happens to your hair as you get older. For those of you not in-the-know, your hair gets thinner and duller and not so Pantene-like.

I told Ryan—or something like that—I was using a product meant to encourage new hair growth. He said the product I was using was indeed marvelous, and, yes, it was working. (Hooray!) But, he quickly added, that product was too harsh for fine hair like mine. He recommended another product that would be a little kinder.

So I left the salon, famous for being trendy and affordable, with a bag of product that cost 3 times the price of my haircut all in an effort to fight the inevitable. But this is LA, and age defines you here.

In addition to noticing my dislike of constant sunny days and lines around my eyes, I have started to wonder if I am losing my bloom. That sounds completely archaic, I know, but I can’t think of any other way to put it. Jane Austen gave me this idea of people losing their bloom. Ms. Austen says of her heroine in Persuasion, “Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her bloom had vanished early…”

This line runs through my mind when I notice these news things about my face.

In response to this absurd thought, I picture myself to be a peony tree. In its early years, the blossoms on a young peony tree are pretty and give off a bit of sweet fragrance, sort of like a whisper. The branches of an older peony tree, however, are heavy with huge flowers, thanks to years of pruning. And the fragrance of that older tree is incredible—like standing before a symphony.

On days when I feel so very un-LA, I wear an extra spritz of perfume and a lot of SPF.

Some Reasons I Like LA:

1. Really good bands play here. Like Travis, pictured above.


2. I have a really great job. These were a gift from my 2 bosses.