With absolute fondness...

I have been thinking a lot about the hair industry recently, and especially how I see it in my little corner of Georgia.

When we moved from Charleston, SC, it didn't occur to me to land a job before I arrived here, as in Charleston there was an upscale salon on every corner desperate for talent and a warm smile.  I was charging $55 per haircut, $100 for a half-head highlight.  Bridal hair was a focus in that city, and it was nothing to ask $115 for a bridal updo, and then require a trial run at $70.  I was paid $11 an hour when I started, just to sit and wait for clientele!  Little did I know what a blessing that was. 

My first interview here (set up by my real estate agent) was with a salon owner who had 17 years of experience under her belt.  We met at Starbucks, and she brought her (what appeared to be) 8 year-old son.  We talked about my experience, and she asked me what I would charge for a haircut. 

"Well, I have been charging $55, but I think I am comfortable with $40."

She looked at me, bewildered. 

"I have been doing hair for 17 years, and I charge $27."

Holy-cursewords.  What have we done?

I searched for MONTHS for a salon similar to the one I had left, but the three that existed in the area at the time were not hiring.  Realistically, I can think of six.  

Augusta was littered with (what I like to call) "beauty boxes"- small, 4-chair salons donning either the name of the owner, or some little not-so-clever locution to do with hair.  

"Hair for You."  "Shear Elegance." "I Can't Beweave It!"

I found refuge in one of these boxes, and my spoiled-rotten, newly pregnant and miserable self received weekly checks in the range of $15-$60.  I sat for 35 hours a week, unpaid unless I was holding shears, and was glared at if I dared leave early.  

Is this even... legal?

In November I received a phone call from one of the "Big Six," asking me if I would like to sit down for an interview.  That night I bleached all of the blue out of my hair, spent the remainder of my available credit on a new dress, and boldly walked in to meet Joy.  She was engaging and confident.  I would make money.  I told her I was pregnant.  She didn't mind.  And with that, I cried.  

I worked there, busy as I could possibly be during the remainder of that pregnancy.  I was able to pay bills, go on vacation, and save enough for my full 6-week maternity leave.  For the most part, everyone in that very large salon got along as well as they could, and I think we really enjoyed each other.  Obviously, I am no longer at that salon, and most everyone whom I worked with aren't either.  My restlessness + the negative economy got the best of me, and regrettably I left.  Regardless of the decision I made, I view my last days as a non-mother there with absolute fondness.  

And when I think of the pleasure of those times, I remember us often crouching around a bowl-full of this...

This is "Sabrina's Black Bean and Corn Salsa," and even at 6:00 AM it makes my mouth water.  

When I was at the farmers' market this weekend, I stopped at a table full of organic produce, and this recipe came to mind.  My co-worker at the time brought this to all of us one day, and we begged for the recipe so much that she wrote it out and made copies.  

Only confident people share recipes. 

I still have my copy- crumpled, ripped, and doodled on, and it is with pleasure (and permission) that I share it with all of you.  It calls for cans of corn and beans, but in my efforts to be fancy, I blanched some corn and soaked some beans.  It was delicious, but do yourself a favor: buy the cans. 

Delicious.  

Sabrina's Black Bean and Corn Salsa

2 cans black beans, drained

1 can yellow shoepeg corn, drained

1 large red onion, chopped

2 large vine-ripened tomatoes, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

1 cup cilantro, chopped

1-2 jalapenos, chopped (seeds and veins removed for less heat)

juice of one lime

1/4 c red wine vinegar

1/2 t chili powder

1/2 t garlic salt

1/2 t black pepper

Mix it all together, and enjoy.  I let mine sit overnight to let the flavors meld together.  

Thank you, Sabrina, for your sweetness (and spiciness in this case).  Thanks to all of the girls who made that time of my life so special.  And thanks to those salon-owners.  Know that my spoiled rotten-butt did not know how easy I had it!

Love to all, 

Rachel Bee

A progression of art.

Weddings are always on the brain at the Bee house (I seriously just spelled "house" as "howse."  Give me a break; it is 4:30 AM).  We have decided to make weddings our "business," so we are in a constant state of research and preparation in order to make weddings more remarkable.  Photos taken should evoke a gush of warmth and tender memory.  Photos taken should make a girl feel something like this:

Although recently I have received inquires about wedding cakes, I have quite a bit more experience in the hair/makeup department.  This area of my industry is despised by most, but the entry is a beacon of light and relief when I see formal hair or makeup on my book.

Saturday I had a trial run with a bride whose wedding I am particularly looking forward to.  This sweet girl has two sisters and a mother whose hair I also do, and their family couldn't be more precious to me.  The girls are like Disney princesses- with long, lustrous locks flowing down the middle of their backs- but smarter, less apt to showing their mid-drifts, and not likely to talk to vermin.  They are polite, well-spoken, determined, kind, and geez- downright intimidating at times!  The woman responsible for this trio is no different- but add consistent joy and encouragement (always, always a smile).  Rarely do a group of such women fall into your chair, and I am grateful for them.

I thought originally that the whole gang was going to come Saturday, and that is why I brought my trusty camera man along.  Although I am sure the bride is not used to having the constant strobe of flashbulbs in her eyes, she (of course) performed beautifully.  What is notable (and typical) is the consistent hilarity of my face in this progression of photos.  I can pose and model all I want, but stick a teasing comb and a few bobby pins in my hands, and I become a goof.

Enjoy!

Is there anything more beautiful than a table full of MAC??

 OK.  Perhaps the shiniest most gorgeous natural hair ever?

"Yes, sir.  I cannot abide the awesomeness of your tattoos."

Thinking, hard. 

"Man, this is looking good.  She is going to love this!"

The part when she gently tells me she doesn't love this.

Yanking bobby pins out, putting them back in (HAVE to appreciate honesty:)

There will be a second pin, and a bit more over to the side.  And less fuzzy.  No spray used in this "do."

Love this one.  What a strong and yet lovely woman.

I could have put hot pokers to her eyes and she wouldn't have flinched. 

Makeup artists: ever want to look at someone and say, "Uh- mascara and blush ought to do it?"  Her skin was nearly flawless.

Despite the silliness of my face in this picture, I love it.  

I got into doing hair as I looked up at 25 and thought, "I am not a 'famous' singer.  Ouch."  I went to get my hair done by my regular stylist after having one of the worst days of my life, and she suggested cosmetology school.  In the past I had dabbled in nearly every art-form, and I had always been interested in hair; but I never thought I would ever need to get a "real job."  I took her advice, and 6 years later I really don't have a single regret.  Although most of us have it, hair isn't something that everyone can do, and I appreciate the special skill.  I do get frustrated with the "salon world" as I don't care for the way the industry is headed (more on that later), but moments like the one above- the look in the bride's eyes- make all the difference to me.  I am probably saying something unintelligent, but her eyes speak trust, girlish-anticipation, and a general "Rachel, you're alright."

And I like that.

And I like my job.

And I like you.

Rachel Bee

A night that warranted a week off...

All or most of you know that Friday night a week ago, my church had a special event called "The Big Show."

Many churches have a volunteer banquet of some sort, but this evening was so much more than a dinner buffet over sterno warmers.  It was a full-on award show a la Golden Globes, with a catered meal served at round tables; and (I am sure) the very best green beans I have ever tasted in my entire life.

I know.  It is weird to give the first of my compliments to the green beans, but they were heaven.  I have a source who might divulge whatever sweetness made them irresistible.  Then I will keep the recipe to myself, and eat nothing but green beans for the rest of my life.

Despite the event being in it's first year, I would say that it went off so well, and everyone looked amazing. I had so many people come up to me to say that they were "wearing my eyes" or  how they had pinned up their hair per my instruction, and it made me feel so warm.  Thanks to all of you who brighten my life.  Really.

And those of you who were there also saw way too much of me, as I played "Miss Big Show," or the stage manager in a pink dress.  I (not always so gracefully) handed out awards to presenters, and made eyes at the sexy photog in the back of the room.  You can all guess who he is.

Here are a few pics of what I did with my hair and makeup for the night...

I told my friend, Stephanie, to give me a style I could not do on myself; so with a deep breath, a few pins, and a handful of weave: she went.

Sorry, Steph.  These were taken at around 10:30 PM, about 8 hours after you pinned my hair up.

Here is a pic of me, award in hand...

...and a guy named "J." And that was not my award, if there is any confusion.  The "awards" were given to people who had shown extraordinary effort in whatever ministry they are a part of.  They are called "Vollys."

From "volunteer."

Oooooh.

And here I am with my beloved dad, who IS single by the way...

I wish you all could see my shoes.  They are adorable, and look like the ones worn in "Dirty Dancing."

As we are going on about the Big Show, I would be remiss not to say that I went through 11.5 pounds of sugar last week, making these...

And these...

Chocolate Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Swiss Meringue Buttercream.  The toppers were little gumpaste stars with gobs of edible glitter and a little pearl inset.  They sparkled beautifully against the low lights, and I am told they tasted just fine.  Or good.  I did not try one.  When you make 168 of something, you have eaten plenty.  And this, the most unflattering picture of me, is a great snapshot of what one's kitchen looks like after baking 168 cupcakes.

Really.  Could it look worse?

It was fun, and all I can say, and state, and reiterate, is that I love my church.  It is a generous group, and I would bake a million cupcakes for them.  And if it wasn't incredibly inappropriate, I would take my pastor by the face, and squeeze it up against mine (like cheek to cheek: nothing funny).  And while I am completely violating his personal space, I would say, "thank you, thank you, thank you.  I really am having a blast."

What a good idea it was to show me back to Jesus.

Really.  Thanks, Brent.

Have a good one, all.

Rachel Bee

Insecurity.

There are few things that keep me up at night.  I sleep well.  I do so much in a day; when it is time for bed, I am zonked.

Out.

Notice, however, that I said "few" things.

I am a perfectionist of sorts, although I do know when to stop.

There is a moment when finishing a haircut when I can sense the receiving party on the brink of annoyance:  stop.

Those last two bobby pins that cause a person to wince...  stop.

That little ripple of frosting that doesn't want to go anywhere... stop.

OK.  One more foil.  Because I swear, when you sit on your bathroom counter with a magnifying mirror and go through every section of your hair, you will see it and curse my name.

I would do it.  Don't you?

Magnifying mirror?  Anyone?

Leave it, Rach.  It will be OK.

Saturday night I had an updo: a girl's first.  Now, ordinarily I really could not care very much about what... hmm.  I will hold it there.  But this was not just any teenager.  She is a special one.  I like her.  I like her sisters.  They are like Disney princesses.  There is a brunette, a blonde, and a red-head.  I imagine that when their alarms go off in the morning, they all take a moment to swish their breathtaking locks back and forth, and then brush them 50 times together.

The youngest of the three sat in my chair, and with very little instruction, she allowed me to force her curls into an enormous, woven updo.

I loved it.  I really did.

She... really did not.

We pulled out a few pieces, tucked a few in, ironed her fringe, whatever she wanted- and when we were done, she forced a smile.

I hate those smiles.

And I did not sleep.

Sunday brought no relief, despite an assuring text from the sweet girl.  Because Sunday afternoon, I made this...

I know.  Beautiful.  Perhaps the prettiest I have ever made.

Vanilla Cake with Chocolate Ganache and Raspberries.

Why would such a cake stress me out?  Many reasons.  I start to feel crazy just looking at it.

I offered to deliver this cake Sunday afternoon for a baby shower.  The person who ordered it lives by the church I attend, and I had to go to rehearsal that evening.  I would drop it off on the way.  Simple enough.

Well, when I "map-quested" the house, I discovered that they did not live on the way at all, and I should have left 15 minutes ago.  Oops.

I stuck the kid and the cake in the car, and made a mad dash for the highway.  OK, not true.  I spent 5 hours on that cake.  I drove like a granny for the highway.  A granny with cake.

I made it to her neighborhood about 25 minutes later (5 minutes until practice, and 15 minutes away), and pulled out my directions.

"512.  512 should be on the ri...oh.  Oh.  Why is 512 an incomplete house?"

Oh, no.  Oh!  My phone.  I'll look it up in the email...

No phone.  Phone is on the kitchen counter.  Hmm...

What do I do?  Drive really slowly and look through windows for balloons?  OK.  Sure.

Stop complete strangers and ask, "Do you know where Kelly lives?"  Check.

Drive down long driveways and look into garages for church bumper stickers?  Yes.  I did.

Drive to Subway and ask to borrow a phone?  Sure.

"Ma'am.  I think your phone is broken.  Is there a reason it might not be working?"

"How (3 syllables) 'bat now?"  she replied.

"No.  Still nothing."

"Now?"

"No.  Not now.  Um..."

BTW, I am now at a point of complete panic.  10 minutes late for rehearsal, a half an hour late for cake delivery... disaster.  The young girl graciously gave me her cell phone after 6 tries on the store phone.  My husband miraculously answered his phone (513), and I drove to her house (still, like a granny.  Nothing was toppling this cake).

I made it to rehearsal with 5 minutes remaining.  I could not remember feeling more irresponsible since high school.  And in high school, I was the picture of irresponsibility.

To add insult to injury, I did not get any feedback on the cake for about 20 hours.

Do bakeries worry about every cake that goes out the door?  No.  But this cake cost me a reputation.  I like being on time.  25 minutes late?  I deserved a good evil eye (although I received none).

"But... I was delivering a cake."  Lame.

And these insecurities cost me sleep, as they often do.  I am not sure that it is humanity's approval that gets me, or reputation, or if it's thinking of myself in a 16 year-old's shoes.  This was her prom.  As much as I want to roll my eyes, I remember how important I thought that night was.

"And she didn't like her hair," I thought.

"Someone trusted me to make a cake, and she was disappointed."

"I was 25 minutes late, and I have let down friends and leadership."

So frustrating.  So common.  So thankful that most of the time, these accusations are unfounded; and when they are, I can learn from them.

After I cry.

Time to clean up the kitchen.  Or watch a movie.  Or decorate the cake that is waiting in the fridge.

Or sleep.

Nigh nigh.

Rachel Bee