new do, new you.

after months of talking the talk without putting the money where my mouth is, i finally booked an appointment to get the asymetrical mess that i call my hair chopped and shaped back into something presentable.



i'd gotten an amazing cut last summer that i loved, but unfortunately, laziness and procrastination hindered me from keeping up with it. i had allowed myself to slip into the comfortable routine of wash-airdry-ponytail/headscarf.


i was so ashamed.



thankfully, i got my act together and headed back to arrojo where morgan, my little stylist angel, came to my rescue.


i walked in on a rainy/humid friday night, sat in the chair, removed the arsenal of bobbypins keeping my coif from total meltdown and gave him the following instructions:

"i desperately require symmetry to re-enter my daily life. i want it chic and sleek and i want serious bangs that begin from the tippy-top of my head."


he delivered.
my hair is totally smooth and swingy (which is a small triumph for a woman of color who wishes her hair to be smooth and swingy) and i've actually had strangers stop me on the street, praising my new do!

so for two weeks, i was feeling fierce: the fabulous blow-out and flatiron job i'd received at arrojo was lasting surprisingly well. things were still smooth and swingy and glorious. had a minor overdose of styling product one day, but a quick application of dry shampoo totally sorted that out. but soon, i realized that i needed to actually wash my hair with real shampoo and water. to say i was nervous about achieving a polished look befitting of such a polished haircut would be an understatement.

i gave it a shot. and the results left a little something to be desired. so i decided to go on a quest to find the perfect blowout for my hair texture that wouldn't cost me a small fortune. my results are below:

1. tried out a fancy salon/shop in brooklyn called Commune. the space is adorable and they were generally pretty nice. but then, the girl who did my hair just couldn't understand why i'd want someone to just blowdry and flatiron my hair without getting a haircut. i didn't find this request to be all that unusual, but apparently it is at Commune. she did a great job (prolly the best blowout i've gotten in nyc) using essential oils and leave-in conditioners in lieu of goop and serums, but she kept telling me my hair was damaged and that i should learn to blow dry it myself. i prefer my styling without a lecture, thankyouverymuch so i decided to never go here again.

2. next i ventured into the heart of chinatown in search of the elusive $15 blow out. i found it at Top Ten Hair Salon on Pell St. but ladies of color be forewarned: the guy who did my hair was totally offensive and borderline racist (the first thing he said to me upon viewing my towel-dried hair was, "how am i going to blow dry this?"). he did an okay job (i ended up having to re-flat iron a few sections and use some of my own product when I got home), but the low price tag is not worth enduring his frowny face and snide comments for half an hour. now of course, i can't speak for all the hair salons in chinatown, but i'd definitely recommend NOT going to this one if you are anything other than Asian or caucasian. oy!

3. the next place on my list is a salon run by sassy Dominicans... i think they'll know how to treat a sistah of ambiguous ethnicity better than all the rest. fingers crossed!

ambi-turners!

thanks to emily, i got a chance to go to a show for a pair of up-and-coming young designers during NY fashion week. Jordi Scott. their aesthetic is decidedly west coast and they opened up the shabang with a mini burlesque performance courtesy of some mildly famous East Village burlesque sisters whose name is escaping me at the mo...

anyway, fashion is a lot more fun to see than to read to about, so here's 9,000 words... metaphorically:

christmas time is heeeeerrreeee!

kelly, spencer, and i braved the wintry wind and gentle snowfall to check out all the fabulous windows on 5th avenue and they did not disappoint! we got a couple of hot chocolates from a streetcart and began working our way down 5th. bergdorf, saks, barneys, henri bendel... they were all amazing! behold...

love is fickle...

i'm no longer in love and i've returned you to your maker.

make way for something younger, hotter and less intrusive...

i think i love you...

a few days ago i was faced with a most important decision; should i indulge in yet another pair of shoes? and if i do, should i play it practical and go with a more or less basic shoe that will work with 70% of my wardrobe or should i follow my heart/sense of the absurd and purchase the whimsical statement shoe?

...

i think i'm in love.

well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-connected...

a few months after the renovation of our showroom was finally complete, we had our opening party/ICFF party. in true Design Week fashion, it was dazzling and our new space was all abuzz with the social twitter of the well-dressed, the well-coiffed, and the well-connected.

the party was an utter success, due mostly to the following:


slightly attractive male model/waiters who supplied the schmoozers with tasty hors d'oeuvres served on flashy grouted boards of glass mosaic tiles

tasty hors d'oeuvres


peace biscuit!!! new wave/throwback DJ extraordinaire with a tiny voice and a huge personality

my dress made a huge splash with the design-y sect. got lots o' compliments on my DVF - one fellow who was more than just a little reminiscent of that "i can't believe he's not a stud" fabio stopped me as i made me way from the dancefloor and demanded, "WHO does your dress?!" i responded in my flighty fashionista voice and he gasped a little, hand on chest, "ah! i LOVE diane."

between glasses of prosecco and sweaty twirls on the dancefloor, i managed to take a few piccies of various work-related people and their dates. there were a slew of fancy italian ladies in fabulous italian fabrics, jewel tones, and fine tweeds in unnatural colors.

spencer looked amazing in his new vest. tiya and aaron were both super festive/fab.

my new girllove, karen showed up with her fanciful friend and they danced the night away in adorable smock dresses and comically oversized spectacles.

at a respectable hour, the party began to wind down and we decided to go to dinner. reservations for 25 at Butter. holla.

indulged in a bit more booze, delicious sea bass and asparagus with shallots. tasty, tasty.


a more than satisfactory monday night...

j'ai alle a montreal avec mon amour...

airport
the opposite of a warm reception. lots o' customs. suitcase checker lady hit on me just a tad. absolutely no one in the airport. ghost town, canada. rude, rude, rude. mysterious bus that took us to somewhere - didn't know exactly where it would drop us off, we just lucked out that it was only 1 metro stop from where we were staying.



first day
stayed in mont royal... hip/hippie young part of town. lots o' boutiques and even more cafes. stopped off at our hotel to check in and drop our bags off... sweetest brown girl with heavily accented english showed us our room. delicious brunch and kir royales. skipped in the rain. nap and disaster television involving gruesome plane crashes and burn victims. decadent dinner of various sausages and giant beers at a belgian rest-o-raunt a mere hop/skip/jump from our hotel.

second day
it was still raining. the hotel staff left a delicious breakfast for us outside our door, consisting of croissants, jams, orange juice, tea and fruit which we thoroughly enjoyed before venturing out into the gray, overcast city. headed downtown where we stumbled across a cirque de soleil tent. stopped off for a delicious lime tart and chocolate-drizzled almond croissant at sweets shop. window shopped in touristy old montreal. explored a labyrinthine underground maze of subway tunnels. took the train a few stops and disembarked in yet another young/hippie area.

it was by this time that i'd determined that montreal is a great place if you're young, artistic, and financially unambitious.

spent the afternoon wandering down narrow straights and in and out of vaguely french boutiques. stopped in at a fun-looking vintage shop on rue st-denis only to come face to face with my beloved duck duck dave's french canadian doppleganger. the likeness was uncanny, save for canadian dave's thick accent and love of fanciful chapeaus. while he was ringing us up, he told us a charming anecdote about how, while his english grammar is fine, he struggles with vocabulary every once in a while. apparently, he and his pals are making art porn photographs of vajayjay, and while discussing the project with a potential investor, he wanted to make it clear that it would be more art than porn. unfortunately, he couldn't quite think of the proper verbage and ended up proclaiming that the project would only involve "tasty vagina". thankfully the investor understood that dear canadian dave meant to refer to the ladyparts as "tasteful" and they all had a good chuckle.

we parted ways with doppleganger dave since sunday shopping hours were quickly drawing to a close and i had yet to purchase anything spectacularly french canadian aside from a handful of expertly executed culinary triumphs. and then suddenly, a beautiful, striped dress caught my eye from across the busy thoroughfare. i felt compelled to enter this boutique, lustre and to sample their wares. everything was moderately boutique priced (low to mid $100s) which i thought was fair considering the level of craftsmanship and the whimsical nature of their prints. i tried on a few pretty things, but they were made to fit ladies with more endowments, until i came across the loveliest striped jumper dress in the most muted tones of eggplant and wine. it's jersey. it cupcakes out to just below my knees. i stood admiring my reflection in front of the mirror, commenting that the only thing that could make this garment more perfect was if it had... POCKETS! as soon as i uttered the word, my hands instinctively found two pockets at my hips, hidden within the delicate folds of canadian jersey. alas, i had found my purchase and nothing was going to stop me from making it mine. the lustre girls locked the shop door behind me and spencer and i worked our way back onto the street into the increasingly clear late afternoon sun.


more street wandering. more vintage window-shopping. ended stopping for a couple of drinks at a low-key bar near the hotel. second-story, streetside, with a great view of the neighborhood. uber pleasant bartender. the bathroom had saloon doors. a couple hours later, we headed back to the room for a much needed nap.

slept a long time, only waking up long enough to head down the street for a surprisingly greasy plate of pasta and some tea.

last day
woke early and braved a long line outside of a restaurant we'd noticed on our first day. it did not disappoint. most delicious brunch i'd had in a super long time and it was at this point that i determined that montreal was not only ideal for loafing artists, but also for foodies, as nothing i'd consumed in the span of 3 days did anything less than utterly delight my senses.

headed back out to the airport, back through customs, back on the plane, and back to new york city. tired, well-fed, and totally in love with our gentle, bilingual, hippie neighbors to the north.

adventures in afrocentrism...

i wasn't blessed with afro textured hair.

but i was blessed with curls, the ability to procure superior products, and an imagination...

fancy italians and painful shoes...

one of the italian owners of our company is here right now and in honor of her presence, i am wearing supremely uncomfortable shoes.

damn Guess. and damn occupational pretenses.

but on the plus side...

our party is in a matter of days and i plan to twirl/schmooze my arse off with all the fancy designers and architects who will undoubtedly be in attendance.

i'm a well-dressed sucka...

thanks to my job's heavy involvement with the new york design community, i have been afforded the opportunity to attend a handful of parties in the near to very near future. i have achieved varying levels of preparedness for each of these parties. for example, there's one black tie affair in a matter of days for which i have yet to procure an adequate garment. and then there's my work party for ICFF design week... let me spin you a brief tale of a girl thrown into the shopping mecca of SoHo with a nice commision check and a taste for designer.

yesterday, i embarked on a relatively innocent window-shopping spree with my sensible/classy coworker, priscilla. we perused the ruffly edwardian blousons at max azria and the shimmery, citrusy silks at some high-end wooster street boutique. and then, barney's co-op. the bane of my financial existence for i always fall instantly in love with some high-priced gem that i know i should not even contemplate buying. yesterday was no exception.

against the back wall of the shop there's a rack heavily laden with exquisitely crafted dresses of silk and chiffon and linen and such. and sewn into the inside of each of those dresses is a little tag. and on that tag, the words "diane von furstenberg" blaze proudly and with conviction.

needless to say, i became enthralled with one (in my opinion) pricey piece in the floaty/mod/rainbow chiffon arena. it. is. amazing. but after nonchalantly glancing at the tag, i just couldn't justify spending that kind of money on one garment. camera equipment, sure! but a dress?! that's unheard of in lauriebot-ville. i placed the dress back on the rack and left, willing myself to put it out of my mind.

unfortunately... i was unsuccessful.

i managed to bring it up in practically every conversation i had in the next 24 hours. it made a cameo in my dream last night. so finally, i had to admit to myself that diane
von furstenberg clearly had a hold on me. so i resolved to head back to barney's co-op after work today to try it on. my hypothesis was that since the material is so flowy and amorphous, there would be a very high probability that it would overwhelm my frame, giving me the appearance of a coat hanger or a slightly malnourished child playing dress-up in her voluptuous mother's fancy clothes.

this was not the case.

it fit me to the max! it's exactly the length i want. it twirls. the chiffon feels divine against my legs. the colors are so vibrant i can't imagine ever feeling anything less than blissfully elated whilst wearing it.

so after a good 10 minutes of prancing/twirling in the powder blue dressing room, i solemnly resolved myself to my fate, headed to the register, handed over my card and spent too much dough on a perfectly beautiful dress.

and now there's little else to say except that i am a sucka.

but at least i'm well-dressed.

artfully...

saturday couldn't pass quickly enough. got home, watched some cartoons and passed out, hoping that the time before spencer arrived would somehow pass more quickly were i to sleep the hours away. awoke at 10:57 to discover that i'd missed a couple o' texts. hopped in the shower and as soon as i got out, i got the call... "let down your hair, rapunzel..." he was at the front door.

purple pants again, this time with my coveted tweed jumper and boots. skipped over to the G, where we began a slow trek up to the pencil factory. met up with tiya and coworkers for a birthday celebration for their blogger. drank a gin&tonic faster than i ever have before. high fived and talked jive with a fellow district kid as the whole posse made its way over to studio b for a night of what was supposed to be indietronic, electrostasticity. unfortunately, it turned out to be pretty lame clubby music, accompanied by very poor transitions and a fog machine. they did play some good danceable soul and i was drunk enough so as to not be terribly bothered. drinks were expensive, the bartender was chatty/friendly. the coat check boys were very tall and very short, respectively. ventured away from the group and spencer got to finally enjoy some quality time with tiya & aaron, during which tiya took advantage of my drunkenness and totally got to 2nd base. decided the tunes were too lame to bear much longer, so we called a car to take us home. got sidetracked by the prospect of fried chicken - got the driver to stop, but he got tired of waiting and eventually deserted us, which was fine because we were drunk and in the presence of the most delicious fried chicken any of us had encountered in our relatively short lives. seriously... fried chicken palace on the corner of nassau and manhattan... you won't be sorry.

sunday was designated spencer & laurie quality time day. got up early and lounged around. the lodge for brunch... challah french toast, blueberry pancakes, mimosa, bloody mary, crispy bacon as far as the eye can see. eavesdropped on the hipsters seated next to us; apparently, a moustachioed hipster who was more than a tad reminiscent of modern jason, recently had the worst sex of his life with a girl who was "like fucking a dead person". the women on the other side of us had terribly cliche jersey accents. finished up and headed over to the L with the intention of seeing jeff wall's photog exhibit at moma. made it all the way uptown before realizing we had little to no idea where MoMa is. i recognized a pizza place and set us travelling in the right direction but we accidentally went to the met instead. the daylight was waning and so were museum operating hours, so we decided to make the best of a lame museum and headed for the modern art wing. it didn't disappoint - all our favorites were represented and the halls were virtually tourist free.

trudged back downtown to hit up trader joe's for some bresaola, cheese and wine for that evening's oscar party but the line was wrapped all the way round the store (they were actually blocking some of the produce!) so we nixed the snacks and just got a couple bottles o' vino next door. stopped for a quick slice in a very dirty pizza shop and then back to brooklyn to catch a quick lounge before rocking emy and lydia's party.

the party was cozy, got mulled wine upon entering. perched on some stools and i enjoyed catching the ladies in the room eyeing my hot mantoy. allie showed up late in all her banged glory and we giggled and she regaled us with skiing stories. so many snacks. so many booze choices. had the most delicious fancy rum. made friends with my white, male, gay, comic counterpart. my cousin keisha's hubby won best actor so i'm thinkin i should probably send them something congratulatory. way to go forrest! i thought most of the ladies had lame dresses and bad hair (what's up with the sideswept, over one shoulder, mermaid locks sported by so many hollywood girls?) i was also disappointed that the female presenters weren't funny at all. ellen was adorable and hilarious. i loved the dancers/contortionists. and jack nicholson looked like a sweaty turtle.

it snowed a lot that night, making the walk home both magical and slippery.

monday SPENCER'S BIRTHDAY- up early, sausage and donuts and tea. lounged on the bed watching cartoons and wasting time before mustering the energy to head over to beacon's closet. bought the most astounding leather doctor bag (that's actually designer or something and costs a pretty penny, in my book) and a color-blocked, muscle sweater vest by jordache (try and imagine that). birthday lunch at sea. pad thai and thai iced tea... yummers. lagged on the way home, and was sad for a bit, but then spencer's impulsive impracticality kicked in and he decided to stay another night... yay! ice cream and cartoons in bed before crashing... warm and happy to the max.