There is an adorable young woman who works as a barista there, a bubbly yet cool and proficient redhead who remembers my name and what I like to order, every single time. Recently, I arrived on an atypically hot and muggy day, and as I waited in line I noticed that the place was not over-air-conditioned as usual. This was fine by me, as I am one of those people who is always whining about being too cold and hardly ever feel the need to turn on the AC; however, toiling away in a small space filled with humming electrical appliances, ovens and steam-spewing industrial-size espresso machines could make the iciest ice queen sweat. My favorite barista was doing just that, and the poor thing was wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

When my turn came at the counter, I asked her what was up, and she explained that the AC was broken. “If it stays like this for much longer,” she said, “I’m wearing short sleeves, I don’t even care. It’s unbearably hot back here.”

I looked around at her coworkers, who were all wearing short-sleeved shirts, tattoos blazing. “Why don’t you?” I asked her. “Everyone else is. Is it because you are a manager or are they breaking the rules or what?”

“No, it’s my psoriasis,” she explained, showing me her arms. “A customer complained. He wrote to the store saying that looking at my arms made him physically sick”.

Reader, my jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious,” I said.

The barista went on to explain that because of this customer’s complaint, her boss had advised her to wear long sleeves to work at all times.

The fact that psoriasis is neither contagious nor communicable, or that it’s not even controllable for those with the condition is not the most outrageous miscarriage of ethics here. To me, the bigger outrage is that the manager of this supposedly kinder, gentler coffee chain saw fit to penalize-no, it’s worse than that-to create an unfit work environment for this extremely skillful, patient, lovely young person who remembers people’s names, whose smile lights up the entire room, all because one man chose to complain to the management that having to endure just looking at this woman’s (non-contagious, non-communicable) skin disorder during the time it takes to order a cup of coffee was just too traumatic an experience to bear.

I would postulate that  if this man were so easily sickened by people whose arms look different than his, perhaps he should proceed quickly to the nearest magical fantasy coffee world, where everyone’s appearance is tailored to his particular set of specifications. What if someone complained to this manager that he was made physically ill by the sight of blonde women making his coffee? Or men under six feet tall? What should his employees be asked to do then?

If I were the manager, I would have suggested that this man could, oh, I don’t know…not look?

They were the shoes I thought only existed in my dreams. An unusual shade of deep forest green, round toed, t-strapped Mary Janes, with a perfect three-inch chunky heel and one-inch platform. They were perched atop a humongous pile of worn black cowhide, the only shoes in an ocean of coats. It was as if they had suddenly appeared out of thin air, incongruous in their surroundings, and I swear I heard angels sing as my salivary glands sprung to life and I was helpless against the siren song of The Shoes. I had to have them.

As my band-mates waited impatiently, I felt compelled by an unstoppable force to get to the shoes as quickly as possible. I approached the stocky, suede-capped man who was packing up his wares for the day, and stammered, “The shoes. Are they for sale?”

Thank God he spoke English, because let me tell you, Dutch is no joke. I spent a decent amount of time with a Dutch tour manager, in Holland, and frankly I couldn’t make head or tail of the language no matter how I tried.

“These shoes? Oh, they were my daughter’s, she does not want them anymore,” said the gentleman.

“Could I-may I please-is it all right if I…I WANT them” I stammered too loudly, wiping drool from my chin. I had lost my ability to speak properly, so entranced I was by my  proximity to The Shoes.

“Sure, you can put on”, the salesman kindly replied.

With trembling hands I took The Shoes from his weathered hands and sat clumsily on a pile of  worn black leather. I wrenched off the boots I had been wearing every day for a month, boots I had previously loved but now couldn’t stand the sight of, and as I slipped my feet into The Shoes, everything else seemed fuzzy and distant. Nothing else existed in that moment save for me and The Shoes, which fit perfectly, as if they were made for me and had been waiting for me as long as I had fantasized about them.

The leather man was either in a hurry to pack up, or he saw the crazy American girl’s dilated pupils and the flushed glow of desperate passion in my face, but what happened next remains one of the finest fashion moments in my memory.

“You take them”, he said.

“Oh, but I don’t have enough money I don’t think, actually I don’t know because I haven’t figured out the Kroners or whatever, and I have to go, I’m sorry, but I…I love them.”

“You take them. No pay. My daughter doesn’t want them, you can have”, replied my new God.

This went on for a few minutes, with my band-mates and the other band with whom we were touring standing by supremely annoyed (they were all guys, they didn’t understand) until finally one of them yelled, “TAKE THE SHOES AND LET’S GO.”

My new leather-clad Diety smiled and handed them to me gently. I looked up at him with what must have been a mixture of adoration, worship and gratitude, and I took The Shoes, which were now mine, and I was in heaven.

I wore those things until they literally broke in half on my feet. I had them resoled four times, eventually resorted to duct tape, and finally had to perform a sort of self-intervention to force myself to let them go. We had a great ride, me and The Shoes.

I searched far and wide for a photo of The Shoes, of me wearing them, so I could show you their fabulousness, but all the pics I found are of me behind the drum kit or that don’t show my feet. Rest assured, Reader, they were amazing. I haven’t found another pair like them since. It was one of those magical fashion experiences that comes along a few times in one’s lifetime, and I am grateful to have had the pleasure.

For those among us who are helpless in the face of aesthetic perfection, who become weak in the knees at the click of a newly opened compact, it is the shared conviction that there is transformative power in a new tube of lip gloss, that there is real magic in mascara. One person in particular stands out in my memory when I seek to define what compels those of us afflicted with beauty obsession.

RK was (and doubtless still is) a brilliant makeup artist, interior designer, costume designer and creator, stage performer and possibly the most aesthetically obsessed human ever. RK  is one of the most strikingly beautiful people, male or female, I have ever met. RK is also Transgender.

Having been born genetically male, RK described the experience of living in a male body as a child and adolescent as horribly uncomfortable and just plain wrong; like the itchiest, most ill-fitting mohair sweater that you can never take off , while everything in your soul, heart and mind screams for a do-over.

One needs only to be in her presence for a nanosecond to know that RK has clearly blossomed into her rightful place in the world as the gorgeous, hyper-feminine woman she has become. She is the definition of glamour.

She would always say, “I just know how to make things pretty”. But she knows much, much more than that. She is gentle and kind, sensitive to the feelings of others, stronger than anyone I have ever known, powerful, fiercely intelligent  and multitalented beyond words.

At the tail end of our time together as coworkers, there was much upheaval and turnover in our place of employ. New, untrained management and employees were thrown into what had been a rather familial environment, and company policy began to change. One of the bi-products of this upheaval was that a new manager continually referred to RK as “Him”, as in, “Please ask RK if he would take his break now”.

As you can imagine, this was incredibly offensive to RK, and to the rest of us, as her friends and coworkers. For what defines male and female, masculine and feminine, but our own definition of ourselves? It is pretty much common knowledge that human sexuality and gender definition is on a continuum, not starkly one way or the other. Do we not have the right to live honestly and openly as exactly the person we want to be? Every single time we allow others to define us, it is a tiny death of our own spirit. And it broke my heart to see the hurt and indignation in RK’s beautiful, perfectly lined eyes when she was addressed in this ridiculous way. Neither of us remained at this establishment for much longer after that.

Unacceptable is not a strong enough word for this kind of ignorance. It is, Dear Reader- and I am loath to say it- not at all pretty.

You want scary? I’ve got a scary story for you: It really happens, though usually not overnight.  Research shows that stress and trauma can, indeed, accelerate the grays. Mostly, heredity dictates when and how we go gray. However, there has been much buzz lately about President Obama’s saltier temples, spurring the media to postulate that the stress of the early days of his presidency are accelerating the aging process for the leader of the free world. The New York Times recently published an article on this very topic.

Let me break it down: Hydrogen peroxide, which is present in the hair follicle, is a natural oxidant. Remember Sun-In, the spray that turned our hair fluorescent orange in the Eighties? Pure hydrogen peroxide. The same stuff that comes in the industrial brown plastic bottle that fizzes when applied to a skinned knee.

High levels of hydrogen peroxide in your hair retard the production of pigment, which results in gray hair. Now, the flip side is that we naturally produce an enzyme called catalase that breaks down hydrogen peroxide.  When catalase function decreases, the levels of hydrogen peroxide rise. So the question is, how do stress, fear, terror, anxiety, etc. affect catalase production? The jury is still out.

Shut the front door! What next? Stress causes spontaneous, explosive incontinence? I’m getting stressed out just imagining the possibilities.

Thanks to L’oreal Feria T42 Deep Beige Brown, I am prepared, if not to alleviate life’s stressors, at least to not look completely ravaged by them. It is a new shade, and it totally rules. Now that I can’t afford to have my hair colored professionally, my stylist recommends Feria as one of the best OTC alternatives, and so far, so great.

As for stress, well, bring it on.

I stopped by the gallery on Baldwin street this past Wednesday afternoon, and took a sneak peek at the exhibition. It is going to be great, just the right small space and so many different pieces by local artists using all manner of media. There seems to be a vein of wood running through the heart of this show, which attracted me immediately; I love the scents, textures, the timeless and limitless relationship between humans and wood, and its intricate beauty juxtaposed with its utilitarian aspect. There are sculptures infused with poetry, literally and figuratively; stunning photographs by Kathy Lederhouse (example: the one shown above), vividly evocative paintings by Eric Zillner, and much, much more. If this isn’t beauty, I don’t know what is.

“Eunoia”will be on display until June 14 at the Common Wealth Gallery, 100 S. Baldwin, Madison, Wisconsin and is open for viewing and contemplation Monday through Friday, from 9 a.m to 5 p.m. Tonight’s opening is from 5:30 to 8 pm, and will feature original music composed and performed by Dave Smith, Wisconsin Arts Board Fellowship Recipient for Music Composition.

Oh, and there is a gourmet cracker bakery on the same floor as the exhibit, so it smells unbelievable, adding to the multisensory eperience. As an added bonus, these delicious morsels will be served this evening, courtesy of the bakery. So all five senses are more than covered. Who could ask for anything more on a balmy Friday evening? Yum.

Fresh is also one of my very favorite beauty brands. I have been using their skin care for years, both in my practice as an aesthetician and on my own face at home.  One of the company’s star products and, in my opinion, one of the best cleansers on the market at any price, is their Soy Face Cleanser.

I love a multitasker, and this stuff does it all. It is gentle enough to remove eye makeup, eliminating the need to buy a separate remover. It is made of extremely high-grade ingredients, including organic extracts of mallow, aloe, ginseng and cucumber, all of which calm irritation, protect against over-stripping, and keep skin texture elastic and smooth. You need only use a pea-size drop to thoroughly cleanse your entire face and neck. It is free of harsh surfactants, yet foams just enough to satisfy the oddly American lust for bubbles.

What really sets this fantastic face wash apart, however, is the soy. Soy extract is a potent anti-inflammatory for the epidermis, and get this: Soy, when applied topically, discourages hair growth over time. With consistent use, my clients with face fuzz noticed a marked reduction in pesky facial hair in hormonally-charged areas like the upper lip and chin. Just by washing their faces!  So fresh, so clean.

For more information about Soy Face Cleanser and the complete line of skin care, hair treatments and cosmetics, visit www.fresh.com.

Springtime in Wisconsin is, for me, bittersweet, because on the surface it is startlingly lovely, but my visceral reaction to this physically pretty environment is just as startling in an entirely opposite way. I have found that the most powerful and authentic art comes out of people from a place of discomfort, even anguish, and pain of many kinds, so it has to be a good thing.

Keeping things simple is a challenge for me. Today I am finding inspiration in nature (I cannot believe I just said that) to pare it all down.

Madison photographer Janis Nussbaum Senungetuk possesses not only the coolest last name ever, but also a gift for capturing light on nature’s loveliest and simplest. To wit: her photograph, “Glowing Tulips” shown above.

More of her work, along with that of many other Wisconsin artists whose work is focused on nature’s finest in America’s Dairyland, can be found at www.portalwisconsin.org.

Specific dates have never been a big deal for me, and here’s one reason why:  My dear friend and former band mate, Chris Hamley, does not give gifts on actual holidays; instead, he tends to celebrate his loved ones’ existence in his life at random, when the spirit moves him. I have always admired him for this, and myriad other of his exceptional qualities, his incredible gift for playing guitar being a prominent one.

I guess my point is, today is a government-sanctioned holiday, which, to many folks, just means a day off work and an excuse to ingest copious amounts of Bud Light. For those among us who have lost loved ones to war, today is deeply significant, but so is every day since they have left the planet. It’s not something that can be honored in a day. The loss of these brave folks, be they soldiers, artists, construction workers, every single person who has lived in a manner which propels forward goodness and freedom for something bigger than themselves, is worthy of honor today and every day.

I have never been able to listen to an entire Frank Zappa album. Honestly I don’t enjoy listening to an entire Frank Zappa song. However, I think he was one of the most gifted and bright and important artists of all time. His lifelong artistic contributions to the world, coupled with his equally lengthy and tireless dedication to the fight for artistic freedom and against artistic censorship make him one very heroic soldier in my eyes. So to celebrate this Memorial Day, I will leave you with one of my favorite of his quotes:

“Information is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not truth. Truth is not beauty. Beauty is not love. Love is not music. Music is the best.”

-Frank Zappa, November 19, 1979: Lyrics to the song Packard Goose on the album Joe’s Garage: Act III.

I am back in my hometown of Madison, Wisconsin after twenty years in DC and Baltimore. I never, ever thought I would be here again, wanted only to get out, get out as soon as I could and never look back.

But I am here, and I cannot do my work as an aesthetician or play the drums because of a series of nasty spinal injuries, surgeries, injections, a murky and exceedingly unpleasant realm which nobody can understand save those of us who have been through it. But rest assured, Dear Reader, this is not to be a forum for my public whining. Rather, I seek to continue to explore the meaning, expression and discovery of beauty, in all its forms, in theory and practice, internal and external, emotional, mental and physical.

Last year, I authored a beauty blog for the Examiner online. I treated it as a series of articles, addressing a different topic, product or idea in each post. Gradually, after my dear, brilliant and beautiful editor, Anne Henslee, left the Examiner, I was told by the new guard to change my approach, my titles and references (“too obscure”), jokes, language, and eventually to limit my posts only to products and local services, which, to me, would have been an incredibly narrow and exclusionary approach to the idea of beauty; since I was basically unpaid to do it, I felt that it had become a dishonest representation of my intent as a writer, aesthetician and appreciator of the myriad facets of what beauty means in American culture.

Over the years, I have published articles, reviews of books and music, interviews, and other stuff for the Washington City Paper . I always thought of writing as a little something extra that I could do in a creative pinch, that my skills in this arena were limited and unimportant as a real contribution. This may or may not be true. I intend to find out.

So now, like the lush and sparkling Wisconsin spring in which I am enveloped, I have sprung; I am attempting to silence the paltry excuses ( I don’t have a journalism, or any, degree, who would possibly take anything I have to say seriously, I am not really a writer because I dropped out of college, I don’t know the rules, etc.) and I am writing, because that is apparently what writers do.