Final Countdown

The time is finally here. I am going to Spain in less than 2 days! Life has been insane the last month so time went by very quickly. Here's a rundown of my December:

• Salon, everybody needs holiday hair
• Christmas projects (Why did I volunteer to be the family historian?)
• Salon, more people need holiday hair
• Christmas celebrations/ avoiding sugar (yes, I still don't eat it)
  
• Salon, apparently everyone's hair is an emergency :)
• Snow, driving in it takes 8 years longer than usual
• Salon, I think I should have slept there because I practically lived there

As you can tell by my list, I didn't really have time to do much else in the month of December besides hair. Don't get me wrong, I love being busy and making my clients' holiday hair fantasies come true, I just need a good break now. Lucky for me, I'm getting one! Spain here I come!

I will try to post while I'm there, but don't count on it... :)

As Requested...

I have a request to expound on the teaser in the last post about not having long hair. Although this is a hard one to tell I will take one for the team, I may shed a few tears. So here's the history of why my hair never got caught in the rope swing while unwinding at the speed of sound is this:

At the tender age of 6 going on 7, circa year 1989, I had a desire to get my haircut. While on a trip to Colorado, my grandmother raved about the wonderful head massage she got while getting her hair done at the local salon. I apparently had already developed my propensity and love of massages while so young because I cried out with a plea to my mother, that I too wanted to get my hair cut and of course get a head massage. My request was granted and I was driven to the salon.

At this point in the story, my memory becomes hazy, perhaps is has something to do with trying to block traumatic, scary life experiences out. It's a defense mechanism. What I do remember is this, I got a hair cut but I never got the head massage only a spray down with the water bottle and somehow my request for a hair cut was interpreted to mean I wanted a hair cut like my grandma. I'm sure you are already imagining Relief Society hair/Roller set hair, and your imagination has served you well. I left that salon disappointed and confused on why I no longer had my luscious, dark curls.

This moment in time resulted in a 5 year drama of short, never cute hair because I didn't know how to do it or had never imagined such beauty as a flat iron. Don't worry I have school pictures to prove it. The battle was finally won in the sixth grade, which in my experience is not the best time to go through awkward stage in the grow out process. It's awkward enough on its own.

Before the hair was actually long I was mistaken for my sister's brother and other such gender guessing questions. Excuse me, for not having any determining feminine characteristics. The "girls" didn't come til later.

To answer a certain someone's question, I didn't have to worry about getting my hair caught in the swing because in my tender, elementary age years, I looked like:

Yes, this is Pat. I was Pat's long lost sibling complete with high waisted "dockers," button up shirt, glasses and of course the hair. It's true, I swear. I think telling my story has been cathartic and good for me, maybe now I can move on in my life... :)

Welcome to the Forest

Some of you may know, but some of you may not know. I, Ruthie, was born and raised in a forest. This forest to be more specific.

No I was not actually delivered in said forest, but I was brought home from the hospital to this quiet, well secluded region of the Northwest and lived there until the tender, naive age of 18.

Last week I had the opportunity to go home for Thanksgiving and decided to try and capture a bit of my home to share with friends. Now you may start to understand when I say "I grew up in a forest."

The house I grew up in and the very green front yard

My backyard

More backyard (Mt. Hood in the distance)


Front yard, and the trees I used to pretend were the front door to my house, where I would make mudpies.

Tree swings, my cousins and I did "tricks" on. We also spun each other up really high and tried not to get sick or their really long hair caught in the ropes.
(I did not have really long hair but that subject will not be discussed any further)

I also grew up along side Christmas trees.
It still pains me slightly to see fake Christmas trees.
My dad also says it's like taking food food out of his mouth.

I don't know if you knew, but Oregon is always wet. Including the spider webs.

This little guy must love rain.


Does your dad light a soaking wet brush pile on fire on
Thanksgiving morning and get the flames this big?

We lovingly call this area of the property "Fairyland"
I think the picture explains it all.


View from the Christmas tree field.


My grandfather's barn and authentic farm equipment.

There it is, my childhood playground. If you ever need a vacation where you don't ever have to see anyone, let me know. My parents are very hospitable. You could ride around on the tractor with my dad and eat really good food, made by my mom.