My good friend Courtney introduced me to Zazen nail salon a few years ago, and I’ve been hard pressed to find a place that beats it— so hard pressed that I don’t really even try. The first and maybe the most important thing to know about this place is that the girls who work there are always having fun (or ridiculously good at faking it). I’ve never sat down in a chair there and felt awkward or uncomfortable because someone was yelling at or talking to someone in a language I don’t know. Nope, the girls there are professional and easy to talk with about anything.

Drinks. Okay they’re always willing to bring you water and hot tea— sometimes, a cookie or a snack too. If you’re there at one of their special times, you might be privy to a Mimosa or Happy Hour treat, all on the house, because it’s part of being treated right. Then, of course, if you’re going up with a party of your friends, like I did for my birthday last year, you can always BYO and they’ll serve it up for you. When I say amazing, I mean it.

The services themselves are out of this world, always including massages and hot towels. They also use Zoya nail polish, which I swear takes much longer to chip than normal nail polish. So although they offer gel manicures, I’m inclined to stick to a regular mani, because the polish is so awesome.

I could go on and tell you about how clean the place is or how it’s located within the borough, so I can just walk there. But really, don’t just take my word for it, call me up and I’ll book our appointment— we should go, just to make sure I’m not lying.

Plus, nail art

About once every few weeks I get a solid craving for a bitter, substandard cup of Starbucks coffee in the morning. Today, as I scraped the crust from my eyes and the ice from my windshield, I knew the only way I could jumpstart my internal engine was to look for the nearest green siren plastered on a sign, and give in to her calls for patronage. I was on my way to Maserati this morning, a solid 25 miles of twisty tree lined roads, through a ritzy side of town referred to as the “Main Line”. Surely there would be at least 8 Starbucks along the way, because nothing shouts Main Line more than an absurd amount of Starbucks in a small concentrated area. Starbucks is like the epicenter of suburban mom living, a lululemon yoga pant wearing, luxury SUV driving, cougar hotspot. But today was persistent on throwing me curveballs, as during that traffic riddled, middle-finger-flipping car ride, not a single Starbucks appeared. I arrived at Maserati coffee-less and pissy. I demanded the location of the nearest ‘bucks and was told that freedom was merely another 4 blocks up the road.

I pulled into the architecturally androgynous strip mall that housed my destination, and took my place in line amongst the other cars waiting for their fix. When it was my turn to speak into the little black box I gleefully ordered my large red eye, drove around the side of the building, and came face to face with a funny little scenario that set off a chain of rants in my head.

Sitting outside the Starbucks drive-through window was a tip jar, and the lady in front of me reached out to drop in a tip just as the attendant turned away to grab her order. She quickly brought her hand back, waited until he approached the window again, and with accepting her cup of coffee simultaneously dropped in some change for her “barista” to see and thank her for doing. It was a kind gesture, executed with a bit of vanity, that even I’m guilty of doing. I first wanted to talk about my vane tipping habit, and figure out if others are guilty of the same, but my thoughts/focus quickly changed (as they sooooo often do), and I began to take aim at a new target. Why the hell does anyone tip the people at Starbucks anyway?

Firstly, my first job was at a Metro Detroit coffee place, when I was 16. It was as old school, legit, and laborious as the coffee making process can possibly get. Two massive steamer tanks had to get warmed up each morning, and each specialty coffee drink started with freshly ground beans pressed into a shot cup that was locked into place under the tanks. From there you had to wrap both hands around and practically hang from a large stainless steel lever, to press the steam through the grounds. After that, it was on to the milk preparation, I’d fill a metal canister with 2%/Skim/Soy/Almond/Mothers/Whatever variety of milk that was all the rage at the time and head back to the steamer. I’d plunge a metal wand down, and begin the intricate balancing act of heating the milk and creating a moderate amount of foam to top each delicious drink off. It was a delicate task, that often resulted in second degree facial and hand burns from milk burbling up with each mistake I made. I was lucky to go home with $15 dollars in tips on a weekend, all for a 10 minute drink making process and long lines daily. Now yes, I can imagine the typical Starbucks customer to be a bit of a pain in the ass to deal with, and they do work mighty hard dealing with the daily rush, but Starbucks corporate has done a mighty fine job of taking most of the “labor” out of the process.

Secondly, why the fuck don’t we tip, let’s say, White Castle employees? I don’t think I’m stretching things too far when I say that the average White Castle employee busts their ass just a wee bit harder, deals with far more shit at 2am on a Saturday, and could potentially use the cash just a tad more. Not that I’m demeaning the demographic of your typical White Castle/fast food chain employee, but I don’t see many entitled middle-class suburban kids lining up to make a few bucks flipping burgers. At what point was a line drawn up that makes the majority of us feel it necessary to tip the folks at Starbucks, but neglect a massive portion of low-wage earning service industry workers?

I love the environment Starbucks keeps; it’s a warm, welcoming place with staff that are trained very well at what they do and keep a solid level of professionalism. But at what point did we, or Starbucks corporate, find it necessary to break the mold in fast food tipping practices? Or better yet, if this is something that we find to be a norm now, why aren’t, why hasn’t, corporate White Castle tossed out a jar for tipping their employees, would we even bother to do it if they did? I can picture it now, as I wait for my steamy hot Crave Case to meet my mouth, I could ponder over whether the cutesy questioned tip jar deserves the drop of my change. I got a suggestion for Starbucks, how about “Do you prefer Rainbows?” or “I don’t really give a shit, it’s not like you deserve this anyway, but I feel guilty and everyone else is watching.”

We walked into 2012, unsure. I’ll leave Evan to tell you our tale of glory, but for now, you should know that in January of 2012, I absolutely wanted to punch Evan and run for the hills of Chester County.

2012 started with a fight, with my best friend and business partner. We screamed at each other, we took low verbal jabs at each other; we stayed in the same room together and promised to keep fighting.  Maybe the best part of 2012 was realizing I had a friend I could fight with and love at the same time?

We moved straight from that fight into our first ever tax season as a company. No one ever told me I would owe the government more money if I owned a company. And believe me, my reassuring business partner, Evan, NEVER mentioned it. So instead of a BIG tax refund, I owed money, gross, gross, gross.

Owning a company is hard; owning this company feels nearly impossible. My business partner constantly wants new equipment; I can’t take a picture to save my life; Evan stinks at keeping track of receipts; apparently I suck at giving directions via iMaps, and exactly how can I keep a mileage log for an epic trip I didn’t get to go on? This company is MORE than I bargained for.

But I recently heard someone say, “If you focus on the problem, you’ll miss the promise.”

In the end, that’s what this year, has been all about, remembering that the problem is not the promise. The promise that despite the fact that this is not easy, there will be beauty unknown, there will be chances we never dreamed of, there will be take your breath away moments in abundance.

This company is MORE than I bargained for. I never liked cars before, well before; I spent a few days riding around in a McLaren. I never liked computers, well before; we were let into IBM’s headquarters. And I never liked fear of the unknown— until I learned to walk through it.

2012: MORE than I bargained for, and that’s MORE than fine with me.

Sarah is an amazing stylist, but there is something inside her, that doesn’t let her stop there. When thinking of people with big hearts, people who put others ahead of themselves, people who are so uncomfortable with injustice that they will do something about it, you should start with a conversation about Sarah Rappolt. She saves up, she sets goals, and she makes change, in big life altering ways.

And right now, she’s got a dream I’m dying to share with you.

Sarah’s starting a new organization called, Trade Up!  Specifically, Trade Up! will provide 1,000 hours of vocational and professional skills training in the field of Cosmetology to at-risk junior and senior high school students in Brooklyn, New York. It will provide a comprehensive curriculum by elite members of the industry while mentoring our students in social and professional skills. Upon completion of the program and an “on time” graduation from high school, participants will be fiscally sponsored to sit for the Cosmetology licensing exam and will

Let’s recap, Sarah’s (along with a key group of friends) bringing the best of the best in the industry to at risk kids in Brooklyn, she’s teaching them, helping them to get their license, and making a difference that has the potential to give someone a lifelong advantage.

It’s a massive undertaking but, here’s how you can help. December 27th OR 28th come to West Chester, PA and get your hair cut by Bumble & Bumble’s very own Sarah Rappolt. Cuts will be $65 or however much you’re willing to give — all the proceeds will go to filing the final paperwork that will make Trade Up! offical!

Hair Before Sarah . . . Oh My

Life with Sarah hair . . . Oh yay!

If you can’t make it to West Chester, but you live in NYC or close to West Chester, you can arrange your own cut day if you have 10 or more friends willing to participate!

This piece was originally written over the summer, but it sat on my computer because I couldn’t find the pictures I wanted to  go with it. Hurricane Sandy left us with the perfect visual to go with this story that’s long overdue.

Ever since we started Average Enthusiast, new words have been swirling around in my head. Shutter speed. Three point edit. F-stop. I’m picking up and running with the current, because I love this company and the way we do things— even if it means I have to watch a boring video about a civil war reenactment five times to learn the right shortcuts for that stupid cool three point edit.

Slowly, the words are sinking in and becoming a part of me, but lately one word keeps coming back to me, bringing me to attention, and reminding me that this moment, every moment is more.

Watermark.

Granted this isn’t a new word for me. But, using it in everyday dialogue is new. We try to put our watermark on everything we do, or your watermark on everything we did for you, because it’s important for others to see where something’s coming from. It’s a simple concept really, like writing your name on a paper in elementary school.

Then I’m reminded of something I read recently by Kelly Gallagher, “Sticks have long been planted in shoreline to measure the depth of tides. When the water recedes at any given spot, it leaves a mark on the stick, indicating how high the previous tide reached. Long after the water is gone, the mark on the stick—the watermark—remains.”

And so, a watermark remains. A memory, a symbol . . . lingering within a moment, so we wouldn’t forget. I’m left thinking about my life, about the right now moments and the long gone moments that deserve a watermark. Moments that deserve more than the moment they were given, because somehow they’ve changed the course of me.

1. My Grandfather taking me to the boardwalk for donuts, before the big kids woke up.
2. The feeling I had when I landed my very first teaching job.
3. The fight that turned into a conversation— that forced me to change who I am.
4. You reading this right now, and thinking— What are my watermarks?

Ground so sacred for the American muscle cars that its foundation was forged from, was caught shouting “the Redcoats are coming, the Redcoats are coming,” as the push of a button and 616hp propels us through a 5 day journey where potholes, high curbs, and passing motorists with cell phone cameras clicking would make Detroit the ultimate test for pushing a supercar to its everyday usability limits. These photos from Day 1 show that the McLaren passed the test, and the city that graciously opened its arms to the Volcano Oragne MP4-12c will forever be the backdrop to our dream come true.

I vaguely remember my first Tigers game. At some point in my distant childhood, my Uncle took my two cousins and I out to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull, where I cheered on the home team in what would be the only game I’ve ever attended at old Tiger Stadium. I recall my view was obstructed by a large blue steel I-beam that supported a balcony which rose high above my head. It didn’t matter anyway, I was more impressed by the fact that I could just toss my peanut shells on the ground, with no consequence, then whatever the final score was.

I was born a fan of hockey, Red Wings were first and foremost, so all other sports and their coinciding teams failed to resonate much with me. It wasn’t until 2005 that I’d attend another Tigers game. Even then it was less fandom, and more a romanticized vision of drinking beer from the bleacher seats of a mid-summers game that had me hooked on going to the park. Then, in 2006, just like the numerous losing seasons the Tigers had prior, something snapped in myself, the team, and the city of Detroit.

It was during the Fall of that year where I found myself living outside Pittsburgh, PA, in a shitty college town, where home was a small second story rental above my over zealous, Bible touting, anti-alcohol landlord. It was a town and situation I didn’t fit into well. I attended a tech school where half the guys beat off over pictures of diesel trucks, and the women grew hair on their chest faster than I, simply because they pounded cans of Iron City like it was their job. I knew I was there to better my future with hopes of landing a career after a failed 2-year stint at Central Michigan University, but I couldn’t help but feel more lost with my direction in life, and isolated with myself as I struggled deeply to see where I fit in to this jigsaw of a situation. Toss in the instance I asked my landlord for a corkscrew to pop a bottle of wine, and instead got a lecture on how I was sinner with a one way ticket to Hell— nothing looked more promising than the day I could head back to Detroit.

Coincidentally, the city I identified so greatly with was going through some awkwardly tough times as well. The American auto industry was sinking faster than a stone in the sea, and with it went the economy of the entire Metro Detroit region. Adding the cherry to the top of our shit sundae, our mayor, Kwame Kilpatrick, stepped down as he went face to face with 10 felony charges that included perjury and banging his Chief of Staff (the later isn’t a crime, but the schmuck was married). It’s safe to say that between my lack of belonging, and a city on the brink of ruin, Detroit and I needed something to save us.

Then on Saturday, October 14th, a typical grey cast night in the D, saved us all. The crack of a bat in the bottom of the 9th at the hands of Magglio Ordóñez, sent Huston Street’s pitch so high into orbit, some say it still hangs above Lake St. Claire to this day. Collectively, myself, the stadium, and the entire state of Michigan leapt to their feet as one. A rush of emotion and joy, disguised as a walk off home run, had enveloped me. I teared up and still do, watching replays of the clip; anytime that moment plays out on the television, I am suddenly home again. I feel like I’m in Detroit, and jointly, all the weight that was carried on our shoulders has been lifted, with a baseball that in the famous words of Tigers legend Ernie Harwell, was “long gone.”

Last year, in an emotional speech after the Tigers clinched the ALDS, through weary eyes and a hoarse voice, skipper Jim Leyland expressed how sports can effect a town and its people. “It’s in tough times, the people in Detroit, we know that, and believe me it’s not something that we don’t think about, we do . . . during times like this, a sports team can uplift your spirits, and I hope that we uplift the spirits of the fans in Detroit because they deserve it.” I believe that sentiment all the way down to my core.

From that victory in 06’, to the journey through these past seasons that sees us going back to the World Series this year. My love for baseball has grown to a level that has me following the Tigers all seasons on MLB Season Pass. And whenever I get homesick, or feel a bit lost along the way of this wacky journey I’m on. . . a familiar voice on the radio or a clip from YouTube always lifts my spirit to the place that it belongs—Detroit.