Back to My Roots
Discovering that clean air and good hair aren't enough
By Suzanne Schlosberg
Southern Californians often fantasize about moving to small towns for the safe streets, the clean air, the sense of community.
I moved to Bend, Oregon-an unfamiliar town in a state where I knew no one-because of my hair.
The
saga began one morning after my 30th birthday, when I decided to face
facts. For three years I’d been dating a cop who considered "marriage"
synonymous with "incarceration." He loved me, but he loved his
patrol car more. Sadly, it was time to move on.
But where would I go? Alaska? Nebraska? Guam?
Feeling restless and weary of traffic jams, I wanted to see if I could make it on my own in a small town, like Mary Tyler Moore in reverse. So I jotted down my critieria: open spaces, dry weather, affordable rent, good biking. Then I scoured guidebooks such as "The American West" and "The Complete Jewish Traveler," which revealed there are 450 Jews in Idaho-about the same number living in my grandparents’ condo complex in Century City.
My friends were of no help. "Seattle rules!" said one.
"Seattle bites," groused another.
One friend lobbied for Portland, her hometown, although she later admitted she’d succumbed to UV light therapy to treat depression brought on by 43 consecutive days of rain.
I planned to narrow my list, then embark on a five-city tour, like a rock star, but without the groupies. One friend suggested I name my tour "SuzanneAid," but that made me sound like a beleaguered swine farmer. Ultimately, I went with Lollapasuz-a. I considered printing t-shirts but no sponsors surfaced.
My strategy was to spend a few days in each city acting like a resident. I’d work out at the gyms, loiter in the bookstores, evaluate the lattes.
My first stop was Ashland, Oregon, a town with too many wind chimes and New Age bookstores. Next I meandered over the Cascade mountains and pulled into Bend, a sunny, high-desert ski town of 32,000. As I wandered around, I was getting good vibes but wasn’t sure why.
Then the reason struck me: my hair. Until then, I’d had a bad hair life. I’d fought with a thick mass of unruly, brown curls more accurately described in terms of width than length.
But the bone-dry air of Bend had worked a miracle. It was as if, after 30 years coiled up in knots, my hair had let out a huge sigh of relief. It was soft. Flowing. Vertical. I sauntered through town smiling, my hair bouncing like a Breck girl. Bend, it seemed, might be the place for me.
To make sure, I stuck to plan and checked out Boise, which was drab, and then Salt Lake, a congested mess of freeway detours. Reno offered little beyond the breakfast buffet at Harrah’s.
Lollapasuza had ended with a clear-cut decision, and so I reported the news to my family in L.A.
"Bent?" my sister said. "You’re moving to Bent, Oregon?"
My parents, fine art dealers, acted as if I were relocating to the Alaskan bush. Dad wanted to know if Bend had movie theaters; Mom asked if the town had low-fat cream cheese. I assured them Bend was perfect: brimming with lakes and streams, but cosmopolitan enough to support five gyms, two Starbucks and a Barnes & Noble.
A month later, I headed out to Central Oregon. I had no idea whether I’d find love or happiness. I did know one thing: My hair would look fabulous.
I arrived in Bend on a high, confident in my decision and intoxicated by the fresh mountain air. I settled into a three-bedroom house with a pine staircase-for the same rent as my old one-bedroom apartment in L.A. My small-town fantasy had become reality. My bank teller knew my name. My newspaper was delivered by a boy on a bicycle, instead of an adult in a mini-van. Everyone in town wore a fleece vest.
The Jewish services lacked pretense, too. They were held once a month in the Methodist Church basement, where we sat on folding chairs, read from photo-copied prayer books, and listened to assorted rent-a-rabbis imported from larger cities.
I threw myself into the Bend community, joining a ski class, a volunteer literacy program, a club for the self-employed. I was excited to share my new life with my family when they flew up for a visit.
The first to come was my sister, a UCLA art student in New Genre, a field of study that primarily involves wearing black. Jen darted out of the airport tugging at her red flannel shirt. "I borrowed it!" she said, breathlessly. "I just knew this was the kind of place where you wear plaid!"
A few weeks later, my parents arrived. They, too, were wearing plaid, although they spent considerably less time bragging about it.
During their three-day visit, my folks expressed no interest in seeing Bend’s waterfalls, desert trails or volcanic rocks. They wanted to buy me wooden hangers for my guest closet. I suggested a Central Oregon cultural event: a trip to Wal-Mart. My suggestion was met less with loathing than fear. My parents had never been to a Wal-Mart.
"But they’re so big" my mom said, as Dad nodded in agreement.
I
quickly pinpointed the source of their insecurity: a fear of being surrounded
by so many products they had no clue how to use. Belt sanders, pellet
rifles, buck knives-these were not popular items in Malibu.
We purchased the hangers without incident, and Mom was even impressed by the toaster selection. Outside, my folks posed for a photograph in front of the Wal-Mart sign, beaming as if they had arrived by sea-plane to an outer island of Tonga.
By the time my parents left Bend, I had convinced them I’d made a good decision. I had not, however, entirely convinced myself.
At first, the problems were minor. I struggled to read street signs at night and worried that my eyes were deteriorating. But an eye exam revealed otherwise. "Why can’t I see?" I asked the doc. "Because it’s dark here," he said. I hadn’t noticed: except for downtown, Bend did not have street lights.
The dating scene was equally dim. A friend fixed me up with a mortgage broker so dull that conversation revolved around our renter’s insurance policies. Another date was mired in a nasty divorce; he postponed dinner to call the sheriff because his wife had violated his restraining order. A third guy had no apparent interest in life other than cross-country skiing. He used the term "we"-as in "we skied yesterday"-in reference to himself and his skis.
My gym provided no prospects, either. One day I brought a criminal defense attorney friend along for a workout. "Half the guys here have felony records," she reported afterward. "I've represented four of them myself. You’re at the wrong gym."
Perhaps the problem was larger: Was I in the wrong town?
After a bleak New Year’s Eve-dinner at Dairy Queen and a video rental-I woke up feeling antsy for a drive. Eight hours later I found myself in Winnemucca, Nevada, a small town with a big motto: "Winnemucca: Where Life Begins." I inhaled a slice of apple pie at Jerry’s 24-Hour Restaurant, where I was the only customer, then checked into Super 8. The next morning I lifted weights at Winnemucca’s only gym, then hauled ass back across the desert at an exhilarating 90 mph.
The outing had been a success: I returned to Bend rejuvenated. That night brought a dazzling snowfall, and over the next month I had a blast romping through the mountains on snowshoes. My spirits rose even higher when a couple from Tarzana opened Bend’s first deli, serving genuine bagels, not the Wonderbread-in-a-circle variety sold at Safeway.
And my hair was looking superb: The crisp winter air left my curls in perfect ringlets, and I’d found Robert, a talented hairdresser who charged only $24. Maybe Bend would work out, after all.
Or maybe not. By late spring, the novelty had worn off. The ice cream shop closed at 10 on Saturday nights, and the entertainment options consisted of Cosmic Bowling (with glow-in-the-dark pins) and movies like "Godzilla" and "Scream II." To see Woody Allen’s "Deconstructing Harry," I drove three hours to Eugene.
Dating hit rock bottom when a friend set me up with a guy she’d met in a bar. " "He’s a writer!" she gushed. It turned out he wasn’t a writer but a rider-an unemployed motorcycle racer.
I missed L.A.- the Nuart theater, chopped salads, even the rush of speeding on the 405. (There wasn’t a freeway within 115 miles.) The Jewish community lost its luster when a bitter debate erupted over whether the monthly potlucks should be vegetarian. Perhaps the most ominous sign: the bagel shop went bust after just four months.
Bend’s fresh air, glorious lakes and cheap rent had all become irrelevant. And so, after a year in Central Oregon, I drove home.
Since returning to L.A., my renter’s insurance has quadrupled, and I’ve gotten six parking tickets in West Hollywood alone. My sister declared my hair a natural disaster and sent me to her Santa Monica salon for a "free" conditioning treatment, which snowballed into a two-hour trim and a lecture about the importance of quality styling products, such as "creme brilliantissime" and "baume defrisant."
I wrote a check for $188. It was a small price to pay.
(Los Angeles Times, 1999)