What is Best Practice Anyway?

Reflections from my latest haircut (and first few days of my thirties).

Freshly 31

There are many things I do that don’t make sense to others. One of them is that I get my hair done in the Arts District. There’s nothing wrong with this neighborhood except for that it’s 12 miles from where I live, which, in Los Angeles, is very, very far. In New York no one would bat an eye about riding thirty minutes on the subway for an appointment or to meet a friend, whereas in this city, if I were to say, date someone on the other side of town, it’d be considered a long distance relationship.  

“There’s nowhere in Santa Monica or Beverly Hills that suits you?” people joke when I tell them who does my hair. I understand their confusion, my preference is not best practice. But I’m willing to drive the distance because I adore my hair stylist, Ryann, who I learned about in this SSENSE essay before I even moved to Los Angeles. Reading it I could tell that she was a writer’s stylist, meaning an overthinker’s stylist, meaning the perfect stylist for me. 

What I love most about Ryann is not how she takes the weight off my shoulders and highlights my face, but how she makes me expand and ponder. Like during last week’s haircut conversation, when we spoke of the “materials” we are made of. 

It started with a story about her apprenticeship days in New York City, when she was working for a prestigious salon. With her talents, I’m certain she could have climbed any ladder she wanted, but the grind didn’t make her happy. She said: “It’s not what I was materially made of.”

Were you always like that, I asked? So sure and confident of your inner materials? So able to pave your own path without self-doubt or external validation? Yes, she said. I couldn’t be any other way.

***

I turned 31 last week, the age that marks the beginning of your thirties. The first year of any decade is a warm-up, what happens doesn’t count and is not a predictor of what’s to come. (I declare this as science. If the way I felt and behaved at 20 was a mirror to my future, then by now I’d be gone or in serious trouble.)

I spent most of the last ten years searching for what I’m made of. Maybe that’s what our twenties are for, reaching to see if we’re sand or snow or steel. Noticing what environments we feel at peace in, if being “at peace” is something we want to feel at all. 

I thought I’d be sure of who I am by now, but I have more searching to do. In this new decade I wonder: Will I honor what I find? Will I make something with my materials? Or will I torch them into shapes they were never meant to hold?

***

On a Tuesday night this past winter, my husband staged an intervention. I’d been quietly depressed for months and this particular week I was over the edge. I released a podcast episode that morning with unexpected technical problems, and as soon as I heard its screeching audio, I was swept into panic. Shame swallowed me for the entire day. 

Hours later, he approached me as I was about to leave for dinner with friends: “I think you need to stop the weekly podcast.” His timing was terrible — my reservation was in Laurel Canyon, which, much like the Arts District, is very, very far — but as soon as he said it I knew he was right. I surprised myself by listening to him. There were hints that the weekly show was draining me, neon signs actually, but I didn’t care to read them. Instead I fed myself the lie that there’s no point in starting a professional project unless I follow industry best practices. It’s the same lie I told myself about this newsletter, which I proudly grew to 10,000 subscribers and then stopped when I couldn’t commit to a weekly schedule. 

The podcast is not a problem but it is a pressure, and I can only take so much pressure at once. My inner materials burn in a crowded cooker. 

***

Last week I met my podcast agent for coffee. I was nervous to hear what she’d think of my new plan. I wore an outfit that resembled the person I lost, something Alexandra would wear. Navy pinstripe Escada pants from my favorite Chickees Vintage’s in Brooklyn. Sequin studded loafers. A baby blue crewneck sweatshirt. The look makes no sense but then somehow it does.

The outfit.

We sat down, I gave my spiel, overshared. I thought she might try and convince me to maintain the weekly schedule. If we met one week earlier, she probably could have. I was weak then, but now, in my little outfit, I had conviction. 

Turns out I didn’t need it. She said all the “rules” we talked about — the weekly podcast cadence, 45 minute episodes, pitching myself to be on other people’s shows — those are best practices for faster growth. And it’s okay if fast growth is not the metric we reach for right now. It’s okay if we make it for fun. (Thank you, Anna.)

And what sounds fun and feasible for me (for now) is to make my podcast once a month. My god, the freedom! It calls me to bring my newsletter back as well, because I’m a writer and writer’s write, even if inconsistently. I will take my time as long as I’m moving in the right direction. I’m the girl who drives 12 miles in Los Angeles for a haircut.

I now realize that just because something is Best Practice does not mean that it’s best practice for me. Or for you. Best practices only work if they consider our core materials — the ones we’re made of forever and the ones we’re made of for now. I’m still trying to figure out mine. I’m only 31, after all. 

Yours,

Alexandra

(Sometimes I feel like Hayes, and sometimes I feel like Alexandra. This felt like Alexandra, so I’m experimenting with my sign-off.)