Asheville
With the help of my older sister, I moved to Asheville, NC in 1996. I set out to find a job as a cosmetologist and began to build what became a very successful career.
My hairstyling business took off. My skill set was solid and I was completely in charge of my own income. I chose who sat in my chair. I had a list of people waiting for me, which allowed me to let go of clients that stressed me out. I could buy whatever I wanted and it was common to find a long-forgotten $20 bill in the pocket of whatever outfit I was wearing that day.
I worked with an AMAZING team of like-minded artists. We loved ourselves and we loved each other. We held each other up, were a source of inspiration to one another and chose to be together outside of work hours.
We ate breakfast, lunch and often dinner together and couldn’t wait to repeat it the next day.
I stayed until 2008. I don’t want to talk about the catalyst that made that life less sustainable, just know that it happened.
One day, I stepped outside my Asheville home onto chemically charred grass to find that my fledgling bluebirds had not left the nest because they had died. Although the privacy panel to my right kept the people in the parking lot that bordered my yard from seeing me cry, I could hear them. I could hear the hum of the nearby traffic too. In that moment, with the dead spikes pressing into my bare feet, something in me broke. That house no longer represented a coveted, quick commute to downtown. It transformed into a fishbowl of poisoned water that was choking me.
So, I left. I sold most of my things and drove my u-Haul to my newly-discovered refuge: the Folk School community of Brasstown, NC. The next morning, I made myself a cup of coffee and stepped out into the fog. I could hear the crows as I walked to the car. I turned the key to the ignition and learned via the radio that Barack Obama had been elected as our first African-American president.