Per a sweet request from Anne Mulkern, I'm posting this very oldie (but hopefully goodie). Enjoy:

I'm back from New York, back from inhaling that telltale scent of pending rain. From gazing across undulating acres of red and gold leaves that turn common prairie into extravagant spectacle. I'm back from the crisp autumn air that pulls vapor ghosts out of your mouth. From a land where buildings are so old, there might be real ghosts inside. I'm back from a place with ``real seasons,'' and I have to say: I'm not impressed.

Yeah, nature's pretty and all. But it's also cold. And cold sucks. I don't know or care how many sparkly lights you put on your roof to illuminate the darkened sky, or how many Oreos you use to decorate your snowman: If it's cold, you're miserable. And if you're not miserable, you're faking it.
I've lived in Chicago, Virginia and Kentucky. I've traveled around the country, braving snowstorms on dinky highways. I know from seasons. And I know that there is a reason I live here now.

I'm originally from here, from a land where people play tennis in shorts. At night. In December. When I was a kid, we'd take day trips to ``visit the snow'' in Lake Tahoe. I thought it glorious. I thought it magical. I thought it vastly unfortunate that I didn't live in a place with ``real seasons.''

But I have come to realize two things about Southern California: 1. It is filled with Midwest and East Coast transplants who bemoan the lack of snow while slapping on sunscreen; and 2. It does have seasons.

Maybe our seasons are too subtle for the average New Englander to notice. Maybe folks in Montana and Idaho need loud color-coding to know it's time to flip the page on their Fly Fishin' calendars. We Californians don't need to be pelted over the head with cold, wet reminders of Father Time's continual journey. We get all the seasonal cues we need from the comfort of our driver's seats.
Who among us doesn't know that the first week of September heralds the end of ``light traffic'' season in Southern California?

Ask any local about those venerable "76'' ball signs at certain gas stations, and they'll tell you without blinking to expect a jack-o'-lantern coverlet on most of 'em. We natives feel a slight tug every year as the purple gorilla of summer, that toothy creature in the polka-dot underwear and sunglasses who growls over the 22 freeway from atop the Union Dodge dealership, deflates and makes room for a green-faced witch, a turkey or a Santa Claus.

We sigh a collective, nostalgic sigh as we inch our way up the 405 to see Trinity Broadcasting Network wishing Jesus a happy birthday, Vegas-style.

Before long, a massive pine tree will make its way down the 55 toward Fashion Island, where it will be adorned, admired and (erroneously) adored as the largest Christmas tree in the country.

Little tinsel horsies will cover the light posts around South Coast Plaza once again. Token menorahs will show up in random parking lots, placed by well-meaning retailers and politicians. Congestion on Imperial Highway by the Brea Mall will make commuters want to die. A light drizzle will stop all traffic from Santa Barbara to San Diego. Diedrich will transition from pumpkin lattes to a cinnamon concoction served in a festive cup, and the homeless woman on Laguna Canyon Road will put on her jacket.

These roadside wonders, these seasonal seismic (sometimes literally) shifts in the flow of daily life are every bit as real and reliable as any old dying tree branch.

So you can keep your fabulous foliage. You can keep your warm apple cider, your crackling fire and your itchy wool sweaters. I've got the splendor of the Southern California fall and winter right where it belongs -- outside my windshield.

Season's greetings.

Here's a dirty secret: I haven't washed my hair in five days.

I would. I have nothing against shampoo. But I can’t wash my hair because I no longer know how. 

Around this time, I read about a hairstylist named Ouidad who billed herself as a curly hair expert. A dubious distinction, I thought. How hard is it to be queen of hair that looks perpetually messy? Still, hearing about her helped me embrace my twisted tresses. 

I never became a curly expert, but I did make peace with the weird stuff growing out of my head, and I learned a few tricks (bye-bye hairbrush!).Over time, I came to see the fuzz, the fuss, the finger-in-the-outlet mess as a fate I could learn to live with.

Then I rediscovered Ouidad.

The woman I read about a lifetime ago has opened a salon in Santa Monica.

I went. I got cut. I got styled. And now I can never wash my hair again. 

After "slicing" my hair, Kate styled my locks in some magic way she described as “Rake and Shake” that sets each curl apart like a precious little gem. I have no idea what, exactly, she did, but I am now convinced that on the Seventh Day, G-d did not rest. He created the Rake and Shake, and He saw it was good. 

Using hair clips and advanced calculus, she separated my tresses into little tribes across my scalp. She then wiggled her fingers through each of them in a manner resembling someone ringing a bell, misting and blotting and geling as she went. When I told her that I doubted I’d be able to recreate this method at home, she tried to allay my fears. 

“Don’t worry,” she told me. “I’ll give you a book.” 

A book? Is there nothing our people can do without text? 

Sure enough, when I was done, Kate handed me a book explaining how to wash, dry and “Rake and Shake” my hair.  

I’ve powered through medical journals, legal briefs and Pynchon. But I can’t comprehend a manual explaining how to wash my own hair. And it comes with pictures! 

So, for the last five days, I’ve sacrificed a clean scalp for sculpted curls. And I’m going to keep going until I can no longer get away with it.  

Sure, it’s taken me back to the dark days of pubescent insecurity. Once again, I’m a greasy mess who doesn't know how to deal with the DNA heirloom on top of my head. 

But at least this time around, my confusion looks fantastic.

Among the childhood episodes Zev will likely recount to his inevitable future therapist, I imagine “the thing at the diner” will come up a lot.

“I’m sitting there between my mom and dad,” he’ll probably begin. “And mom’s furiously cutting up a goat-cheese and Kalamata omelet on my plate while dad is trying to shove half a buttermilk pancake down my throat.”

“Uh-huh,” the therapist will say, her mind wandering off to visions of fabric swatches and yacht interiors.

“And they’re each piling it on, Mom with her lox scramble and Dad with his sugar-coated blueberry muffin.”

“Hmm.”

“My mouth is opened and stuffed like a garbage disposal, grinding away all these incompatible flavors while my parents battle for the bragging rights to cultural dominion.”

After Hubby converted, we thought we had worked out all the ethnic kinks: Any kids we had would, of course, be raised Jewish. All trans-Atlantic travel would include a stop to Israel. And, it should go without saying, no Christmas trees.

But there are subtleties to mixed marriages that we had never considered – bittersweet subtleties that play less on our ideologies, and more on our tongues.

Hubby is a thirteenth-generation American, raised with no religion, but plenty of divinity (as in, the meringue cookies his Kentucky-bred grandma used to make). He grew up with caramel cakes, milk chocolate and breakfasts sweetened with all the syrup this proud nation’s cornfields could produce.

I, meanwhile, am a first-generation daughter of Israeli immigrants who carted cream cheese and olive sandwiches in my lunch box along with sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. I prefer fish with the head still on it and had never tasted a s’more until the age of 27 (I didn’t care for it).

When we were dating, Santa Claus and haftarah portions made each of us seem exotic to the other, but our cultures were not nearly as foreign as our cuisines. There are five taste sensations: salty, sweet, bitter, sour and umami. (Umami is that indescribably wonderful taste of savory, meaty, delicious food. Think mushrooms, Parmesan cheese, and anything cooked with monosodium glutamate.) Hubby’s taste preferences lean toward the teeth-coatingly sweet while my tongue tends to wander to the rich, sophisticated spectrum of umami.

For years, Hubby and I have gently ribbed each other for our perceived “strange” taste in foods – I’d threaten to kiss him after eating an olive and he’d subject me to big pancake breakfasts.

But after Zev came along jokes turned to competition: Whom did Zev take after the most? Yes, he has his dad’s lips and his mom’s nose, but what we each really want to know about is his tongue. Does it take after the pedestrian sweet side or the discerning umami side? (I know, I know, but if Hubby wants fair, he can write his own column.)

At the impressionable age of 3, Zev has not yet decided his culinary identity – he’s as happy dousing his food with hummus as with ketchup. We’re trying to play it cool, but as our recent feeding frenzy at the diner demonstrated, we desperately want to know which side of the table Zev will choose. The love of food, after all, is the love of life – who doesn’t want to share that with their child?

Neither of us has bad-mouthed our spouse’s taste buds, but I fear that Zev is starting to realize that the fissure in the united front of our parenting runs right through the kitchen. Never mind his aching tummy, what is our endless jockeying of sweet and savory going to do to his psyche?

“And in the end,” I’m sure he’ll say to that future therapist, “I feel like, whatever flavors I am more drawn to, I’m letting one of them down. Like I’ve delivered some decided blow to my parents’ personal culture war. I feel sick to my stomach – and not just because I’ve eaten my weight in breakfast foods.”

“Yes,” the therapist will nod, adding, “Our time is up.”

Having unloaded his neuroses, Zev will walk out of the fluorescent light of the shrink’s office, blinking in the afternoon sun. He’ll get into his car and drive somewhere where he can unwind and collect his thoughts.

I can only hope now that it’s a Chinese restaurant.