S.W.A.K. – the envelope ending

A classic journalistic technique is to seal together the opening and closing with a kiss. The idea's simple: circle back around to your initial theme. And preferably, give it a final twist to reward readers for their perseverance. Take Road Remedies' Venturesome Minority, which opens and closes on very different bear-charge reflections.

Marie Javins provides an excellent example on No Hurry in J.C. Her post The Way To a Woman's Heart opens:

About 7 years ago, I was walking south on Manhattan's Orchard Street. An older man passed me, walking north. He eyeballed me.

"You still got it."

Aghast, I'd thought I wasn't aware I'd lost it. Talk about a backhanded compliment. At 35, I wasn't exactly sagging around the edges.

Today, seven years later, his comment might be appropriate. In the 9-person group I was in Bolivia with, I felt more an outsider than an active participant. I'd been on a half-dozen small group expeditions in the past, but on the other trips, I'd been of the median age. Now I was the only one in my age group.

The two younger women primped and vamped and made themselves up at night for dinner (our men were oblivious). I watched them with a little envy but mostly with relief. Let them put on the show. I wasn't here to flirt. I didn't feel any pressure to perform or even to shower. But I like to stay clean so I showered when I could, like on the last morning in Uyuni before we were to go into the salt flats for three days.

Hair still sopping wet, I got into one of the two Land Cruisers. After we left Uyuni and stopped by the train cemetery, we headed towards the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve, home of salt flats, lagoons, and pink flamingos.

Notice how tight her segues are: between paragraphs three and four, she pivots on time, next on age, then on primping. Ideas flow one into another: very slick. She then veers into an anecdote about a Bolivia bathroom, ending with this wry ending, which wraps everything up with a bow (full text here).

I blanched... I didn't have the money to enter the ladies room.

The handsome Bolivian man then stepped in. He gallantly forked over one of his own coins, smiled, and waved me into the ladies room.

I reddened and walked in, as my group and a few Bolivians tittered behind me. Better than a drink, a man had bought me a pee.

I still got it.

Here's another great example – coincidentally on the chick grooming front. Sue Frause's text is so tightly integrated, I'll include the whole post, with her permission. She especially celebrates the girly element, since: "Crosscut is pretty much a white, male-centric, online publication all about politics, politics and politics."

The few, the proud, the blonde
By Sue Frause

I'm a Salonista. I started training for it from the first day my Aunt Esther experimented on my hair at her Carousel Beauty Salon up in Marysville. Being introduced to salons at an early age meant I escaped my mamma's haircuts, which was good. It also turned me into a high-end shampoo buyer at a tender age. (What teenager packed Breck or Prell once she'd held Redken in her hands?)

My salon missions began in earnest during my stint at Seattle University. Although the majority of the co-eds on my floor (in all-female Bellarmine Hall) sported the same color hair, thanks to Clairol's Frost & Tip, we were a bit more adventurous when it came to actual hair cuts. The first real salon I recall was Tomoe's, where the Asian haircutters created those cool, geometric cuts we saw in magazines, and lusted over. (Think Twiggy.)

Next came the kind of cutter with only one name. Roberto. Paul. And like a lot of young Seattle women, I did my tour of duty in many, many chairs within the Gene Juarez empire.

I've accepted that there are risks to what I do. That time I tried henna, ending up with dark-black hair so bizarre that my husband walked right past me in a downtown hotel lobby. ("Well, you sorta look like Linda Ronstadt," was his loving attempt to talk me down.)

I don't want to brag, but when you've risen through the ranks, you meet people. That time at Bocz Salon when I sat next to Tom Robbins; Salon Marco on a day that Gov. Chris Gregoire was holding court in the chair next to me. I mingled with the greats at Gary Manuel, Mode Organic Salon, Halo Salon and SEVEN. I am proud to say that Yuki Ohno (father of Gold Medal winner Apolo Ohno) cut my hair years ago at his salon, Yuki's Diffusion.

I've done my time in foreign postings too. San Francisco (Yosh for Hair); Vancouver, BC (Moods Hair Salon, Ian Daburn Salon); New York City (Bumble & Bumble) and Boston. I don't recall the name of that Beantown salon, but my designer had cut Kevin Spacey's hair prior to the actor hitting the big time. Like I said, in this line of work, you meet people.

Those distant salons toughened me up, taught me things. But sooner or later, every Salonista returns to her, uh, roots. Sassoon Salon opened in Seattle on Valentine's Day, and I was there in the first wave. The Sassoon name is new to many of the young things out there but to a veteran like myself, it harkens back to a time long ago. When blondes were fewer, and only the bravest tried henna. When a bold man named Vidal Sassoon made being a Salonista something to be proud of.