Author: Tara DaPra

The antique barber’s chair in Rocco Altobelli’s office—brick-red leather, brass studs, beautifully carved wood—stands as a reminder of his roots. Having just graduated from high school in Dilworth, Minnesota, the young Altobelli dreamed of becoming a photographer. But he opted for a safer bet: attending his uncle’s beauty school, Josef’s School of Hair Design, just across the state line in Fargo. “My father worked on the railroads,” Altobelli said. “My options were limited.”

But the tide started to turn when, in the late 1960s, Altobelli traveled to London to study with Vidal Sassoon. There, he encountered more sophisticated, geometric cuts. This was the first indication that, rather than small-town barber, Altobelli was to become a big-city style icon. And while he’s done hair shows around the world and his products can be found in salons across the country, Altobelli has kept his business small and family-operated. His chain of salons—the first of which opened in St. Paul in 1974—have never reached past Rochester, Minnesota.

Today, Altobelli looks more Geppetto than Giorgio with his signature shaggy paintbrush mustache. His eyebrows, still dark, are tipped with white, and silver sideburns accent his green eyes. But a penchant for refinement is confirmed by his Italian shoes—brown with an aerated white strip along the tongue. “I bought these in Japan,” he said, hinting at the shopping trips that are a favorite diversion while traveling. “I only have time to shop while out of town.”

These days, you won’t find Altobelli behind a chair at any of his salons. “My son, Nino, is in charge of the artistic end of the business,” he said. “I basically oversee and work on new stuff.” By that, he means alto bella, his salon’s product line, and Greenway Research Lab, where salon products are tested and developed. As of late, Altobelli has been working on his dermAstage skin-care line. A forthcoming product is still under wraps, though Altobelli hinted at a seed-oil blend that’s applied by roller so that tiny holes can be punctured into the skin—a revolutionary method for the penetration of antioxidants, he claimed.

As things turned out, Altobelli grew up to become a photographer of sorts, too. He proudly showed off his eight-by-ten photo (pictured here) of a cattle roundup at his friend’s ranch near Deadwood, South Dakota. This image points to another of Altobelli’s most fervent passions—horsemanship. (He collects artisan saddles and even keeps his own steed, Peso.)

More of his work, mostly black-and-white images, lines the hallways of the Rocco Altobelli corporate offices. On display are photos of models sporting looks ranging from the Dorothy Hamill to the Farrah Fawcett to the shag—three ’dos Rocco swore would never die. The photographs chronicle the various hairstyle fashions Altobelli has seen in his thirtysome years in the business—some beautiful, some bizarre. They also favor the drama of shadow, lending much to the sideways, almost deconstructivist gaze Altobelli casts upon his models and the often geometric sculptures atop their heads. Of his artful use of the lens, he said: “Hairdressing is a lot like photography. They’re both very mechanical, and they both require a good eye.”

It was a good dog-weather day. Several hundred onlookers, kids clad in hooded sweatshirts and parents in Patagonia zip-ups, crowded around a roped-off rectangular strip; a painted finish line glowed white against the still-green grass at Wayzata West Middle School. More than one of the contestants was shivering under its cape, though it wasn’t clear if this was a result of the early fall weather or simply excitement. One auburn-colored dachshund, in what appeared to be a hunter-orange life preserver, yapped happily at its owner’s feet. “I put a coat on him today,” shrieked the middle-aged woman to her friend.

The stage was set for the 22nd Annual Dachshund Races, “Where every dog is a WEINER,” as the T-shirts declare. The Animal Humane Society mobile unit was on hand, a canine emergency-aid station of sorts, and a concert tent arched against the background, set up for the evening’s musical climax to Wayzata’s James J. Hill Days.

The event began with the Parade of Champions. “Just as in the Kentucky Derby, the racing silks are very important,” the announcer intoned from beneath a watermelon umbrella. She continued, describing the conditions of the track and the quality of this year’s competition (there was talk of a littermate of last year’s winner being the favorite), while off to the side, volunteers sold—you guessed it—hot dogs.

The big dogs had come to watch. Away from the crowd, a pair of bull terriers wrestled gently between their leashes; one man reclined in the grass against his golden retriever. But the day was for the little guys; 120 were entered in the day’s festivities, and they came in a rainbow of colors. There were black dachshunds and brown ones and blond and brindle and spotted. Short-haired, wire-haired, and long-haired with fur growing out between their little toes. The day had the feel of a family reunion. Some participants were veterans of the event, and they greeted each other, dogs and owners alike, with familial enthusiasm.

The name dachshund is German for “badger dog,” in honor of the wild game the dog was bred to hunt. In the WWII era, the literal translation was briefly adopted as the dog’s name to disassociate it from its German roots. The American Kennel Club places the dachshund in the hound group, for its hunting prowess and keen sense of smell.

There are absurd but necessary ground rules at the dachshund races—namely, no throwing your dog from the starting gate and no pulling him over the finish line. The judges are lenient about false starts, and “do-overs” are frequent. Half a dozen dachshunds race in each heat, jumping three hurdles in the process. Usually, two or three of them race competitively, two zigzag around the hurdles, and one runs in circles. It’s also common for a contestant to run just short of the finish line before turning around to do another lap. During the semifinals, the barking level was elevated a notch, getting almost loud enough to drown out the exhortations of the owners. Some used deep, commanding voices; others were high-pitched and encouraging; one simply yelled, “La la la la, la la la-ah!” All manner of attention-getters were employed: jingling keys, the waving of encouraging signs and squeaking of favorite toys, and, of course, the enticement of treats. One woman pulled what appeared to be a massive barbecued chicken leg from a plastic bag.

The contest is about beauty as well as athleticism. Owners clearly took seriously the challenge of designing their dachshunds’ outfits. One dog wore a royal purple cape with braided gold trim; another contestant arrived in full Superman garb—the blue shirt, the red cape; and still another wore a matching green-felt cloak and cap with a Robin Hood-style orange feather. Literary names were prevalent—Dante, Atticus Finch, and Gretel—as were names from pop culture: Prada, Gonzo, Siegfried, and Lucy Liu.

One could protest that it is cruel or patronizing to dress up a pooch and race it around for the entertainment of laughing and pointing onlookers. The American Kennel Club officially opposes dachshund racing, citing the exploitation that’s befallen the greyhound as well as concern for the dachshund’s propensity for back injuries. While that’s all well and good, these dogs were clearly much-loved family pets, and they surely, with dachshunds’ tendency toward extra weight in the middle, can use a little exercise. In the end, perhaps the spirit of the event was best summed up by the advertising slogan of its sponsor: “Everything your pet doesn’t need but you love.”

The picture windows beneath the Jerabek’s New Bohemian awning gave a good feel for what was being sold inside. One window showcased the stock of vintage dresses—from satin gowns to housedresses bursting with floral prints. Metallic shoes, two or three cycles since they’ve been in fashion, lined the window’s ledge, tossed in with an oversized pink clutch and a milk glass lamp.

Inside, a spread of vintage tableware was laid out alongside unread copies of Rachel Ray’s cookbooks. (“Add to your set of Blue Heaven,” read one price tag.) Before long, the wafting smells of sugary baked goods and freshly brewed coffee led one’s nose to the deli case, to a beautiful display of brownies and lemon bars; a salad of greens, blue cheese, fresh pears, and raspberries; and vegetarian and meat pasties.

Mellissa Deyo, who owns Jerabek’s, hurried in from the back kitchen, wiping her hands on a pink apron speckled with daisies—she both uses and sells these confections of yesteryear. Her tall, strong frame and broad smile greeted me before she extended a hand. Large strawberry-blond curls rested close to her head, fifties-style, and given her youthful energy, it was surprising to learn that she is a grandmother. It’s as if she, as well as this place, are waffling in time between vintage and modern eras.

When asked about her favorite piece in the store, she joked, “Does it have to fit?” Scanning the room, her eyes skimmed past a paisley button-down shirt, embroidered handkerchiefs, and a red polyester suit before settling on an avocado dress and a matching, scallop-trimmed jacket. “I guess it reminds me of a simpler time. Or something,” she said.

While Jerabek’s celebrated its hundredth anniversary in June, it wasn’t until Deyo took over from her parents in 1994 that the retail bakery became something more. It began with one rack of clothes in the corner. “I never thought I’d expand beyond that,” said Deyo, but her patrons’ enthusiastic responses told her otherwise. She set up a “purple room” dedicated to vintage clothing after a florist vacated the space next door. “I pick up a lot of things from estate sales or the occasional thrift store,” she said. “But most places mark up their prices too much. I think there’s a limit to what people will spend. And because I’m cheap, I don’t charge a lot.”

Tucked away on an inconspicuous residential street on St. Paul’s west side, Jerabek’s is thoroughly enmeshed in its neighborhood and adheres to an old-fashioned business model. Old-timers gather on Wednesdays for senior discount day. During the summer, hipsters and young families congregate for a monthly garage sale and barbecue (this month, it’s on August 12). Another important tradition began in 1999: When the city was repairing the street, the lawn in front of the shop got torn up. Instead of new grass, Deyo planted a community garden. Neighbors donated plants and soon she had more than she knew what to do with. Before long, a Jerabek’s regular offered to weed the garden. “And pretty soon he moved in,” she said, explaining how she met her boyfriend. “We’ve been together seven years.”

In the past three weeks, I’ve been browsed 253 times, though I wonder if that number includes the twice-daily peek I take at my own profile, like a quick glance in the mirror as I pass by. Tickle.com first lured me to its domain with a promise to rate my intelligence. While other indicators have given me a good read on my own mental candlepower (solid annual report cards, successfully playing along with Jeopardy!, a decent employment exam at Outback Steakhouse), recent unspectacular GRE results had left me wounded. Forty multiple-choice clicks later, I was back up there where I belong, “extremely higher than average.” I was identified as a “facts curator” in the company of geniuses like Bill Gates. My self-esteem in good repair, I got briefly addicted and dug up every other Tickle quiz I could find: the “Ultimate Personality Test” (Observer—kind-hearted, intuitive, good mediator); the “Values Test” (Loyal Rebel—honors relationships and truth-telling); the “What Breed of Dog are You?” test (Chihuahua—energetic, devoted, and passionate). I ended my binge of self-love with the “Confidence Test” (Your Confidence Level is High!)

Tickle founder James Currier said the idea for his website came to him in a 1998 Harvard Business School class. After he and his peers took a career personality test, he noticed a dramatic improvement in their interpersonal relationships. “Everyone is interested in themselves,” he said. Perhaps it is true that you must first love yourself before you can love others.

Tickle’s quizzes are divided into “Fun tests” (Who’s your TV Family? How Hip are You?) and “Ph.D. Premium” tests. The latter deal with serious topics like “Relationship,” “Career,” and “Personality.” Tickle claims that these little exams are “Ph.D.-certified.” By this, they mean they are “the highest-quality and most-scientific tests available on the Internet, meeting standards on par with the academic world,” said a Tickle spokeswoman named Christy Albright. “Each test takes five to ten months to design, construct, validate, and launch.” If a solid record of profitability and a recent ninety-four-million-dollar acquisition by Monster.com are any indication, Tickle is doing something right. While the site gives away teaser test results, it makes bank through in-depth Ph.D. analyses, a plethora of pop-ups, and emailing priveleges in the “Matchmaking” domain, which I succumbed to in order to contact a certain blond jokester.

Ty Tashiro, assistant professor of psychology at the University of Minnesota, is skeptical of Tickle’s methods and claims. “Most licensed psychologists would question the ethics of giving psychological feedback with no expert around to explain or work with the results,” he said. He would say that. Still, this may explain Tickle’s consistently positive feedback, which, in my experience, is not at all “on par with the academic world.” At best, Tickle provides keen insight into the human psyche; at worst, it is a high-tech fortune cookie.

After my last real-world relationship dissolved, I leapt from Tickle’s self-indulgent quizzes to its “Matchmaking” area. Time to move beyond self-love. The good news was, I could take my test results with me. I created a profile and filled out the TrueMatch questionnaire, well on my way to discovering love matches. Searching my digital archives, I found just the right photo to present myself as attractive, charming, and hip. It would be my passport to love.

While getting acquainted with the bells and whistles on Tickle’s matchmaking service, I requested a Chemistry Report with myself. I was greeted with the headline, “Will tdapra and tdapra sizzle or fizzle?” There was my photograph, posted twice, side by side, each over-the-shoulder gaze looking out through the computer screen with a mix of intrigue and playfulness. I looked like a pair of sassy identical twins. According to Tickle,

What will make you sizzle:
Feeling safe and comfortable
Frequent relationship check-ins
Someone’s who’s interested in making
the relationship unique
Someone’s who’s equally excited by the
world around you

What will make you fizzle:
Getting too comfortable in a rut (We have
been watching a lot of “Everybody Loves Raymond” reruns.)
Your partner needing to check in on feelings
a lot (We thought this was a good thing!)
Getting confused about who does what in
the relationship (Yes, this could be a problem with us.)
Butting heads (There’s that Loyal Rebel factor.)

Over the next couple of weeks, I exchanged emails with a half-dozen guys (for a monthly fee of $19.95) and met one for coffee. While passing notes with electronic admirers gave me something to look forward to while checking my in-box, meeting in person proved to be less than spectacular. After my first cup-of-something-warm encounter, I returned home, ever so glad to be back in the company of myself (“feeling safe and comfortable”). I turned on my computer and immediately checked my email for more potential love matches. When I browsed my list of Tickle favorites, I caught a glimpse of my photo and noticed the little orange fuel gauge above it at full capacity. “Compatibility rating: 100%.” I clicked on “Chat with me,” and a laughing blue box popped up. “Unfortunately,” it read, “you cannot chat with yourself.”—Tara DaPra