The Brine and Bottle

For the first time in ten years, I feel compelled to cut my hair; to really cut it-- to lop eight or so inches off the bottom so it falls somewhere between my chin and shoulders instead of halfway down my back, as it does now. Mama told me once when I was in my early 20s (I'd chopped my hair short on my 19th birthday in an attempt to gain some independence from the girl I'd always been) that if I wanted to have long hair again I should grow it out before I had my first child; the idea being that as soon as I was responsible for a tiny, helpless human being I would have no time for frivolities like hair, on the off-chance I still had an interest in such things.

On many levels, I imagine the birth of my first child will be a lot like the experience of opening my first restaurant. But for starters, The Brine and Bottle has been officially open for a mere twelve days and I’m having this urge to get rid of my hair—along with the realization that it will very likely be another two weeks before I’m free to sit still long enough to have that done.

On the first night we were open my dear friend Erin turned to me with a big smile and asked, “Well, do you feel relieved?”

And she looked so hopeful and certain that for her sake I wanted to lie, but I couldn’t. “No,” I answered.

My face must have betrayed how frightened I felt because she laughed her great laugh and sighed and threw her arms around me and said, “Oh, Ashley, I love your honesty.”

It was true. I felt nervous and excited; proud and happy—but relieved? I didn’t feel a bit relieved. All of that anticipation, all of the working and waiting—the months of jumping through hoops for the Town and the Health Department, of navigating building codes and rules and becoming proficient in terms like “BFE” and “knock-down” and “NSF”—all of that had culminated in one amazing, terrifying thing: we had a living, breathing restaurant, and now, all by ourselves, we had to keep it alive.

The experience must be similar, too, it its singularity—in the necessity of surviving the event in order to fully comprehend it. I’ve had numerous people tell me I should write a book about how to open a restaurant on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, but the reality is that I couldn’t tell anyone else how it’s done; it’s one of those things you understand only after you’ve lived through it. And it’s better that way. I was blessedly naïve when we began this journey nine months ago, and determined, and without that combination this feat would have been impossible. Despite its immense challenges, opening The Brine and Bottle has been and continues to be the single most amazing experience of my life.

Our lives depend on our ability to take on trials at will, to endure, and then to happily forget them when we come out the other side. No woman would have more than one child if she could truly recall the pain of it. And I imagine that at some point, maybe not too many years from now, the memory of the hardships of these early months will have faded to the point where I begin to reminisce about the quiet moments when the space was still ours, before the world laid claim to it and turned it into the strong, thriving business it will one day certainly be.

“Maybe having another one wouldn’t be so bad?” I’ll say to Andrew. ‘In fact, it might even be fun.’

It should be fairly obvious that I’m ready, if you pay attention to the length of my hair.