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Why Korean Beauty?
The first question I get from K-Beauty newcomers is, “What makes Korean beauty products so special?” For those of us in the K-Beauty club, the results speak for themselves. But for our future K-Beauty superstars, “Why Korean beauty?” is an important question.
Over 1,000 Years Young
When it comes to skincare, few have a leg up on our Korean sisters. Archaeologists working in South Korea have uncovered cosmetic boxes dating back to 900 CE. Historians believe some Korean beauty products date as far back as 57 BCE. Korean women in the Three Kingdoms period believed that external beauty was an outward show of one’s internal beauty (Ah-young, 2013). Therefore, it’s not all about makeup, but careful skincare. For over 1,000 years, Korean women have unlocked the secrets of beauty lotions, oils and facial cleansers.
When it comes to commercial cosmetics, the Koreans were first again. One of the first mass-produced beauty powders came out of what is now South Korea in the 1910s. Today, that history of beauty innovation reaches modern companies. Some say the Korean Beauty industry is a full 7 years ahead of the rest of the world! (Marie Claire, 2016)
It’s Just Honey, Honey!
Because the K-Beauty tradition stretches back so far, and because of how these techniques have been handed down from generation to generation, many of today’s K-Beauty products differ very little from what was used 1,000 years ago. That means no artificial ingredients. No harmful chemicals. That first mass-produced beauty powder, sometimes called, “mibun” or “baekbun?” It was made from little more than ground grains and water. Women used peach and apricot oils to even skin tone. They extracted oils from local seeds to fortify their hair. (Ah-young, 2013)
That tradition, using natural products to create natural beauty, permeates today’s K-Beauty. Take a minute. Google K-Beauty (or better yet, take a spin around the masques offered here!). Read through the list of ingredients. What do you see? Words you recognize. Essential oils. Natural plants. Everyday fruits. What don’t you see? Words that stretch across the page. You don’t see chemical names that you need a PhD just to read.
Korean Beauty has always, and will always, be about using nature to externalize a woman’s inner beauty.
Yes, it Really is That Simple
One of the biggest hurdles to starting anything new, from exercise to diet to the next binge-worthy TV series, is finding the time. I mean, really—who has time? The beauty of K-Beauty, especially for beginners, is that entry doesn’t require hours over hours. A lot of stories talk about K-Beauty as being exhaustive, but there’s no reason it has to be. Something like a Korean beauty masque, for example, takes 20 minutes. That’s it. You cleanse your face, apply the mask, and 20 minutes later, you’re literally glowing. Like choirs of angels—aaahhh!—glowing.
Other skincare regimens require seemingly endless prep. There’s not much a woman can do with two pounds of mud on her face, right? With something like a K-Beauty masque, though, you’re free to eat, to talk, to cue up that next episode—all at the same time!
It’s like beauty multi-tasking and, frankly, it’s awesome.
So, Why Korean Beauty?
Korean women have been using natural products to express their inner beauty since most of our ancestors were hiding in caves. Their approach isn’t to simply cover imperfections with makeup, but to use resources from the natural world—oils, seeds and fruits—to outwardly show their inner glow. K-Beauty doesn’t require hours that we don’t have or money that we don’t want to spend. Just a few bucks and a few minutes and we can have healthy, glowing skin, using methods dating back over 1,000 years.
Works Cited
Ah-young, C. (2013, January 31). Tracing History of Cosmetics. Retrieved 08 22, 2017, from The Korea Times: koreatimes.co.kr/news/view.jsp?req=newsidx=129776
Marie Claire. (2016, June 9). Here's Why K-Beauty is Killing It. Retrieved August 22, 2017, from marieclaire.co.uk: mareiclaire.co.uk/news/beauty-news/here-s-why-k-beauty-is-killing-it-7690
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“Bankruptcy” is a scary word. It needn’t be. We at the Law Office of Chris D. Hefty want you to remember bankruptcy is like a ship designed to carry you to safer financial shores. During this journey, Colorado bankruptcy exemptions help safeguard the possessions vital to your day-to-day life.
Bankruptcy exemptions protect your “equity.” When you buy a pair of jeans, to make a crude example, you own the entire equity of those jeans. For bigger items, equity is the amount paid against the property’s value. If you mortgage a $200,000 home, but have only paid off $50,000, then that $50,000 is your equity in the home.
These exemptions work in a slightly different manner depending if you file for Chapter 7 or Chapter 13 bankruptcy in Colorado, but the bottom line is that bankruptcy exemptions are designed to help you through the bankruptcy process so you come out stronger on the other side. Many states use bankruptcy exemptions set by the Federal Government. Not Colorado. That’s why, if you find yourself in bankruptcy or considering it, it’s important to know the different Colorado bankruptcy exemptions.
Our home is usually the most valuable thing we own. More than bricks and mortar, it’s where we raise our family. For this very reason Colorado offers the homestead exemption. The homestead exemption protects the equity in many homes up to $60,000. That value increases to $90,000 if the homeowner, their spouse or qualifying dependent is over the age of 60 or disabled. This homestead exemption only applies to a primary, occupied residence. Different rules apply for mobile homes and recreational vehicles.
There’s an additional bonus here for married couples filing joint bankruptcy. Colorado bankruptcy law allows each spouse to claim the full exemption amount in some cases. For the homestead exemption, each spouse can claim $60,000 for a total exempted value of $120,000. If a couple has mortgaged a home but only paid $80,000 in equity, their combined homestead exemption will protect their home equity.
To the same end, Colorado also allows you to protect the equity in your personal vehicle. Remember, the bankruptcy process is a journey, and you’ll need a vehicle to get to where you need to be. Those filing for Colorado bankruptcy can protect up to $5,000 in a personal vehicle. For the elderly or disabled, that amount shoots up to $9,000.
So let’s say a couple owns a car valued at $10,000. Like the homestead exemption, Colorado’s motor vehicle exemption can be drawn separately by spouses filing jointly. So a couple together can double the $5,000 motor vehicle exemption and protect the entire $10,000 equity of their car.
If, however, our couple has a $110,000 sports car in their driveway, their combined $10,000 protected equity won’t come close to the car’s value. In Chapter 7 Bankruptcy, the trustee would sell the car, give the exempt $10,000 to the car’s owner and use the remaining $100,000 to pay debts. Those in Chapter 13 bankruptcy must pay the nonexempt $100,000 value to satisfy debts, regardless if the car is sold or not.
If your car is integral to your work, other bankruptcy exemptions come into play. Agricultural workers, for example, can protect up to $50,000 worth of agricultural trucks and/or tractors. Because this amount applies specifically to property owned by a farm and not an individual, the agricultural vehicle exemption cannot be doubled by spouses filing joint bankruptcy. Agricultural workers can also exempt on tools and livestock up to $50,000.
Non-agricultural workers can protect work vehicles and more with the Colorado tools of the trade exemption. Tools of the trade protects $20,000 worth of tools and implements necessary for a person’s work. An electrician, for example, can exempt their truck and the tools inside. An independent taxi driver can protect their car. A painter can protect their ladders, sprayers and brushes. Much like the agricultural vehicle exemption, Colorado’s tools of the trade exemption applies to a business, not a person, and is capped at $20,000 regardless of joint filing status.
Exemptions from Colorado bankruptcy go beyond just the big-ticket items. For example, Colorado allows an individual to protect up to $1500 worth of clothing. Remember, the courts want you to come out stronger on the other side, not leave you dressed in a barrel. Similar personal property exemptions allow a person to protect $30,000 worth of home goods, such as furniture and appliances. Another $2,000 of exemptions protect the jewelry you own. Even burial plots and books can be exempted.
It’s also very important to note that any professionally prescribed health aids are 100% protected from bankruptcy proceedings. The state has zero interest in taking nebulizers and oxygen pumps. It’s all about health—both financial and physical.
Colorado bankruptcy exemptions extend beyond our possessions. Group life insurance, worker’s compensation and unemployment benefits are all 100% protected from both Chapter 7 and Chapter 13 bankruptcy proceedings in Colorado. Though less common, benefits form fraternal benefit societies such as the Knights of Columbus or The Sons of Norway are also fully exempt. The same goes for pensions. An individual filing for bankruptcy can also protect up to 75% of any wages they’ve worked for but have yet to receive.
Depending on the research you’ve already done, you may have also read about “wildcard” exemptions. Some states use a wildcard exemption to protect assets not spelled out elsewhere or to supplement existing exemptions. There is, however, no Colorado wildcard exemption. All exempt property and assets must be spelled out by state law. Therefore if you have nonexempt cash in a bank account, it may be wise to spend it on food or fuel, which is exempt up to $600 in Colorado.
Knowing your exemptions can also help you decide the timing of your bankruptcy proceedings. If you know you have nonexempt assets coming your way in the near future, it would be wise to delay proceedings until you receive those assets and then transfer the assets into exempt properties. Tax refunds are a common example. If you begin bankruptcy before getting your IRS check, that money can be seized. Many filing for bankruptcy choose to delay proceedings until they receive their tax refund and transfer its value to exempt assets.
We’ve just covered the basics here. Colorado offers many exemptions. If you think you may have to file Chapter 7 or Chapter 13 bankruptcy, it’s vital you do your research. Colorado bankruptcy exemption amounts periodically change and laws can be re-written. Don’t hesitate to contact the law offices of Chris D. Hefty. We also have a Bankruptcy FAQ page and a guide to filing bankruptcy. If you’re outside Colorado, talk to bankruptcy counselors. Bankruptcy can be a scary time, but remember: you don’t have to sail these rough seas alone.
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Mark Daniels will die in three years and eighty-two days. I read his obituary and remember. His lilting whisper and rectangular face will be survived by wife Karen and ten-month-old Isaac. He squints at the back of my hand as I slide my check under the glass. Those ice blue eyes - I can see why Karen loves him.
“You sure about this?” Mark asks. “It’s not my business, but the odds on Inevitability are astronomical.” He squints his left eye into his cheek. “With such a big bet...”
I put etiquette aside and cut him off. “This is what I want, thank you.”
Mark shakes his head and punches more buttons. His typing is a metronome, tick-tick-tacking me to a waking lull. The newspaper slides into focus. “Marcus Jared Daniels, 27, gunned down at Vine and Main OTB after resisting robbery.” His death is a few lines jammed between drug busts and domestic disputes. The gunmen are never found. Two months later the same police page reports his wife’s admittance to Stokely. I can’t see what happens to young Isaac.
“Mr. Daniels,” I speak against the order written on my hand, “On June the third, 2012, when the men come in to rob this betting facility, please don’t resist. They’re murderers and it will make Karen insane and I don’t know what happens to Isaac.”
The printer screeches my betting slip. Mark stares at me, mouth open, his pink tongue lolling out. One of the televisions behind us murmurs of drizzle at Attica Downs. Mark doesn’t believe me. He rips the page free, eyes twitching on the circus freak behind the glass.
“Please leave.” The page flutters from his fingers. Its value has gone from mere cents to millions. I take it and Mark’s article goes to hell in my head. Everything shifts and changes: a different heading, a different width and length…
But the same name. “Marcus Jared Daniels, 27, stabbed to death after brutal robbery at Vine and Main OTB.” His wife’s admittance remains unchanged two months later. Our fates are obstinate in their truth. In The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the first book I read upon being stamped ‘clinically insane,’ Joyce colors history as a nightmare from which we try to escape. No matter how I try struggle against the burdens of myself and Mark, I cannot change fate. The future is a nickel matinee I’ve seen a million times before.
Mark Daniels dies as I hit the street corner. A cool gust nips my face. Where do I go next? Days melt together. Is today pizza or is that on Friday? Or is it tomorrow… If I was a solitary rabbit left to wander stippled sunlight on the forest floor, I think I could be content. I sit, back against the cool brick of Mark’s building, and look out onto the street, trying to remember anything at all.
“What took you so long, Mikey?” I look up to a woman silhouetted in the sunlight. This is my sister, Janine. She is about to tell me. She stands hand to hip, hair blowing strands across her face. The sun goes behind a cumulonimbus, revealing her flush cheeks and bluegreen eyes.
“Come on, it’s me. Your sister Janine.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“What took so long in there? You said you’d be a minute and that was five.” She suspects something already.
“I don’t recall.” This is a lie. Mark’s obituary is still in my head, but confessing would make Janine angry. I glance at the back of my hand as the sun returns.
“Please, God, say you didn’t tell someone the future again, Mike.” She emphasizes ‘the future’ with a scolding squint. “We’ve been through this a bazillion times, Mikey, you can’t just”
“Been through what?” I look up and the sun blinds me for a moment.
“It’s written on your hand. I saw you look at it. You know you’re not supposed to prophesize.” Janine crouches and forces the back of my hand to my eyes. “See? ‘No future.’” Her voice warbles as I read the curly writing on my hand. “No Future,” it reads.
“Marcus Jared Daniels is going to die on June the fourth, 2012. A young man will come in to rob him and stab him in the chest. His wife Karen will submit to depression and be admitted to Stokely. She’s the one…”
Janine jerks me by the wrist and drags me to a silver Toyota Camry. She shoves me through the squealing door on to the passenger seat.
“You're not going to do this in public, Mike…” The door slams and the cars, the people, the wind in the leaves, even her yelling - it goes away for a few glorious moments. She continues talking, I can see her mouth move and her arms wave, but I am insulated. I imbibe silence with eyes closed until Janine opens the driver door and gets in.
“And Stokely. Jesus, Mike, can you not mention that place? Charlie’s been on me about it all week, you know. It’s all I can do to keep you away from him. All this future shit isn’t helping.” Stokely is an institution for the psychologically infirm – a mental hospital.
“What would Caroline say, Mike?” Janine puts a key into the ignition and fires the engine. It rattles to idle.
“Caroline?” A shape hazes my mind then disappears. It’s a feeling not unlike dejà vú. Like steam from a teakettle. I wonder if the horserace is started yet.
“Mike please cut that shit out. I know you remember. I understand this is tough, but pretending to know the future and forgetting the past is not healthy.”
“Who was Caroline?”
The radio clicks on, a stuffy reporter talking about track conditions and odds adjustments. Janine just looks at the unmoving road and sighs. She rests her head on the steering wheel for a moment, and I think maybe I should console her, but I don’t know for what.
“Please stop. I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice is small, drowned by the growing thump of rain. She reaches into her purse, on the floor between our seats, and pulls out a pack of Kools.
“Those things are going to kill you.” This isn’t a statement of fact but of aggregate statistics. I don’t know what happens to Janine. She will disappear after signing the commitment papers. Without memory, it will be as if I never had a sister. Nonetheless, the thought of her struggling with emphysema or tracheal cancer is unsettling.
Janine cracks the window, filling the cabin with earthy spring rain before she lights her cigarette and takes a drag.
“Yeah.” She jets gray-green smoke out the window
“Are we going to the movie theatre today?” I whisper, so not to make Janine mad. She turns, and putting her cigarette in the ashtray, leans face to face. The lines under her eyes and around her mouth come into sharp focus. She looks too old to be twenty-eight.
“How is it that you remember movie day and not your wife?” Ash tumbles from her cigarette.
“I don’t know.”
“You remember. I know. I’m your sister. I know.” She sinks into her seat, tucks the half cigarette in a corner of her mouth and shifts to drive. We sputter into traffic behind a big Cadillac, air whistling in through the cracked window. The stuffy man on the radio describes chestnut horses walking to the gate.
“You know, Mike, I could have hired a nurse…”
“Shh.” I check my slip and turn up the volume. Janine scowls. The clock on the dash reads 2:31.
“This is race number five today at Attica Downs, all the horses are in the gate,” the voice is low and soothing, “and we’re waiting for start. Rain is slopping the track, so the horses... Oh, and they‘re off.” The voice pops to a yell. “Inevitability jumps to a half-length lead on the outside…”
Janine snaps the radio off.
“Don’t shush me. Not today.” Her face hardens, muscles tense. “I miss my book club so you can bet,” she grabs the slip out of my left hand and gasps. “Mike! This is your savings! God, what are we going to do now?” She crumples the slip and tosses it to the floor. “I can’t deal with this today. Not today. No movie. We’re going home, and I’m going to take a nap. You can do whatever the hell you want then, but you’re not going to waste any more of my life. I love you, Mike, I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.” Janine’s voice is honey-dipped thick. “I’m going to call Stokely. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The clock on the dash flashes over to 2:34.
“Can you please turn the radio back on, Janine?” I ask in saccharine whisper. I could turn it on myself, but getting yelled at makes me unhappy. I cross my arms and look ahead.
“Whatever.” Janine sniffles.
She leans over to click the radio back on but never does. In the moments her eyes are off the road, the Cadillac in front of us comes to a complete stop. The driver, Elle Tansky, eighty-five years old, will tell the police she stopped to avoid a rabbit wandering in the road. We’re going thirty five-miles per hour – over sixty kilometers. The splashing scream of locked tires and Janine swearing register in the back of my mind, but I am too busy spending my winnings to care.
“You sure about this?” Mark asks. “It’s not my business, but the odds on Inevitability are astronomical.” He squints his left eye into his cheek. “With such a big bet...”
I put etiquette aside and cut him off. “This is what I want, thank you.”
Mark shakes his head and punches more buttons. His typing is a metronome, tick-tick-tacking me to a waking lull. The newspaper slides into focus. “Marcus Jared Daniels, 27, gunned down at Vine and Main OTB after resisting robbery.” His death is a few lines jammed between drug busts and domestic disputes. The gunmen are never found. Two months later the same police page reports his wife’s admittance to Stokely. I can’t see what happens to young Isaac.
“Mr. Daniels,” I speak against the order written on my hand, “On June the third, 2012, when the men come in to rob this betting facility, please don’t resist. They’re murderers and it will make Karen insane and I don’t know what happens to Isaac.”
The printer screeches my betting slip. Mark stares at me, mouth open, his pink tongue lolling out. One of the televisions behind us murmurs of drizzle at Attica Downs. Mark doesn’t believe me. He rips the page free, eyes twitching on the circus freak behind the glass.
“Please leave.” The page flutters from his fingers. Its value has gone from mere cents to millions. I take it and Mark’s article goes to hell in my head. Everything shifts and changes: a different heading, a different width and length…
But the same name. “Marcus Jared Daniels, 27, stabbed to death after brutal robbery at Vine and Main OTB.” His wife’s admittance remains unchanged two months later. Our fates are obstinate in their truth. In The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the first book I read upon being stamped ‘clinically insane,’ Joyce colors history as a nightmare from which we try to escape. No matter how I try struggle against the burdens of myself and Mark, I cannot change fate. The future is a nickel matinee I’ve seen a million times before.
Mark Daniels dies as I hit the street corner. A cool gust nips my face. Where do I go next? Days melt together. Is today pizza or is that on Friday? Or is it tomorrow… If I was a solitary rabbit left to wander stippled sunlight on the forest floor, I think I could be content. I sit, back against the cool brick of Mark’s building, and look out onto the street, trying to remember anything at all.
“What took you so long, Mikey?” I look up to a woman silhouetted in the sunlight. This is my sister, Janine. She is about to tell me. She stands hand to hip, hair blowing strands across her face. The sun goes behind a cumulonimbus, revealing her flush cheeks and bluegreen eyes.
“Come on, it’s me. Your sister Janine.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“What took so long in there? You said you’d be a minute and that was five.” She suspects something already.
“I don’t recall.” This is a lie. Mark’s obituary is still in my head, but confessing would make Janine angry. I glance at the back of my hand as the sun returns.
“Please, God, say you didn’t tell someone the future again, Mike.” She emphasizes ‘the future’ with a scolding squint. “We’ve been through this a bazillion times, Mikey, you can’t just”
“Been through what?” I look up and the sun blinds me for a moment.
“It’s written on your hand. I saw you look at it. You know you’re not supposed to prophesize.” Janine crouches and forces the back of my hand to my eyes. “See? ‘No future.’” Her voice warbles as I read the curly writing on my hand. “No Future,” it reads.
“Marcus Jared Daniels is going to die on June the fourth, 2012. A young man will come in to rob him and stab him in the chest. His wife Karen will submit to depression and be admitted to Stokely. She’s the one…”
Janine jerks me by the wrist and drags me to a silver Toyota Camry. She shoves me through the squealing door on to the passenger seat.
“You're not going to do this in public, Mike…” The door slams and the cars, the people, the wind in the leaves, even her yelling - it goes away for a few glorious moments. She continues talking, I can see her mouth move and her arms wave, but I am insulated. I imbibe silence with eyes closed until Janine opens the driver door and gets in.
“And Stokely. Jesus, Mike, can you not mention that place? Charlie’s been on me about it all week, you know. It’s all I can do to keep you away from him. All this future shit isn’t helping.” Stokely is an institution for the psychologically infirm – a mental hospital.
“What would Caroline say, Mike?” Janine puts a key into the ignition and fires the engine. It rattles to idle.
“Caroline?” A shape hazes my mind then disappears. It’s a feeling not unlike dejà vú. Like steam from a teakettle. I wonder if the horserace is started yet.
“Mike please cut that shit out. I know you remember. I understand this is tough, but pretending to know the future and forgetting the past is not healthy.”
“Who was Caroline?”
The radio clicks on, a stuffy reporter talking about track conditions and odds adjustments. Janine just looks at the unmoving road and sighs. She rests her head on the steering wheel for a moment, and I think maybe I should console her, but I don’t know for what.
“Please stop. I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice is small, drowned by the growing thump of rain. She reaches into her purse, on the floor between our seats, and pulls out a pack of Kools.
“Those things are going to kill you.” This isn’t a statement of fact but of aggregate statistics. I don’t know what happens to Janine. She will disappear after signing the commitment papers. Without memory, it will be as if I never had a sister. Nonetheless, the thought of her struggling with emphysema or tracheal cancer is unsettling.
Janine cracks the window, filling the cabin with earthy spring rain before she lights her cigarette and takes a drag.
“Yeah.” She jets gray-green smoke out the window
“Are we going to the movie theatre today?” I whisper, so not to make Janine mad. She turns, and putting her cigarette in the ashtray, leans face to face. The lines under her eyes and around her mouth come into sharp focus. She looks too old to be twenty-eight.
“How is it that you remember movie day and not your wife?” Ash tumbles from her cigarette.
“I don’t know.”
“You remember. I know. I’m your sister. I know.” She sinks into her seat, tucks the half cigarette in a corner of her mouth and shifts to drive. We sputter into traffic behind a big Cadillac, air whistling in through the cracked window. The stuffy man on the radio describes chestnut horses walking to the gate.
“You know, Mike, I could have hired a nurse…”
“Shh.” I check my slip and turn up the volume. Janine scowls. The clock on the dash reads 2:31.
“This is race number five today at Attica Downs, all the horses are in the gate,” the voice is low and soothing, “and we’re waiting for start. Rain is slopping the track, so the horses... Oh, and they‘re off.” The voice pops to a yell. “Inevitability jumps to a half-length lead on the outside…”
Janine snaps the radio off.
“Don’t shush me. Not today.” Her face hardens, muscles tense. “I miss my book club so you can bet,” she grabs the slip out of my left hand and gasps. “Mike! This is your savings! God, what are we going to do now?” She crumples the slip and tosses it to the floor. “I can’t deal with this today. Not today. No movie. We’re going home, and I’m going to take a nap. You can do whatever the hell you want then, but you’re not going to waste any more of my life. I love you, Mike, I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.” Janine’s voice is honey-dipped thick. “I’m going to call Stokely. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The clock on the dash flashes over to 2:34.
“Can you please turn the radio back on, Janine?” I ask in saccharine whisper. I could turn it on myself, but getting yelled at makes me unhappy. I cross my arms and look ahead.
“Whatever.” Janine sniffles.
She leans over to click the radio back on but never does. In the moments her eyes are off the road, the Cadillac in front of us comes to a complete stop. The driver, Elle Tansky, eighty-five years old, will tell the police she stopped to avoid a rabbit wandering in the road. We’re going thirty five-miles per hour – over sixty kilometers. The splashing scream of locked tires and Janine swearing register in the back of my mind, but I am too busy spending my winnings to care.