HERE’S A LITTLE FLUFF

There’s a lot of nasty stuff happening in the world these days. Or maybe in your neighborhood or with your family or to you.  Each day, a mixed bag — some weighty stuff and some fluff.

Here’s some fluff.

It’s about hair. My hair. Which grows like bamboo and sometimes looks like bamboo. First of all, I have embraced my big hair even when it begins to resemble Medusa’s coiffure as it measures wind speed and direction. I clamp it in curls or hide it under a hat and go blithely on my way.

Which brings me to my destination last Tuesday, just before Thanksgiving. It’s desert hot and dry this afternoon and frankly I have had better hair days. Gravity is pulling the split ends south, albeit not in the way you would see in a Pantene shampoo commercial. It looks more like the sprays of dried chaparral you find at a hobby store. But I think my hair looks swell enough.

I’m setting up for the birthday party at an assisted living facility. Residents are wheeled in by the hard-working staff and “That Guy,” who usually hides in the back of the room, is front row center with his wheelchair parked right next to “That Lady.” I think they are an item as they eat their birthday cake and steal googly-eye glances at each other during the show. Aw how sweet is that?

“Who’s got a birthday this month?” I ask. A couple weary folks raise their hands as we launch into songs by Johnny Mercer and Tina Turner because they were born in November too. I announce that November 3, 1914 is the birthday of the modern bra. That news stirs some moans of excitement so we sing “Ain’t She Sweet.”

But back to my hair…

I finish with a rousing “Happy Birthday” and begin packing up my gear. Folks are swiftly wheeled away except for “That Guy” and “That Lady” in the front row. He leans over to her and speaks:

Guy: “Her hair looks awful today.”
Lady: “Yeah.”
Guy: “That’s the worst I’ve ever seen it.”
Lady: “Yeah.”

Sounds like love to me…

My back is to them but I have really good hearing (or else the acoustics in the room are favoring criticism today). I wonder if they are talking about me. About MY hair. I surreptitiously look around and realize there is no one else in the room but them and me.

Has it been…like…nine months since I’ve seen Maria, my hairdresser? I remember the day I met her. It’s another desperate hair day and I need someone to do something quick. I’m taking my chances at Fantastic Sam’s, sifting through the hair books in the waiting area knowing damned well none of those sleeky looks apply to me. I thank my lucky stars that it is Maria who calls my name that morning and we have forged a trusty relationship ever since. She knows I vanish for months at a time and then suddenly I appear at her door like a fidgety overgrown poodle.

Maria has her own shop now and is busy with pre-Thanksgiving perms and tints, but she squeezes me in probably because I sound that desperate on the phone. I slide onto the chair and watch dry wisps of orange scatter to the floor. She cuts off A LOT. Then she does something I NEVER DO. Maria gives me a blowout. Almost like magic my hair is straight and shiny and probably would look really good with a wind machine. And it will not look like this again until my next haircut.

In my world, this recent incident at the assisted living is not terribly unusual. I hear folks whisper stuff like “her hair is so messy” or “does she ever brush her hair?” Whether it is long, short or in-between. There’s no winning this game. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

But I prefer this saying: “If you spot it, you got it.”