Prufrock

Originally Posted Friday, May 10, 2013

I sat in the beauty parlor for a long time last night.  Getting beautified.  I got the call late yesterday afternoon telling me I was due that evening. 

"What?!?  Why are you just now calling me?  Why didn't you tell me yesterday?" 

You may think it is wonderful that they call me at all, but if they don't, I miss my appointment and my beautician loses money.  I think she factors the price of the phone call into my bill. 

When I got there, another client was in the chair. 

"Hi, baby," said the beautician in her Russian accent when I walked in, "have a seat.  It will be just a little bit." 

Like a kid, I spent the next twenty minutes texting.  Then it was my turn.  I had come straight from the gym with a quick stop at the house to change my shirt.  I decided to mix up a big martini for the road since she rarely has anything to drink at the beauty parlor.  By the time I got into the beauty chair, I was haggard.  Oy!  The lights and the mirror and the liquor were not being kind to me.  It was depressing.  She had her work cut out for her. 

Hours later when she had finally done everything she could do (with what effect remains to be seen), I was terribly hungry, in need of strong drink, and very depressed.  I hate people who pretend to be happy about getting older.  I even hate it when they act like it is just what happens as if nature were benign.  Aging is a disease by any definition of the word.  Genetic materials unravel and clump until the body's architecture can no longer support itself and starts to collapse.  The mind goes with it, both structurally and otherwise.  Happy?  Jesus Christ, you are definitely a moron. 

 I was tired but had to eat.  Two stops got me a meal I could make in five minutes and a bottle I could open in five seconds. 

It was ten o'clock and I still had hours of work ahead of me.  On with the music, down the hatch, meal eaten, drinks poured, computer on. 

I fell into bed after one.  It is the second night in a row. 

It is one of the reasons I look so bad.  I need rest.  It isn't happening. 

And the lawn, too.  As it grows, it begins to look lumpy.  Perhaps it is no smoother than the old lawn, I think.  I grow paranoid.  It is like spilling red wine on your new linen jacket.  You knew it would happen, but you bought the fucking thing anyway. 

Now my body buzzes with fatigue and coffee.  You know the feeling.  But it used to be less unnerving, less worrisome.  I will have to look in the mirror soon.  I will see if the beautification worked, if it held overnight.  I have things to do.  I'll need to put on a face to meet the faces that I meet.  Old Prufrock.  Hell of a guy.  You should meet him sometime.