Hair Folly

The morning coffee was good.  The gym was good.  My haircut was good.  The hamburgers and hotdogs were good.  

So why do I feel the way I do? 

Rhetorical question.  

Let's talk about my hair.  Well. . . I'll do the talking.  As I walked up to the door of the beauty salon, my little Jewish Russian, seeing me through the big glass window fronting the shop, came out to greet me.  She was all smiles, but. . . .

"How do you like your hair?"

"Depends on the day, the hour.  Sometimes it is o.k."

"It is lying flat on your head," she said.  She was already fussing with it before we got inside. 

She sat me in the chair and started looking, touching, thinking.  She's a real visual artist, and she was thinking hard about what to do.  

"Something is going on.  You've lost your curl.  I need to make some separation."

"I think it needs to be longer.  My hair needs weight."

Usually she colors my hair before she cuts it wet.  Today, she said, she needed to cut it dry.  I sat, complacent.  I felt it didn't really matter to me anymore.  I'm resigned to a life that hardly matters. 

She cut.  We talked.  She said I would need to start using product in my hair, maybe mousse.  I broke up when she said it, and she looked at me confused.  

"Oh. . . it's just that. . . have you ever seen the cartoon Rocky and Bullwinkle?  You sounded just like Boris when he says to Natasha 'moose and squirrel, moose and squirrel.'"

She laughed, but I wasn't sure.

I was in the chair for three hours--laugh, I don't care--and so we covered all aspects of our current lives.  So who's happy?  Life is hard.  You do what you do and suffer the consequences while other people wonder why you did it.  That's as close as I can come to understanding things, anyway.  

She cut, we talked, then she got the foil and the chemicals and painted my hair with a brush for longer than usual.  Then we sat while the chemicals did their jobs.  And we talked.  Once in awhile, she would get up, peel back some foil, and then get the brush and put on more goop.  And we talked.  When time was up, she washed my hair in the backwards sink, then we went back to the chair and she cut some more.  I pretty much kept my eyes closed or looked at the floor.  I didn't look in the big mirror in front of me.  

When she was done, she rubbed in some mousse.  And then. . . .

It looked like shit.  It was worse than it was before.  What to do?  She wet it and wanted me to do what I do messing up my hair with my fingers.  Nope.  She pulled out some product, some waxy, paste stuff, and rubbed it through my hair.   Now it was my turn.  

"Do what you do."

I did.  And it worked.  

She has come around to liking my messy bed head look.  I've always wanted hair that looks like the hair on Greek and Roman statues.  

We were getting closer.  But we weren't finished talking, so we sat another half hour or so and finally she said, "I like it."  I looked in the mirror.  Yea, it looked better than when I came in.  I'm less blonde and have more low lights.  We hugged, said I love you, and I headed back to mother's.  

Now that's a lot of talk about hair, isn't it?  Far too revelatory, too.  I mean who in the world gives a shit about my hair?  

Shall I confess?  There are plenty.  Not you, I know.  I can feel your disgust coming through the screen. You may have already cancelled your subscription.  Or you can call me a Narcissist and be using the term, for once, correctly.  I am only hoping to be able to stand to look at my own reflection in a pool of water in the pale moonlight.  Plus, and this is the big thing, I need to have some confidence when I approach people to take their picture.  I need to be able to look them in the eye and not feel deflated.  And therein lies the tale.  Street cred.  

On another day, I would delete all that and begin again.  

This isn't that day, I guess.  

It was time for the afternoon cocktail.  The tenant was on her way.  The afternoon was cloudy as the rain approached.  There was the breeze as the temperature fell.  I sat in the garage porch with my mother and felt. . . good.  I did.  I felt good. 

When the tenant pulled up, I asked her if she wanted a really good beer.  I poured her a Punks.  She lit up.  It is a very good beer.  And so we sat in the garage with mother and chatted and drank until the rain came.  When the wind shifted, we closed the garage door and went inside.  It was time for me to work.  

Not having a grill here, I decided to cook the hamburgers on the stove top in the enamelled cast iron pot.  Get it hot, pour in some olive oil.  Let that warm, and then hamburger patties, three minutes per side.  Chopped onions, sauerkraut, sweet relish, catsup, honey mustard--anything you want.  The burgers needed a minute more, then I plated them on brioche buns.  And good god, they were among the best burgers I've ever had.  

The tenant filled us in on her summer in the north helping her mother take care of her 107 year old grandmother.  More beer.  

"Who wants a hot dog?"

Everybody.  

"See Dick.  See Dick cook.  Dick cooks hot dogs."

Whatever.  Same thing.  Brioche buns, any toppings.  Whiskey.  I still felt good.  

When the meal was done and the tenant had gone, I cleaned up the kitchen.  Another Labor Day behind us.  What lies ahead?

Oh, hurricanes, of course.  Politics.  More warfare.  Renaming things.  Melting glaciers.  

or

Football season.  The World Series.  Wondering what that pop star will do now that she is married.  

Or, you could join me in watching this.  The old BBC.  How can it not be good?