not a bluebird
She wrapped a towel around my neck and velcro’d the black cape around my shoulders.
“Do you know what you want today?”
I shrug. “Nope.” I never do. I just want her to fix me. And zap the gray.
“Good. Because I’ve got something new. I’ve been dying to try this color on you.” She heads to the back to mix her potion and returns with a dish of white goop.
“White?” I never can figure out how what’s in the bowl changes on my head.
“Not just white. Pearl,” she giggles as she pulls on her gloves and starts to smear section by section. “You’re gonna love the softness and the shine.”
She’s “fixed” me for more than a dozen years. Since after my last gal, her coworker, died at a young age from an aggressive melanoma.
She squishes her fingers though my hair, mushing mounds. We chat about life.
After I’ve marinated, I hang my head back into the bowl while she shampoos and rinses, then waxes and rips below my eyebrows and above my upper lip. Each visit reminds me how fast time travels.
She lowers her voice. “I need Sandy counseling, but it’s so small in here.” So we talk soft while she snips at lengths of time.
When she’s done, I go nose to mirror, run fingers through soft and smooth. “The color. It’s darker. Closer to my natural, I think.” I can’t really remember. Time does that, I think.
But it was after she fixed me, after she worked her creative magic, I saw more of the real me that used to be.
How can that be?
Still soft and shiny,
Sandy
The blog’s been kind of quiet this week. Which is ironic since I just wrote about why I can’t not blog. I had words to share, reflections on books I’m reading, linkups to participate in. But I climbed out on a limb, fell on a whim, and registered for a memoir workshop that started on the 1st.
So many things we wait for, put off, until after the kids (or grandkids) are grown, the house is fixed, the declutter complete, the retirement check’s in the mailbox. But the reality is that “after” may never come here, because it’s a fragile veil that separates us from the hereafter.
So I’m not sure what the next 12 weeks will look like. I expect the class to take priority. Yet maybe it and the blog will feed off each other. And maybe in the end, I’ll find more of the real me.
Joining Lisa Jo on the word prompt “after.”
I want to read that memoir. 🙂
wonderful… I could see it all as if I was the other lady sitting in the chair beside you.
I saw a picture of your new fabulous “do” on someone’s Facebook page… not sure how it appeared in my newsfeed.
I always feel “lighter” when I leave my hair dresser’s…. then, on the way home, I pray that my husband will like it…. I pray a lot. 🙂
I love your image and the statement, “But the reality is that “after” may never come here, because it’s a fragile veil that separates us from the hereafter.” Thanks for posting!
I love this comparison. So light and fun.
I’ve had too many traumatic experiences at the hair place when I was young. I think I get my hair cut about 3 times a year. I KNOW. I KNOW!!
So glad you’re doing the memoir workshop! My “after” needs to wait a little longer, maybe until I’m completely white-headed, which shouldn’t be much longer at this rate. But I continue to write in the meantime, not waiting for the perfect time, just filling the time I have.