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,
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.”