Keep A Straight Face, pt. 2

Commando

I'd noticed her shoes in the morning- one brown, one navy Ferragamo bow flat. She'd laughed when she caught me looking and told me that she had mixed the pairs accidentally. I told her about the time I'd forgotten to take off my huge lion slippers one morning before heading to my 10th grade homeroom. And that's how it started- with me trading one embarrassment for another- always the consummate hostess, even if it was my first week at this place.

As she headed to her desk, I did a fast inventory of her Lafont Paris frames, long, swinging glass bead necklace and highlighted bob. (This last had been lovingly slashed all along the lower line and had me contemplating for the millionth time the sad fact that in most cases hairdressers just will not take my word for it that I want a very wild, rock and roll cut. I look too delicate- too gentil. And they, thinking they know the lady that I am better than I do, always manage to make me look as wild as a Palm Beach print. In other words, only wild- looking to the wildly ignorant.) When I looked at her body, I saw that her striped knit top and linen cigarette pants were neat and rumpled all at the same time. Which managed to make her look very french. I'd been told she was extremely eccentric, but so far, her oddness struck me as harmless and charming.

Later in the morning, she came back and leaned her skinny ass against my desk, wanting to know how I was getting along so far. She carried the lion's share of a neat little "welcome to the office" exchange and I answered on autopilot, my brain concentrating on her strong, flawless jawline. Wow, I hope my jawline looks like that when I'm her age. And then Stupid! You have to start with a jawline like that to end up that way. Ohhh. Right. Man-in-the-moon-face. Never gonna look like that without implants. Mean, mean implants. That's a negative, Ghost Rider. Huh? I blinked back into the conversation just as she'd finished saying something about the weather.

"You definitely moved to Louisiana at the hottest part of the year," she said emphatically. I shrugged and laughed. Stupid Yankee. She started up again, "When I first moved here two decades ago, I kept coming down with yeast infections." She continued, comfortably oblivious to my struggle to keep my eyebrows in place. "My doctor finally told me to stop wearing underwear during the hot months and that cleared it all up." I bit my cheek to keep from laughing and threw a panicked glance over her shoulder to the open door of the nearest partner's office only ten feet away. I knew that if I could hear everything he ever said in that room, he was definitely getting an earful right now.

"You gotta do whatcha gotta do," I said politely, noncommittally. "Well, you know," she confided, "I just got so used to it that I didn't even wear them in the winter. In fact, I haven't worn underwear for twenty years now." She nodded, rather satisfied with how that had all worked out. "You might want think about not wearing them, either," she offered now, leaning in close to my face and dropping her voice chummily. So helpful. Thanks. "You know- if you find that you're getting yeast infections, too." I smiled my best April Marie smile and reached for the ringing phone.

Got a Devil's Haircut in My Mind

I sat in that chair and flipped him off repeatedly underneath the huge black cape I wore to keep the itchy snips off my skin and clothes. It was my fault anyway. I’d called at the last minute for cut and color only to find out that my girl was gone. The 4th one to leave the place in less than a year. I’ve managed enough businesses to know that the problem wasn’t likely to be found in the employees.

And so I sat in his chair. Dick. The salon owner himself, pinch hitting at the last moment, his brand of gossip and good times pouring over me. I felt filthy. “And you know,” his voice dropped conspiratorially, “she didn’t bother to tell me she was pregnant when I hired her.” My mirrored eyes shot open and I considered letting him in on current legal ramifications for biz owners who do not hire or who limit the employment of women just because they are expecting. I kept it to myself, though. Poor bastard was burning his bridges just fine without me. “I’m not saying that I necessarily wouldn’t have hired her, but…,” he stopped, comb in hand, and found the right words written on the ceiling. “I probably would have come to a different arrangement. Fewer hours. Something like that. I really didn’t get my money’s worth with her.” Misunderstanding my expression, he added, “You know she wasn’t even married!”

My little cutie pie stylist had been with her soccer playing boyfriend since they both began high school. And they were good together. So when they accidentally got pregnant back in January, they decided they would just roll with it. They were thrilled, actually. She was only 19, and having finished up at the Aveda Institute a short while before, she was firmly ensconced in her chosen profession. Besides, her mom had her when she was the same age. Also, she told me, all of her friends already had babies. That last blew my mind, but, you know, different strokes, and etc. She felt like it really was practically past time to get this show on the road. She was sooo happy and it’s easy to be happy for someone who’s happy, you know?

And if she became a little spacey as the trimesters passed, I didn’t hassle her. Being a mom is tough work during every part of the job, in my opinion. So, big smiles, big tips, and lots of compliments. My hair looked progressively dowdier as every month went by, but what the hell. It wasn’t the first time I’d become loyal to someone who was better at being a human being than they were at doing their job. No big deal. I liked the way my priorities were set, even if my hair looked like ass.

So, when he'd finished, after drowning me in the sludge of his opinions on children, sex, his own youth, people in the community that he didn’t like, employees who’d left that he didn’t like, as well as his thoughts on the physical abuse that he felt his spoiled niece should definitely undergo, I found myself disgusted.

I looked damned good. And, of course, I'm going back.

i surrender all, pt. 3

I graduated high school when I was sixteen. I started the year as a junior and ended up as something else. This is what my high school diploma says:

*******
Dayspring Academy

To all to whom these presents shall come, Greetings
(my full name is printed here)
having satisfactorily completed the required Course of Study prescribed by
Morning Glory Center for Learning Enrichment and Therapy, Inc.
of the State of Indiana for graduation
is therefore awarded this

Diploma

and is entitled to all honors, rights, and privileges appertaining.
In witness whereof, this diploma is issued under the authority of the
Board of Directors and upon recommendation of the Administration at Muncie, Indiana
and is presented at Ball State University this day, May 24, 1989.


Michael J. Pierce Administrator of Education

Michael H. Parker President, Board of Directors

*************


My high school doesn’t exist anymore. And what’s more, as a “satellite student”, I never attended it for even one day. And this fact alone makes me one incredibly fucking lucky girl. You wouldn’t believe the trouble represented by this damn diploma.

I try to look at it with a stranger’s eyes and play a silly game with it: if I could excise a word or two from its language, would that somehow change the outcome of the story? For example, to start with the light stuff, “Morning Glory Center” irritates me. It’s cheesy. ‘Stop it!’ I sternly tell the writer. ‘Have some damn dignity.” Then I weigh “Learning Enrichment” against “Therapy,” or maybe that should be “Therapy, Inc.” Both sound dumber than a box of hair, but if I could rid the world of one, could I make it a better place for people I’m crazy about?

I’d guess “Learning Enrichment” is probably the lesser of two evils- people kicked ass academically at this place. That’s a good thing. They still walk around with an almost demonic confidence based on their experiences breaking all the rules of what could be achieved in a school setting. “Therapy” or “Therapy, Inc.”, though. Sheesh. I’d cross that out. The devil’s in that detail. Where’s my red pen?

Finally Found A Friend

You know how you meet people who just make you happy? People, it turns out, you also have a knack for making happy? This guy,Jaeson, is one of those. He is living proof that working for McKinsey & Company will kill your sense of humor. Once while watching the dancing bears (dancing bares, ahem, dancing girls) beside me during a Cleveland Cavs halftime, he sang this song: "There's something in my pants, that makes me want to dance." And I do think that just about sums it up.

I'd thought I'd lost track of him for good until yesterday, when another good friend (to be revealed later) sent me his current info. He's living in Guadalajara where he runs his bobbleheaded business. This man is my hero. I see his scruffy face and want to make sweet, sweet happy. I do, after all, have a knack for it.