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Monday, 22 February 2010

The Closest I Come to Crazy

By Marcia Mayo who blogs at Well Aged With Some Marbling

My mother said when I was born, my face was wider than it was tall, and I had a shock of red hair sticking up all over my head. My face eventually normalized to a certain extent but my hair never did. Although the color is interesting and used to be memorable, the texture is mostly unmanageable.

Throughout the years, I've done some crazy things to my hair. My friend, Allison, who also happened to be my college roommate, was known for "highlighting" anyone's hair at any time day or night. The fact that Allison went on to become a minister and later, a clinical therapist, must be based in part on the number of people who used the Lord's name in vain and developed annoying tics during her dorm-room beauty-parlor days. I was one of her victims.

Later on, after I got married, I either had my hair cut short or, every few years, when curly hair was in style, I would get a perm . My latest perm was just a few years ago, when, by the way, curly hair was not in vogue. I have no idea what led to that brilliant idea but I think it had something to do with my then-stylist's BMW payment. Because I was already on up there in years, my head of tousled locks did not give me that sexy bed-head look but did, instead, cause me to look very much like John Calvert, the Third Lord Baltimore.

Before I go any further in trying to explain what my hair has to do with the closest I come to crazy, let me tell you about Whitney, my current hair stylist/psychiatrist. Whitney is wonderful and talented and smart and funny, not to mention handsome. He's great with hair and great with people. Therefore, Whitney can't be blamed for any of what I'm about to tell you, nor can my past stylists be held accountable either, except for maybe that one with the Beamer. In fact, Whitney is often called in to fix what I have wrought.

You see, not only do I have bad hair, I'm also cheap. Whitney, being the fabulous stylist that he is, charges what the market will bear. But that's not all. In addition to his stupendously expensive fee structure, Whitney has also placed his salon twenty miles north of where I live in Atlanta, Georgia. So, not only do I have to pay Whitney's outrageously enormous salary, I also have to cough up an extra dollar (50 cents there and 50 cents back) to drive my happy self up (and down) State Route 400, the Hospitality Highway, which is so hospitable as to be a toll road with more driving jerks per 1000 feet than any highway in the world, including the Autobahn.

I do have to admit that Whitney has offered to hand me four quarters when I leave his salon. He has also offered (on several occasions quite forcefully) to find me another stylist.

So, here we go. The closest I come to crazy is when I am standing in my tiny urban bathroom looking in the mirror with a hank of hair in one hand and scissors in the other. Although this current bout of psychotic behavior has much to do with toll roads and the price of gas, I've always been a closet cutter (of hair). I guess my mama didn't punish me enough after that early childhood rite of passage known as cutting your bangs with the blunt-edged scissors.

This is how it happens. Something feels too long or thick. I ignore it for a while, but my hand keeps finding it. I go and look in the mirror and pull the offending piece out at a right angle. Before long, I've taken out the scissors and cut the loathsome lock, which makes another strand look too long or thick.

The next thing I know I'm calling Whitney for an emergency trip up the Hospitality Highway (50 cents there and 50 cents back). The last time this happened, Whitney said the only thing he could do was to give me a reverse mullet, with business in the back and a party in the front. He then handed me four quarters and offered to help me find a stylist closer to home.

To tell you the truth, my problem these days isn't really my hair. It's the old face under it. Allison and I were talking the other afternoon, when she mentioned someone who'd had one of those digital things done where they take your picture and then attach photographs of various hairstyles to your face. We were laughing about how, no matter what fabulous hair they put on the poor woman, her face was still sitting there right under it.

That led us to talking about how hair just doesn't look the same any more on our poor tired faces. Then I remembered something a friend told me a long time ago, which is the great adage, "no matter where I go, there I am."

I guess the same could be said for my hair and the face right under it. I seem to drag them with me wherever I go, even when it's up (and down) the Hospitality Highway to see my friend Whitney. Fifty cents there and fifty cents back.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

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