. . . felt human again

What luxury it is to go to the hairdresser. . . or whatever they're called these days. "Do you have time for a scalp massage?" Do you have to ask? Of course. Three or four times a year, I indulge myself and spend a couple of hours chatting with Bobbie, who shares my interest in gardening; reading all the celebrity magazines that I never buy to find out what Angelina Jolie's youngest daughter is doing to prepare for her twin siblings and how her potty training is coming along; checking out the latest stylists and their young assistants for how many different shades of orange and purple are in their hair styles this week; and generally just taking it easier than usual while Bobbie works wonders with my hair.

So I hand Bobbie the little pieces of foil while she meticulously parts and paints my tresses, wraps them up and layers them on my thick head of hair until tin is sticking out in all directions. Then she turns me loose while the potion works its magic. I usually go outside and sit in the tiny seating area provided right on the sidewalk. Several years ago I was sitting there and some guy jumped out of a car in the street, ran up to the salon, peered through the window in the door, turned around, grabbed my purse from beside my feet, and ran back to the car and made his getaway with his female accomplice. He didn't get any money, but they went on several shopping sprees at Dillards and Nordstroms, as well as several grocery stores on the Missouri side (where liquor is available and it's not on the Kansas side.) About $10,000 and months later, after many headaches, police reports, letters from creditors demanding recompense, etc., things were straightened out again, and I still sit out there, but now without my purse. Yesterday a gentleman was walking past on the other side of the street, apparently coming home from work with his lunch bucket, hard hat and cellphone. He looked at me as though he couldn't believe his eyes. . . he even turned around to get a better view. I guess the halo of foil was a distraction.


The picture above is another paper towel that I used to clean up paint. It could easily be cropped in half, upper part and lower. I wish my paintings could be as exurberant and random as these little pieces of trash.