December 1, 2012
I’m a blondie! In
the long-winded explanation you would think the date-spoiler would have
understood the hand-waving and array of beauty magazine photos I flipped in
front of her. So much for a subtle highlight at my friend Cris’ salon.
The generous mature
stylist huffed and fussed over the extremely attractive transparent cap in a
well-worn tank top and black stretch pants, hair flipped up in a smart swirl.
The horrid smell of Clorox (?) wafted through the vast space making me certain cancer
cells were spreading through our bodies, sterilizing all of the young women in
the joint. Felt most sorry for the nine year old Amelie look alike who fetched
tear your hair out chewed down roller brushes, a butt-shaped manicurist stool
for my foot, stand up and salute black coffee for the drooping clients and
smiled at me cheerily each time she passed. Darling!
I knew I was in
trouble when the stylist tromped out for a “quick” lunch after ripping out the
majority of my hair through the plastic shower cap pin holes with a minute
croquet hook and plastered fumy white cream from end to end with a short paint
brush. As it got lighter and lighter…I could see glimpses of Madonna or Marilyn
Monroe flashing in the huge mirror facing me. Whatever! It will grow out. So if
you notice some blonde chickie balancing across the jagged brick sidewalk,
looking exasperatingly lost, tottering on a crutch branded with duct tape on
the armpit pad (note the singular!) flashing on the Sao Paulo daily news that’s
me!
The workers did
their best to convince me I need a massage but I politely refrained. Lord knows
if I would come out alive from that service! The receptionist flatly refused to
take my cash and wouldn’t breathe a word when I insisted on knowing the price
of the color at the sans no price list counter. Short, dark, perky youth
spectacle-bearing little closed mouth twirp in a long dress style t-shirt,
stretch pants and slim ballet-style shoes called me a cab and tried to pry a
R$20 in my hand. I hopped in the taxi sans dinheiro and left for Cristina’s.
Ju’s son Hugo is
here, tripping around in his extra large shoes on his extra small feet with
enormous blue sweat pants and a swallowing stark white t-shirt over his stick
arms. His slightly crossed eyes are owlish behind gynormous blue-framed
glasses. He flings himself around as though he isn’t sure of his relationship
to the space. Perched on the chair near the computer to hover so I gave him the
Power Point presentation of my farm stay. Hugo graciously wowed over the
animals, domestic and otherwise. At least someone appreciates the danger I was
in!
Torrential rain so
I cannot attend to my PT in the pool out back. Not the end of the world since I
was dutifully stretching and vigilantly counting while my hair was being
wrecked.
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