You can’t spend two hours in the chair of an adept hair stylist without coming away changed. Your attitude, your mood, your outlook on life — and your hair — all bend to the extraordinary good humor and flattery of the person waving scissors near your ears and talking smack.
Every six weeks or so, I submit to the will of Kelly Blond, owner of Lady Luck Hair Parlour and Spa in Westport. Since my long-time stylist Robert Mccain passed away, I’ve sat in the chair opposite his old station and let Kelly have her way with my curls. She’s got me using hair oil and shampooing with twenty-dollars-a-bottle concoctions. Last night, I sat meekly before a gilt mirror and let her work her voodoo magic with a round brush, a blow-dryer, and some hot wax.
I don’t recognize myself this morning. That’s a fricking smile on my face.
Oh, I’m still the same sixty-one year old has-been wearing a cardiac monitor and suppressing discontent with the direction of my non-existent love-life. I’m still terrified for our country and contemplating fleeing to the most liberal state in the union to hunker down and wait for someone to save America from this plague in Washington. I still have to bargain with myself not to complain.
But the lingering amusement of hearing Kelly talk about the exploits of a five-feet-nothing thirty-nine-year-old hot chick flying all over the country to visit men who adore her sustains me today. She’s good medicine. Better than therapy, and cheaper, too.
It’s the seventeenth day of the thirty-eighth month of My Year Without Complaining. My roller-coaster life continues.