music video
memory. You can check out any time you like, but you can never
leave.
Now, Paula had not only cornered the market on hair
care for the elderly woman (a perennially strong demographic – Willow Grove
women seem to age quickly, but die off slow), but as a Mary Kay representative
she was also the sole source for female beauty products in town. And
nobody dared to compete. She defended her turf like a street corner tough
peddling heroine on Chicago’s south side. One time, when she had failed
to win the Mary Kay pink Cadillac she went out and bought herself a white Caddy
and had it painted pink. When customers would ask her about the car she’d
put on a real modest look and say something like “Now, you know I’m not one to
brag. But I really did work hard for that car. I earned it.”
So Paula’s home was part beauty salon, part Mary Kay
retail shop, and part City Hall. Perhaps predictably, it was also the a-number-one, hands-down, undisputed Heavyweight
Champion rumor mill in town. When it comes to collecting intelligence,
the CIA should be so efficient.
The women of Willow Grove didn’t go to Paula’s to get
their hair done and to socialize. They went to socialize and “Oh, why don’t you go ahead and do my hair as long
as I’m just sitting here anyway.”
I’ve long suspected that Paula launched her business by slyly throwing one of
those clear plastic aprons around the neck of some chatty old Willow Grove bird
paying a visit and simply asking, “Ok, so what are we doing today?” Heck,
I’ll bet there were times when Paula just sat those women in a chair and
gossiped for an hour without ever touching a hair on their heads.
Probably the women wouldn’t even notice. Probably they just wrote a check
and walked right back out with all the same hairs that they came in with.
Now, I do like my Aunt Paula. She’s just a little weird. And loud. And pushy. And opinionated. But also kind-hearted – a real shirt-off-her back type.
That was Paula, the person you went to for hair care, makeup, the latest
gossip, and the shirt off her back.
T hree of Paula’s
most loyal patrons were Phyllis Ross, Sally Coleman, and Carol Carney.
And as I walked in Paula’s salon with a laundry basket full of towels that
Grandma had washed for her, there they all were, sitting under those
mad-scientist hair-dryer helmets, facing straight ahead and talking loud, like
they were each on the same ledge of a tall building and threatening to
jump.
“Oh, hi there ,
Tucker. Would you be a dear and put those away on that shelf for me,”
Paula said.
Sitting under a
fourth hair-drying, brain-sucking monstrosity was Beatrice Hart’s aunt
Lucy.
“WHAT?” screamed Phyllis.
“I SAID BEATRICE GOT THE SAME KIND OF LETTER THAT YOU
GOT, PHYLLIS.”
“SHE DID? WHEN WAS THIS?”
“IT WAS RIGHT AFTER WE LOST LAURA JANE AND IT WAS JUST
LIKE YOU DESCRIBED. A LETTER OUT AT THE CEMETRY.”
“REALLY?” said Carol and Sally together.
“DOES BEATRICE KNOW WHO HERS WAS FROM?”
“NO. SHE THOUGHT AT FIRST IT MIGHT BE FROM A
GIRL SHE USED TO GO TO SCHOOL WITH.”
“EXCEPT,” continued Lucy, “SHE’S DEAD.”
“DEAD?” said Carol and Sally
together.
“YES, DEAD. PLUS SHE THOUGHT THE HANDWRITING
LOOKED MORE LIKE A MAN’S.”
“ NOW, SEE, I
THOUGHT MINE LOOKED LIKE A MAN’S HANDWRITING, TOO!” said Phyllis.
And here my Aunt Paula chimed in and started working
her magic.
“WELL, YOU KNOW,” she said, “NOT ALL WOMEN HAVE GREAT
PENMANSHIP. I, FOR ONE, HAVE BEEN TOLD MANY TIMES THAT MY HANDWRITING
LOOKS LIKE A MAN.”
I could almost hear the mechanical clicking of the
wheels turning in Paula’s head.
“WELL, WHOEVER IT IS, I THINK THEY’RE JUST WONDERFUL,”
Sally said. “I BROUGHT IT UP IN PRAYER GROUP LAST NIGHT AND THEY ALL
THOUGHT IT WAS WONDERFUL, TOO. IN FACT, WE STARTED TALKING ABOUT WHO WE
MIGHT WRITE LETTERS FOR.”
“AND BESIDES,”
memory. You can check out any time you like, but you can never
leave.
Now, Paula had not only cornered the market on hair
care for the elderly woman (a perennially strong demographic – Willow Grove
women seem to age quickly, but die off slow), but as a Mary Kay representative
she was also the sole source for female beauty products in town. And
nobody dared to compete. She defended her turf like a street corner tough
peddling heroine on Chicago’s south side. One time, when she had failed
to win the Mary Kay pink Cadillac she went out and bought herself a white Caddy
and had it painted pink. When customers would ask her about the car she’d
put on a real modest look and say something like “Now, you know I’m not one to
brag. But I really did work hard for that car. I earned it.”
So Paula’s home was part beauty salon, part Mary Kay
retail shop, and part City Hall. Perhaps predictably, it was also the a-number-one, hands-down, undisputed Heavyweight
Champion rumor mill in town. When it comes to collecting intelligence,
the CIA should be so efficient.
The women of Willow Grove didn’t go to Paula’s to get
their hair done and to socialize. They went to socialize and “Oh, why don’t you go ahead and do my hair as long
as I’m just sitting here anyway.”
I’ve long suspected that Paula launched her business by slyly throwing one of
those clear plastic aprons around the neck of some chatty old Willow Grove bird
paying a visit and simply asking, “Ok, so what are we doing today?” Heck,
I’ll bet there were times when Paula just sat those women in a chair and
gossiped for an hour without ever touching a hair on their heads.
Probably the women wouldn’t even notice. Probably they just wrote a check
and walked right back out with all the same hairs that they came in with.
Now, I do like my Aunt Paula. She’s just a little weird. And loud. And pushy. And opinionated. But also kind-hearted – a real shirt-off-her back type.
That was Paula, the person you went to for hair care, makeup, the latest
gossip, and the shirt off her back.
T hree of Paula’s
most loyal patrons were Phyllis Ross, Sally Coleman, and Carol Carney.
And as I walked in Paula’s salon with a laundry basket full of towels that
Grandma had washed for her, there they all were, sitting under those
mad-scientist hair-dryer helmets, facing straight ahead and talking loud, like
they were each on the same ledge of a tall building and threatening to
jump.
“Oh, hi there ,
Tucker. Would you be a dear and put those away on that shelf for me,”
Paula said.
Sitting under a
fourth hair-drying, brain-sucking monstrosity was Beatrice Hart’s aunt
Lucy.
“WHAT?” screamed Phyllis.
“I SAID BEATRICE GOT THE SAME KIND OF LETTER THAT YOU
GOT, PHYLLIS.”
“SHE DID? WHEN WAS THIS?”
“IT WAS RIGHT AFTER WE LOST LAURA JANE AND IT WAS JUST
LIKE YOU DESCRIBED. A LETTER OUT AT THE CEMETRY.”
“REALLY?” said Carol and Sally together.
“DOES BEATRICE KNOW WHO HERS WAS FROM?”
“NO. SHE THOUGHT AT FIRST IT MIGHT BE FROM A
GIRL SHE USED TO GO TO SCHOOL WITH.”
“EXCEPT,” continued Lucy, “SHE’S DEAD.”
“DEAD?” said Carol and Sally
together.
“YES, DEAD. PLUS SHE THOUGHT THE HANDWRITING
LOOKED MORE LIKE A MAN’S.”
“ NOW, SEE, I
THOUGHT MINE LOOKED LIKE A MAN’S HANDWRITING, TOO!” said Phyllis.
And here my Aunt Paula chimed in and started working
her magic.
“WELL, YOU KNOW,” she said, “NOT ALL WOMEN HAVE GREAT
PENMANSHIP. I, FOR ONE, HAVE BEEN TOLD MANY TIMES THAT MY HANDWRITING
LOOKS LIKE A MAN.”
I could almost hear the mechanical clicking of the
wheels turning in Paula’s head.
“WELL, WHOEVER IT IS, I THINK THEY’RE JUST WONDERFUL,”
Sally said. “I BROUGHT IT UP IN PRAYER GROUP LAST NIGHT AND THEY ALL
THOUGHT IT WAS WONDERFUL, TOO. IN FACT, WE STARTED TALKING ABOUT WHO WE
MIGHT WRITE LETTERS FOR.”
“AND BESIDES,”
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