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Authors: Kris Radish
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drinks at the bars. Travels without a suitcase. Smokes dope on the weekends and loves to flirt with men and women.
Hip.
She’s a hairstylist.
“No, really?” Connie says as a question-statement, as if her new friend Mattie has just told her she is in a traveling circus and has a spare body part tucked into her back pocket. “You look, well, artsy.”
“What I do is art, Connie baby. I get $125 for a 30-minute haircut.”
“No kidding?” Connie mouths in shock.
“No shit, it’s art, all right. I can take anyone and turn her or him into a flaming goddess,” Mattie assures her. “By the way, thanks for letting me sit here. If you get sick I’ll give you a free haircut.”
“Could you fix this?” Connie asks, grabbing her hair, suddenly totally distracted from her perilous mission of visiting her secretive oldest daughter by the disarming woman who leans over without hesitation to feel her hair, push it around between both hands and all her fingers, and then pulls back to imagine what she would look like “fixed” in New York.
“You need color. It will take 15 years off you, sweetie,” Mattie promises. “I’d highlight it, trim back the sides. What I’m thinking here is that you’d be borderline
hot
.”
Connie snorts.
“What?” Mattie demands.
“Hot? That’s the last thing I’d ever think about myself.”
“That sucks. You have a great figure. Wonderful skin. Life can’t be all bad, for crissakes. My gawd, woman, half my clients are over 50 and they are something. I mean it. Age is nothing. I bet you are, what, 53? Sexy has nothing to do with age. It’s style and grace and what comes out from the inside. And you’ve got it. But your sexy is a bit camouflaged.”
Connie buys Mattie a drink. She wants to marry her. Then Mattie buys her a drink and Mattie, who is booked six weeks in advance, tells her no matter what, to come by her salon tomorrow at 6:45 P.M . and she’ll bring out her inner sexy. Then Connie tells her why she’s going to New York and it’s Mattie’s turn to snort.
“Oh, my fucking gawd,” she says and then apologizes for using the F word.
“What?”
“I love Diva’s,” Mattie admits. “I go there all of the time. My salon is just three blocks from the store. Shit. Is your daughter Jessica? My God. You look like her, or she looks like you. I’ve been trying to fix her Midwestern hair for three months. How absolutely cool is this? Her store is pretty popular. I can’t believe you didn’t know this. How could you not know this?”
Connie doesn’t know what to say. She’s never even seen a dildo, and now she has a daughter who not only sells them but apparently designs them as well. How did she not know? How could she let Jessica slip away into a world and life that seem as foreign to her as Antarctica? Should she have asked more questions? Hired a private detective? Kept her locked in the back bedroom? Turned her into a female eunuch before she reached puberty? Tried harder to climb over the huge mountain separating them?
“Shit happens, isn’t that what they say?” she finally responds.
“You never visited? Did she think you’d be mad? Did you two have a fight or something?”
Mattie spits out these queries as if she is on fire.
“These are good questions, Dr. Hairstylist,” Connie fires back. “That’s what you are. Hairstylists, bartenders, and nurses like me, we’re all psychiatrists. We listen and ask questions no one else dares to ask, especially if we have scissors, a shot glass, or a sharp needle in one hand. That’s why I’m on my way to New York City. I guess I want to know the answers myself. I want to know how the hell this happened.”
Mattie takes her hand and Connie squeezes it.
“You’re cool, Connie,” Mattie tells her. “Most mothers would just call and scream. Well, my mother would call and place a large order but most mothers—really, they’d freak.”
Why? Connie wonders while they sit and sip their drinks and
Hip.
She’s a hairstylist.
“No, really?” Connie says as a question-statement, as if her new friend Mattie has just told her she is in a traveling circus and has a spare body part tucked into her back pocket. “You look, well, artsy.”
“What I do is art, Connie baby. I get $125 for a 30-minute haircut.”
“No kidding?” Connie mouths in shock.
“No shit, it’s art, all right. I can take anyone and turn her or him into a flaming goddess,” Mattie assures her. “By the way, thanks for letting me sit here. If you get sick I’ll give you a free haircut.”
“Could you fix this?” Connie asks, grabbing her hair, suddenly totally distracted from her perilous mission of visiting her secretive oldest daughter by the disarming woman who leans over without hesitation to feel her hair, push it around between both hands and all her fingers, and then pulls back to imagine what she would look like “fixed” in New York.
“You need color. It will take 15 years off you, sweetie,” Mattie promises. “I’d highlight it, trim back the sides. What I’m thinking here is that you’d be borderline
hot
.”
Connie snorts.
“What?” Mattie demands.
“Hot? That’s the last thing I’d ever think about myself.”
“That sucks. You have a great figure. Wonderful skin. Life can’t be all bad, for crissakes. My gawd, woman, half my clients are over 50 and they are something. I mean it. Age is nothing. I bet you are, what, 53? Sexy has nothing to do with age. It’s style and grace and what comes out from the inside. And you’ve got it. But your sexy is a bit camouflaged.”
Connie buys Mattie a drink. She wants to marry her. Then Mattie buys her a drink and Mattie, who is booked six weeks in advance, tells her no matter what, to come by her salon tomorrow at 6:45 P.M . and she’ll bring out her inner sexy. Then Connie tells her why she’s going to New York and it’s Mattie’s turn to snort.
“Oh, my fucking gawd,” she says and then apologizes for using the F word.
“What?”
“I love Diva’s,” Mattie admits. “I go there all of the time. My salon is just three blocks from the store. Shit. Is your daughter Jessica? My God. You look like her, or she looks like you. I’ve been trying to fix her Midwestern hair for three months. How absolutely cool is this? Her store is pretty popular. I can’t believe you didn’t know this. How could you not know this?”
Connie doesn’t know what to say. She’s never even seen a dildo, and now she has a daughter who not only sells them but apparently designs them as well. How did she not know? How could she let Jessica slip away into a world and life that seem as foreign to her as Antarctica? Should she have asked more questions? Hired a private detective? Kept her locked in the back bedroom? Turned her into a female eunuch before she reached puberty? Tried harder to climb over the huge mountain separating them?
“Shit happens, isn’t that what they say?” she finally responds.
“You never visited? Did she think you’d be mad? Did you two have a fight or something?”
Mattie spits out these queries as if she is on fire.
“These are good questions, Dr. Hairstylist,” Connie fires back. “That’s what you are. Hairstylists, bartenders, and nurses like me, we’re all psychiatrists. We listen and ask questions no one else dares to ask, especially if we have scissors, a shot glass, or a sharp needle in one hand. That’s why I’m on my way to New York City. I guess I want to know the answers myself. I want to know how the hell this happened.”
Mattie takes her hand and Connie squeezes it.
“You’re cool, Connie,” Mattie tells her. “Most mothers would just call and scream. Well, my mother would call and place a large order but most mothers—really, they’d freak.”
Why? Connie wonders while they sit and sip their drinks and
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