Thirty more minutes says the perky little thing behind the counter. I wonder if she has ever heard of a mirror. I find it hard to believe she put her make up on this morning in the day light in front of one. She will regret using so much eyeliner when the bags under her eyes become more pronounced. She already looks like she has gone a couple rounds in a boxing ring. Whoever convinced women using a darker colored lip liner than their lipstick must have done it on a dare. It must have started as a joke that went horribly wrong. Enough people bought into it so when the sales of lip liner skyrocketed corporate would not let whoever was to blame admit it was all a prank. Now we have millions of women sporting the clown look out in public believing they are beautiful. I hope that there is a special place in hell for whoever started this look. For all eternity, their black outlined lips will only have shades of pale pink lipsticks available to cover them. No matter how hard they try, they won’t be able to remove or cover up the black liner. Mirrors will be everywhere so they won’t be able to miss what everyone else sees. Blinking my eyelids to dispel that image I turn to leave the salon. I have thirty minutes to get some coffee. If I stay here, I will lose my temper and probably my turn in line. Walking down to the food court gives me more time to scope out hair dos anyways.
Grabbing a cup of coffee, I sit on the nearest bench to people watch. Realistically the mall is one big people zoo. Instead of monkeys, lions and bears you get to watch teenagers, mall walkers, and families moving about in a captive environment. It is amazing what you see as the population strolls by unaware that they are the center of attention. Couples holding hands, sneaking a pinch or a stroke when they think no one is watching. Children walking behind their parents often tussle with their sibling. The hits don’t count if Mom and Dad don’t see them. I wonder how far down the mall the parents will get before they discover little Johnny and Jenny have swiped a furry creature from the bin outside the local toy store. I wish I could tag along to see if they bring it back, take it home or just leave it lying somewhere.
My goodness look who’s coming through the mall now. I realize it is a cliché to ask these teenagers if they know Halloween is over but it is so tempting. Individuality is a god given right, purple Mohawks with nose rings are an assault against the senses. The hair is very unbecoming but changeable in a very short time. A simple shaver will take the artificially colored tower off in minutes leaving a clean slate to start again. The nose rings I fear are another story. Large metal rings protruding from your nostril cannot be comfortable. They must get in the way if you have the sniffles. What happens when people pull on the rings? Babies love to pull on earrings; I bet nose rings are another thing they can’t resist grabbing. The pain must be unbearable because babies don’t just grab and release. They pull until you figure out how to dislodge their little fingers. If you spend any time with babies, you know they do these things with a smile on their face. Angry or frustrated babies flail their arms and legs randomly in the air just to release their tension. Babies don’t develop the art of intentionally hurting people until they are around two. In addition, if this is a fad how will the scars heal when you decide to forgo the rings? How will it look if the holes don’t close? Would you have a leaky nose? The girls can try to cover up the scars with makeup but the boys will have to wear them like battle scars from now on. I would love to talk to these kids about their racial opinions. National Geographic shows pictures of supposed savages in Africa with the same facial piercings dancing around a fire. With the same wild hair and markings does that make these teens savages or the people in Africa cultured but misunderstood? I think that idea would make a great sociological thesis.
Here we go, the mall walking elderly. We should be talking to these people. The years of experience marching to stay fit hold the keys to solving life’s little problems. The stories they could tell about living before televisions, cell phones, computers, even fast food restaurants would be fascinating. Stories about family dinners where conversation actually takes place without the interference of telephones or televisions are quickly becoming tales of folk lore. With each elder person, we lose to the great beyond a little piece of history disappears. I realize not everything was peaches and cream in the supposed good old days but sometimes simplicity is a better way of life. Once someone reaches the age of sixty-five, the courts should recruit them to be part of a permanent jury pool. Try convincing people who worked for ten cents an hour how you had to shoot someone for his $100 sneakers so you could look cool. The jury’s deliberations would be short and to the point. The defendant’s family should be worried they would also be named in the court case since their lack of parenting probably helped shape the illegal behavior. I have watched enough Law and Order to know Jack McCoy would somehow get them all convicted.
Just don’t have the elderly sitting on the jury of fashion court. Between the red hats, sloppy jogging suits and checkered golf shorts with Hawaiian shirts they are almost in the same fashion category as the teenagers with the purple hair. In the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee I have seen the connection between teenagers who believe they are being rebellious and the elderly who have reached the age of not caring what society thinks. I would like to get the teenagers, show them the elderly mall walkers, and get their reaction to seeing their future. That would be an interesting conversation but alas, time is up. I have five minutes to get back to the salon for my appointment.
Striding quickly through the mall, I weave among the people who all seem to be going in the opposite direction. Unless they are all from England these people should know, the rules of the highway also pertain to the mall. Everyone keeps to the right as they walk the corridors. Just like when you climb stairs. You always stay to the right. Instead, these people are all over the place holding up the flow of bodies trying to reach their destination. To hinder everyone’s movement further are the people coming out of the stores merging into the traffic. Apparently, these shoppers feel they have the right of way. Without even looking, they throw their bodies into the mix expecting everyone to move out of their way. Just for the fun of it, I chose not to move over. The looks on their face when they run into me is priceless. If I had more time, I would fake an injury.
“Help, help, I think my ankle is broken,” I cry after falling on the floor. “You ran into me on purpose.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t see you,” the frantic shopper would say. “What can I do to help? Please somebody get some help.” A crowd starts to form around us, the people whisper among themselves. Fingers start to point at the man who ran into the woman flailing on the floor. Someone in the crowd suggests security be called. Cell phones start taking pictures as potential witnesses corroborate their stories.
“If only someone would teach people how to merge into the mall hallway my dancing career would not be over.” Crocodile tears roll down my face for a dramatic effect. This should teach them to be more careful. A spasm jerks my foot violently. I see an Oscar nomination coming.
“I’ll be more careful, I promise.” The look of fear on his face is priceless.
“Would you put that in writing?”
“Sure, I can do that,” Frantically he runs into the next shop searching for paper and pen. “Somebody please get me a pen and paper. Hurry someone is hurt in the mall and they need a pen and paper.” Running back to where I am lying on the floor he hands me the pen and paper.
“My hands are too shaky, I think shock is setting in, you right the words.”
“What should I write?”
“Write that you will not barge into oncoming traffic again.” I can barely contain the laughter rising up in my throat.
“How’s this, I John Smith, will not barge into oncoming mall traffic again.” He hands me the paper for inspection.
“Could you sign it right here,” I ask pointing to the bottom of the writing.
“Sure, sure whatever you need.”
“Ok then,” I say picking myself up off the floor. “Have a nice day.” With that, I wa
ve good-bye as I stroll down the walkway. The look on Mr. Smith’s face is priceless. Maybe next time he will be more careful before he barges into the flow of traffic.
Pushing forward I see the salon. The salon is empty which should mean it is finally my turn in the chair. Holding my breath, I head for the receptionists desk.
For some unknown reason I hear a voice very similar to mine say, “Excuse me. What do you mean I missed my appointment?”
The little girl with the raccoon eyes behind the desk has the nerve to say since I was an hour late for my appointment they gave the space to someone else. Catching my breath in disbelief, my fingers tightly grip the edge of the desk.
“How could I have missed my appointment when you told me there was an hour delay when I first checked in?” My finger starts poking at her appointment calendar where my name is written in. “See right here. I arrived; you marked me as here and then told me the wait would be an hour. Are you kidding me now with this?” I keep my voice steady, trying not to raise it above a dull roar. “Do you understand I need my hair done which is why I made the appointment in the first place?”
Raccoon girl continues to stare before finally opening her mouth. “We could fit you in tomorrow if you want to reschedule.”
Covering my face with my hands, I look to the sky for guidance. Slowly dragging my fingers down my face while exhaling I attempt to regain control. It is not that I need my hair done tonight, I have all day tomorrow to get it styled. I’m amazed at the incompetence of the people who are put in charge of making sure a company’s customers stay long enough to leave money in the till. Not only don’t I have my haircut I’m late for dinner which is a very bad thing. Once my blood sugar drops people need to get out of my way. That means no talking to me, no standing in my way and certainly no blatant stupidity.
“Where’s the manager? I want to talk to the manager.” Silently I tell myself I would be amazed if anyone is available. Usually, the manager is out or there is not one or some other excuse to stall complaints. Lucky for raccoon girl I’m not surprised when I hear “I’m sorry, she is not here today.” You would have had to call an ambulance to pick me up off the floor if anyone had taken responsibility for my unhappiness. I’m surprised the local store managers have not gotten together to explore that option of keeping me quiet. The first manager to come out to handle the problems caused by their incompetent employees would give me a stroke. I would be clutching my chest praying to heaven to let me in. It is not as if I’m a chronic complainer, I just cannot stand stupidity when I’m trying to pay for service. That is the one concept that escapes these people. I’m trying to give them money. The stores are trying to sell a product or service for money. I have money. It sounds like a win-win situation. I swear some of these people are being paid not to take in money. Gripping the half-empty coffee cup hard enough to leave fingerprints I spin on my heels to leave. I need some ice cream.
7:00 PM
What an unbelievable waste of time and energy. Wrenching open the freezer door I search for the one thing that will soothe my soul; chocolate peanut butter ice cream. The ice cream must be chocolate flavored with ribbons of peanut butter folded throughout the container. None of those impostors that mix small peanut butter candies with vanilla ice cream. People satisfied with the imitators really don’t know their ice cream. I imagine they also eat their ice cream in front of the television shoveling the icy coolness into their mouth without giving it another thought. There ought to be a law against such a violation of good taste. You should savor ice cream. A true connoisseur knows that first you need to find the perfect bowl to hold the frozen nectar. Decorations should adorn the vessel signaling enjoying ice cream is a festive event. The bowl should be deep enough to leave room for the ice cream to breathe. Since each spoonful is an individual taste sensation, there must be room for the spoon to navigate around each ingredient. The spoon too must be high quality nothing cheap must touch the ice cream. Your fingers should caress the handle, gripping it ever so lightly similar to how the Chinese caress their chopsticks. Ice cream has magical powers if you pay attention. Slowly spooning the icy goodness into your mouth is just the start. To feel the magic of it all each mouthful should linger on your tongue melting ever so slowly before swallowing. Feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat starts the release of the day’s tension. Ice cream is not eaten it is an event, an event to help ease the stress of the day. Some people choose to exercise their demons away; I choose the creamy essence of frozen milk.
After putting the carton carefully back in the freezer so as not to disturb the delicate delight inside I make my way to the living room searching for my favorite chair. I have to pick up the cat before I can sit down but Kahlua does not mind. He is happy to curl up on my lap as I enjoy the frozen treat. Finally, I’m in a position to let go of the frustrations of the day. I need three things to relax ice cream, a recliner, and a heating pad. These three comforts used simultaneously can create world peace if given the chance. For now, I will use them to calm my psyche so I can make a game plan for tomorrow. Thanks to raccoon girl, I now have to find another salon to get my hair done tomorrow.
Saturday November 25th
Rick’s hand rests gently in the small of my back. His other hand slowly wraps around mine as we sway to the music softly playing in the background. We stare into each other’s eyes silently sharing a private, seductive thought. I duck my head shyly acknowledging just how handsome this man is. Our bodies being this close fans the small fire that started in my loins as soon as I set eyes on his stunning face. The glimmer in his eyes along with the small smile spreading over his full lips tells me he feels the same fire. Slowly, I turn my head so that our lips come within centimeters of each other. His hot breath makes my pulse quicken. The anticipation is unbearable. Suddenly, I feel moisture on my cheek along with the roughest tongue imaginable. Brown, black and orange fur floats before my eyes. Blinking to clear my vision, I realize who my Romeo is. Reaching up I scratch Phritz’s head between her ears. Nudging my cheek with her forehead, she proceeds to walk over my chest to the edge of the bed. It is amazing how an eight-pound cat can weigh so much when she steps on your breasts. I swear it feels like a small child just bounced over my delicate tissue.
“Hey, be careful,” I say as my hand reaches up to hurry her body along. “I need the girls tonight for my big date. Without them my new dress won’t be so impressive.” Phritz gives me that look cats are famous for, flicks her tail, and jumps off the bed. Lazily, I stretch before snuggling back down into the soft bedding. I can’t recapture the dream but I can vividly picture the last image of Rick in my mind. I hope all my imaginings of what tonight is going to be comes true. I’m so ready for an adult relationship with a man who is not afraid to have an independent thought. Actually, by adult relationship I really mean sex. Talking is important along with sharing similar interests and one of those interests needs to be sex. The goal tonight is making sure Rick feels the same way. Flipping over so I can see the clock, it tells me I should get up since I still have to figure out what to do with my hair.
Pulling on a pair of jeans, I find a knit top warm enough so I won’t need a coat while shopping for the perfect cut. Slipping on white sneakers, I tweak Phritz one more time before heading out the door. The important task today is finding the right hair cut then getting back here so I have plenty of time to get ready. First, though, I have to find some coffee.
Standing in line at the local coffee shop is always an adventure. People come in, order coffee and then stand there seemingly forgetting they have to pay. While we wait to order, they fumble in their pockets searching for money. I usually go in with my credit card in hand ready to swipe as soon as the total comes up on the register. Then there are the people who don’t know what they want until they stare at the menu for a few minutes. If this is your first visit then I can see paying special attention to the menu. The regulars should already know what they want when they drive into the parking lot. I usually know what I
want right after I make the decision to go to the coffee shop. There should be two lines open at the counter at all times. One line for people who know what they want to order, the other is for people who can’t make a decision in ten seconds or less. A hostess could stand at the door directing people to the correct line.
Dinner Should be Enjoyed Naked Page 7