Running From Helmet Head

In the 1950's, I would often sit on the front porch of my parents' row house and watch the parade of women exiting the house across the street.  The woman who owned it ran a beauty salon out of her basement.  Hair that entered that place straight and lank emerged coiffed and curled.  Most of the time REALLY curled, and wafting a chemical smell that I swore was detectable even from my concrete perch.  My grandmother got her hair permed.  My mom too.  And one day my mother ushered me into this female sanctum and I too was permed.  At first I felt very grown up, not knowing that I looked like a geek.  Within days, I stood desperately in front of the window fan, trying to brush out the kink, praying for regrowth so I could get it cut and look normal again.  The tide had turned and perms fell out of favor for anyone under 30.

 Like most fashions, permanent waves swung back into style again in the late 70's and early 80's, but they were different.  Fatter, looser curls were possible, unlike the iconic Angela Davis 'fro of yore.  So, I did it again, with much better results.  I flat-out loved it.  A more advanced version of my old window fan had been invented - the blow dryer - and with three small children as well as being part of a rabid running group, this was an answer to my prayers.  I liked it so much that I had several more over a span of 4 or 5 years, copying the Farrah Fawcett 'wings' during the height of her fame.

Today I stand on the precipice.  After nearly 30 years of straight hair, I see a much older me staring back in the mirror.  Lank, shoulder-length hair only accentuates the havoc that gravity is exerting.  I don't want short hair - yet - as I live in fear of old-lady helmet head or any version of my mom's or grandmother's. 

Susan Sarandon waits patiently on my phone's photo stream as I head to a salon, clutching craigslist and ebay earnings to forfeit in exchange for chemicals.  Would my scalp burst into flames from the toxic ingredients?  Would my hair break off and fall out?  Would I look like a freak or an 80's throwback?  Would it take my entire monthly retirement check to cope with the afternath?   I prayed as I drove to a place that I'd researched meticulously, both through Baltimore Magazine's annual "Best Of" lists and customer reviews.   The receptionist had called earlier that morning to reschedule my appointment by a few hours because the original stylist had called in sick.  Was that an omen?  Was Farrah sending me a warning from the afterlife in the only way she could?   

Pulling into the parking lot, I felt calmer as I saw the bubbling stream flowing next to the building.  I reassured myself that I had done everything possible to prepare for this...except charge my phone, which threatened to make Ms. Sarandon disappear before I could display her images to the stylist.  As I eased myself into the chair, Kim (the stylist) introduced herself.  She was attractive, in her late forties and I was thankful that I hadn't gotten a young girl who might later regale her friends with the story of this strange woman who actually asked for a perm.  I babbled nervously, flashing pictures and waving my hands around, trying to explain and expecting her to tell me she was a beautician, not a magician.  She smiled, asked a few questions for clarification and went to work.  We chatted easily as she worked, which is unusual for me.  I'm not good at small talk with strangers.

Every single employee and customer in the place had straight hair....not a curl in sight.  I warned Kim that it had been years since I'd left a salon and not gone home to put my head under a faucet.  She thanked me for the warning and laughed, assuring me that it would take time to get to know my new hair, to play with it until I was satisfied.  And no washing, styling, or pulling into a ponytail for 48 hours so the curl could set.. 

At last, after two and a half hours, I was done.  Gazing cautiously into the mirror, I smiled.  No, it wasn't twenty-year-old me staring back.  It was a softer, better-looking me with a classier look that wouldn't fall flat an hour later.  But don't ask me for pictures...my 48 hours aren't up yet!   

    

Frozen in a Cultural Avalanche

A recent issue of Time magazine carried an article by one of my favorite columnists, Joel Stein, in which he recounted the difficulties his young son, Lazlo, has had with the Disney juggernaut, Frozen.  The little boy refuses to watch the movie, muttering his dislike for anything to do with dresses and princesses, and everywhere the poor kid turns, he must endure the aural assault of small females belting out "Let It Go".

I am intimately familiar with both the movie and the main characters, Princesses Elsa and Anna, since I have multiple family members under the age of ten.  The three-year-old in particular is in the throes of a princess fever which has continued unabated since I gave her a Cinderella dress from the Disney store as well as several dolls and a much-coveted Princess Anna dress.  She wants to wear the Cinderella dress every day, everywhere.  Her achievement-oriented mom probably hates me for temporarily leading her astray.  The child is smart.  She remembers things that were mentioned months ago and whips them out when you least expect it.  One of us commented on group of cacti while on a hike last fall.  Then, at least six months later, while seeing a photo of an assortment of the small plants, she interjected, "Look mommy, those succulents look just like flowers."  I'm not worried, as I often watch her construct complex skyscrapers out of MagnaTiles while decked out in princess regalia, complete with tiara.

Decades ago, while I was still a kid, Disney first struck merchandising gold with Fess Parker's Davey Crockett character.  Every little boy I knew had to have his trademark coonskin cap.  Princess culture was in its infancy.  I don't remember seeing Cinderella, Aurora and Snow White blanketing toy store displays.  In fact, I thought the coolest thing about the Sleeping Beauty film was sitting in the first row of the Hippodrome theater and marveling as Maleficent grew into a giant, fire-breathing dragon.

Now, before a film is even released, Disney and other toy makers have to calculate how much inventory to stock, or risk being stuck with unwanted merchandise.  With Frozen, they were caught off guard by how wildly successful it has been.  Even now, six months after its theater run, parents are still unable to obtain the coveted Elsa and Anna dresses and dolls unless they want to part with two or three times the retail price via Ebay or Amazon.  And no...I did not pay that.  I stumbled onto the Disney online store one sleepless night about 4 a.m. when they were in stock for $44.

I feel for Stein's son, as I'm going through a similar irritation because I won't join the Celtic Thunder and Celtic Woman  fan base.  After viewing bits and pieces of the show on public television, I felt manipulated by its slick presentation.  Men swaggered onstage, demanding that I think them desirable.  Women sang sweetly (princess-like?) to avoid alienating the audience of almost exclusively mature women.  Don't get me wrong:  I love Irish music.  What I hate is being expected to join a love-struck crowd of older women, simply because a show has been engineered in a way that certainly expects me to do so.

So, Lazlo, I feel your pain.  And I hope my daughter doesn't disown me when the Rapunzel dress arrives on her doorstep next week.

     

  

MOTHERLESS DAY

"Firsts" are quixotic.  They can be thrilling events such as first steps, first dates, and first kisses.  Sometimes they are less so:  the first holiday season away from home or the first holiday season at home without your children.  The most difficult firsts are those that have no hope of change.  They will be followed by a second, a third and so on.

Mother's Day is one of those.

Irene Catherine Barker died last fall at the ripe old age of 95.  It was a relief of sorts, as she had been in a nursing home for several years, enduring what none of us want to endure.  When I say that I miss her, I mean that I miss the mom she was during her vital, sentient years before she lost the ability to walk, to hear my voice or to even recognize me.

I thought about this commemorative day all week, planning to visit her grave site and place flowers in her memory, but the day is nearly over and I've yet to go.  Her passing is still too new, too raw to go to the cemetery with the crowds who trek there today in ritual homage.  Yesterday I caught myself several times, wondering what I could get for her, to make her smile and feel special before realizing that won't happen again....ever.

Tomorrow I will go, when the crowds are gone and I can be alone with her.  Now the visits are for me.  She won't know I'm there.  All I can hope for is that the love and care she gave me during her lifetime continues to shine through her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. 

       

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Closer to the Edge

Since my mom passed away a couple of weeks ago at the ripe old age of 95, I've experienced a strange mix of emotions; sadness and grief, because I will miss her, and relief, as I know her quality of life was low.  Deaf, wheelchair bound, and episodic dementia is a sad extension of a purposeful life.  She was ready to go, and died peacefully in her sleep.

Born on her grandparents' farm in then-rural Maryland in 1917 - just 14 years after the Wright Brothers flew the first successful airplane and 5 years after the sinking of the Titanic, she and her three siblings experienced great chunks of our country's historical events.  The U.S. entered World War I just six months before she was born.  She was 12 years old when the Great
Depression began.  The Dust Bowl's seven-year reign began when she turned 14.  World War II began when she was 24.  With children two and six years old, she said goodbye to her husband when he was drafted during the Korean War.

She saw the development of the television set.  Sputnik was launched when she was 38 and the race to the moon was on...the same year that Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat.  At 44, she saw the Berlin Wall constructed.  After that, the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement and the tumultuous decades of the 60's and 70's became something my parents tutt-tutted about with their friends while it became part of my own tapestry. 

What I didn't expect to experience after her passing was a deepening sense of my own mortality.  As long as she was alive, she was my shield against the void of death.  Her very existence was a reassuring barrier, a little Dutch child plugging the leak in the dike.  My brother, my only sibling, died two years ago, and my dad has been gone for 13 years.  I am the sole survivor of my original family.  

Independence has always been important to me, and with children, grandchildren, cousins, nieces and nephews, I'm rarely lonely.  But I can't shake the feeling that I'm next in line.  It's the nature of things and I accept it.  It doesn't mean I have to like it.

   

A TALE OF A JJIMJILBANG

There’s something delicious, hedonistic even, about a trip to a day spa.  If I close my eyes, I envision lying on a cushioned table, snuggled in one of those fluffy, heated blankets, straight from the warmer, while an anonymous someone applies fruit or herb scented concoctions to my face and body after a 60 to 90 minute massage.   I’ve been to a few, but not many, as they usually don’t come cheap.

When one of my daughters announced we were going to spend a few hours at a spa in Los Angeles recently, the appropriate pleasure area of my brain lit up.  She saw my eyes roll back and quickly added a disclaimer:  it was a place she had never been to before, but thought it might be fun to check out together.  And, by the way, it was a Korean spa.  

 The lighted things in my brain paused, realigning their expectations.  Stereotypes and preconceived notions swirled as a weird mosaic began to take shape.  I envisioned a spa-version of a Chinese laundry with sweaty Asian men dressed in white tee shirts, aprons and head wrappings punishing me with their hands, beating my back like a drum while judging my wrinkles.  Female attendants tsk-tsked as they smeared octopus ink, shark fin serum and oils made from slaughtered endangered species on my skin, reserving the magical potions for their well-heeled, regular customers.  After all, what could I expect from a place that is open 24 hours a day and only charges a fifteen dollar entry fee?

I smiled bravely and entered the double doors of the Wi spa, somewhat apprehensive about the exact translation of the word “jjimjilbang”.  At the front desk, we were given waterproof wristwatch-like devices that secured our lockers with a wave of our hands.  The receptionist explained that the lower floor was for women only, the middle floor for men only and the upper floor was co-ed.  She indicated that we were welcome to don an outfit of their well-worn signature tee shirts and shorts if we were uncomfortable with nudity.   

Wait….what?  My anxiety meter rose.  Who said anything about being nude?  I brought my bathing suit for the hot and cold Jacuzzis, so surely that would be allowed.  We changed into the logo-splashed uniform and walked straight into a room full of naked Korean women.  A large sign indicated that no clothing of any kind was allowed in the Jacuzzis, and instructed us to visit the washing stations before entering the water.  Oh, those must be the showers, I thought.  Why don’t they just call them that?

Well, because they aren’t.  Rows of women squatted on little molded plastic seats that looked like step stools to me, but tilted so you could see THAT in front of large lighted mirrors, wash basins and handheld shower heads.  They cleaned every inch of themselves as if they were preparing to be inspected afterward.  I told my daughter I would wait for her on the benches against the wall and sat behind a post so I’d have something to look at other than, uh, naked people.  There was no escape.  My eyes searched for something neutral to stare at, only to land on an open passageway that revealed a room full of tables that held more naked women whose body parts jiggled as they were massaged by female attendants dressed in bras and panties.  Said daughter knew I was hiding and suggested we check out the co-ed floor.

A little voice in my head warned, “If the women’s floor freaked you out, just wait.”  As it turned out, the co-ed floor was my favorite.  The stairwell opened up into a large gym-like area ringed by several saunas.  The first was small, and the floor was covered with large nuggets of salt.  We followed the example of the others already inside and lay down in the salt.  I was tempted to move my arms and legs to make the equivalent of a snow angel, but restrained my Caucasian self.  The temperature was 124 degrees.  After a prudent length of time, we decided to try the ice room, where the 41 degree air was a welcome relief.  The jade sauna was next, with mats on the floor of an enclosure where the walls and ceiling were constructed of various rocks and geodes which I supposed were types of jade.  Its temperature rivaled the salt sauna.  They clay sauna was closed for maintenance, but what we could see indicated it was made of little clay balls to lie on instead of salt.

 

The most intense sauna was the forest room where the temperature was over 200 degrees.  There were no places to sit, as our butts would have protested vigorously.  We stood on our towels for protection and fled back to the ice room after about 5 minutes.  

Mats and foam block headrests lay in rows on the floor, inviting us to relax after the saunas sucked away energy, toxins and bad karma.  Thank goodness everyone on this floor was clothed.  My daughter took a brief nap on one of the mats.  I rested beside her for a few minutes before fleeing to the familiarity of the computer terminals to check my email, in English.

So, would I go back to the “jjimjilbang” Korean Day Spa?  Definitely.  It was super-clean, and I loved both the alternating temperature saunas as well as the opportunity to relax.  Just close the door to that room with all the naked people. 

        

   

   

A FOOT IN HEAVEN'S DOOR

Air travel is a unique combination of wonder and horror.  Without it, I’d be stuck in a car or on a train for days in order to visit with family.  With it, I can be holding my elfin granddaughter within a few hours.  However, there is nothing like being imprisoned in a small, cramped space to bring out the worst in people.  Can someone tell me why people lose all consideration for their fellow prisoners during travel time? 

When I boarded a pretty full flight out of Dulles this morning, I was quite happy that the middle seat was empty.  Ahhhhh…a little extra room that I hadn’t expected.  I still appreciated the extra space, but the woman sitting on the end seat took that perk WWWAAAYYY too far.  When she first sat down, she raised her armrest and started spreading out her belongings.  That’s not horrible, and two can play that game, I thought, as I quickly placed one or two things of my own there before she could claim the entire empty seat.

 

My bad traveling luck usually falls in the olfactory category.  Okay, enough with the fancy words.  Something always stinks.  The most frequent offenders have been guys who sit with their knees splayed, creeping into my tiny leg space, before letting loose with machine gun rounds of gas.  I’ve taken to wearing a loose, blousy headband draped around my neck that I can pull up over my mouth and nose.  That’s not too obvious, right? 

The lady behind me decided to reapply her Lily of the Valley perfume.  The sickeningly sweet fumes curled around me like that green “Night of the Living Dead” fog. Sometimes it’s a combo ride, with a digestively-challenged guy sitting next to me and little boy kicking the back of my seat for the five hour flight.  I still can’t decide whether the kicks or the mother’s monotone reprimands are worse.  Then a nearby passenger will unveil his or her homemade ethnic lunch that reeks of some unknown oil and spice.

Engine noise and screaming children used to wear me down until my daughter and son-in-law were kind enough to present me with a pair of noise reduction headphones.  Auditory problems solved.

Today was a new low.  I prayed to be surrounded by gassy men, over-perfumed women and Mediterranean picnickers.  My fellow traveler across the empty seat finally cleared away her snack bags, makeup and books to stretch out and watch some satellite television.  Unfortunately, she thought it was perfectly okay to remove her shoes and put her BARE FEET within three inches of my seat edge.  Besides the ick factor of a stranger’s uncovered feet so close to me, well, quite frankly they smelled!

Perhaps I’m being too picky.  My feet don’t always smell like a bed of roses, but who does that on a plane?  I tried looking pointedly at her putrid peds, but she was clueless.  Where’s that Lily of the Valley when I could put it to some beneficial use?  I bit my lip to keep from turning toward her and saying, “Really, REALLY???”  The nuns who educated me would have told me to “offer it up”, but I don’t think I’ve done enough bad things in my life to keep my mouth shut for another 1,074 miles.

 

Maybe my seat in heaven will be one of those massaging spa pedicure chairs.