Noooooo. Is this the last day of my blogging for Powells? I hate that.
I may have to start my own website called "Blogging for Powells" just because I've loved the mere idea of waking up and the first image in my mind is a bookstore in Portland. It replaces the image of me naked and sobbing on a scale. I guess that one's not an 'image'... more a memory.
At the hair salon place yesterday I was lying back to get my hair washed by my hair lady Sashiko ? and I heard the lady next to me say, "My brother died in March and this November is his birthday. And it's the first birthday without him. And with the holidays coming right after that ? it's going to be so ?" And the lady who was washing her hair chimed in ? loudly and with a crazy cheerful voice ? "Isn't Emily's Birthday in December?"
Apparently she didn't want to hear this sad news as she deep conditioned. So she just chirped her way past it. I should have leaned over and chirped in a, "Hey! Did I hear March? MY birthday is in March!" That's the way they do it in the Midwest.
I remember right after I got divorced and I called my parents and started crying about how it was all so much harder then I thought it was going to be ? and my mom brought her voice up into a happier octave and sang, "Oh my gosh ? it's just tough all over! Are you still liking your car?"
Her idea is always that she wouldn't want to upset me more by saying something like "That must be hard," just in case I'd completely moved on in the half a second since I MENTIONED IT and she was just bringing up all these painful memories. That I'd moved on from... in that half a second.
But I love her. I can tell stories like that about her on a blog for all to read ? BUT YOU BETTER NOT TALK SHIT ABOUT MY MOTHER.
The woman in the salon ? she was so sad. Oh, her voice... I wanted to reach over and grab her hand and tell her that something like, "Yeah, that's tough," but she had on this giant smock that they give us to wear ? this big poncho to protect us while we get our hair cut. I'd have to pat around for a while to find her hand under it. I imagined myself patting away ?
pat... pat... pat... pat... "That's not your hand... okay, there's your belt... now I'm going in the wrong direction ? where's your damn hand so I can... comfort ? GOT IT!"
I thought about the lady and her brother as I got my hair cut ? and as I was walking out I passed her buying some shampoo ? and I really wanted to tell her something so I told her that her hair looked amazing.
I should work in grief counseling.