They sit, like astronauts in their bubble helmets, reading different magazines that all say the same things…magazines that teach them things no self-respecting old woman should know. When they talk about Lady Gaga, it makes me inexplicably sad. I want them to talk about quilts and recipies for pie crust. I want them to be like Grammy was. She died years ago, but, I guarantee you, she wouldn’t care about Amy Winehouse. But they come, and we accept them. Every Wednesday. Like clockwork. We call them the tottering trio. They are old…they like their hair orange and their hairdressers gayer than a Cher concert. Tito and I tolerate them because they are consistent. They are easy. They pay in full and tip well. But there is no art in it. I always secretly hope that they will leave the salon without anyone seeing them. Their coiffures are not exactly something I am proud to be a part of.
While they sit under the dryers, Tito does his best to avoid making eye contact with me. He is angry because I said that I liked his shirt. He wore it to see if I pay attention or to test my sense of aesthetics. Or something equally stupid. My assertion…my support of the shimmering purple shirt…is a betrayal, or too cavalier…or something. And now I will pay for it. It will start with the cold shoulder. Not just cold…glacial. Then there will be long stints in the bathroom with crumpled tissues strategically placed around and red eyes that I will not be allowed to ask about. I sigh and run my hand over the stubble on my head. Continue reading “The Purple Shirt.”
