Thursday, September 25, 2008

Hair

Jimmie cuts my hair when I'm working in Boston. I sneak over to the salon on my lunch break and am usually gone longer than I should be. Today I got a hair cut. The salon has begun to feature a line of products for curly hair and apparently the creators of the line came in to give the folks a two day workshop. The North Shore salon that I frequent specializes in the curly hair technique and these products. So we talked about curly hair, and how long it's taken for the profession and the fashion world to recognize its existence and its beauty.

Ah, the nightmare of hair! It was my nemesis. Very thick and kinky and my mom and grandmother, having survived their childhood with the same kind of hair, didn't know what to do about it. That was their story anyway. Frankly, I think my mom didn't want to help me with it. She had this "daughter" problem; she was able to be a mom to her sons, but she was a "professional daughter." Looking back on it, she dressed me funny and she just let my hair stand up like an electric shock. Gratefully, I didn't blame her at the time. When I first started school, my mom would stand me in the bathroom for an hour at least every morning to twist Shirley Temple curls into my hair. I'd have a headache by the end of it, and she'd have many broken combs. It was a lousy way to start a school day. Any day especially at five years old. At one point, she had it cut very short. That didn't help much. Braids worked fine when I was around nine or ten. But it was years before I could figure out how to deal with it. I wasn't always successful at conquering it. I got my hair straightened when I got married. The chemicals were not the super ones we have today, but it was better than "electric shock." When good chemicals appeared and hot curlers and blow dryers and the ability to have smooth hair, well - I'd had enough of the other way. Most beauticians couldn't deal with it either. So it would be short short lots of the time. In my late thirties I found a stylist who loved my curls. I had a few terrific years of wash and air dry. Now I'm back there again with the curly hair salon. The first one I went to made me look like Aunt Pitty-Pat in GONE WITH THE WIND. Calla Renee in Beverly, MA does an awesome job. But I also have a choice; I have hot curlers for a smooth day.

My son, Alex, inherited my hair. Pretty much he keeps it cut short. Except for a brief "Afro" period. My daughter had a more traumatic time with hers. My daughter is adopted and is part West Indian. She has "black" hair and always hated it although I tried to help her to love it. We had too many nights with combs and hairbrushes stuck in her hair -- once we made a late night run to our friend Kathy Sams, who was black and knew how to untangle a hair brush which would not have gone over very well at my daughter's school. I think the first time she loved her hair was when our friend Dennis, a brilliant hair stylist, straightened it for her. We thought she'd give herself whiplash flipping her head around. Now she has extensions, which look great and simplify her life. The youngest of her three children has "black hair" also. There are great products now and many options.

I think we all make too much fuss about hair. Years ago when he was in college, my actor son was in a musical playing Billy Idol. He went to Dennis to get his hair bleached out for the part. He almost got stoned every time he hit the street. Now that hair color would be tame. Males and females are seen on an ordinary day with hair of many colors NOT found in nature. And thanks to Kojak, guys who are losing their hair can shave their heads and be extremely sexy.

This summer my two blonde, curly haired California granddaughters came east with a perpetual bad hair day. I took them to the curly salon where they were treated like royalty and where their gorgeous curls were trimmed, washed, polished, and arranged in film star fashion. I was so pleased for them; this could never have happened when I was thirteen. A week or so later I received email photos of the girls at their mom's birthday party. Their hair had been blown out or ironed, and they looked like everyone else. sigh........ They have a choice, too.



Sunday, September 14, 2008

Sitting Around

I'm sitting here in my living room reading the latest Daniel Silva book. For years I had a crush on Chief Inspector Morse -- a character created by Colin Dexter. Dexter killed him off, and the actor who played him on Masterpiece Theatre, John Thaw, died soon after. I vowed not to fall in love with a guy in a book ever again. However, Silva's character, Gabriel Allon, is even edgier than Morse. He's an Israeli agent who is also an artist working as an art restorer as his cover. Anyway. I'm sitting here and the slowly setting sun has reached that place in its journey where it's shining into the room. Everything is glowing. It's the same room I've had for too many years. Different apartment, but the same room. It wants an inspired change. But the unexpected glow makes me look around: the pictures Jamie took on our trip to Venice; the photo Robert Fay took of me wearing a top hat in the Forest Hills cemetery one rainy January Sunday; the memorabilia on top of the old upright piano; the white wicker rocker I bought so Bonpapa would have a comfortable place to sit. I couldn't fit the rocker in my small Datsun and I had to carry it the two miles home. (Then walk back to the shop to get my car). The glorious doll house Jamie built for me; the glass case filled with my unintentional pear collection. A side board of vinyl records -- 50 years of collecting. And, the silly excuse for a sofa,
a bank of three theatre seats from the old Lucy Larcom Theatre -- at the time when it was a porno house called The Fine Arts Theatre. When it closed, my friend Al (who managed the Fine Arts at the time) brought me the seats as a momento. (I had wanted to rent the theatre for a year and produce plays and musicals and revues. ) My son, Alex, and I recovered the seats. (Right!) None of the furniture is comfortable to sit on. Well, the rocker is okay. But the room feels comfortable all the same. It's friendly. I like it. Bits and pieces of my life. I close my eyes and drift, remembering where I've been.

I'm sitting here in my son's apartment in mid-town Manhattan. I'm working on the blocking for a production of Noel Coward's HAY FEVER that I'm directing for the Concord Players this fall. It's early in the day - a remarkably clear, gorgeous summer day. The city is making it's typical jack hammer noises, a riot of traffic sounds, and the confusion of jazz emanating from my little iPod speaker. I permit distraction and walk around the almost bare apartment. Jamie's in the process of re-conceiving his home space. He's performing with the National Tour of Spamalot in a principal role, and traveling around the USA and in Canada learning so much about our country and about himself. He's come to know who he is and where he is in his life. So I'm alone here for a few days; seeing some good friends, a museum, a show, and walking the city of my youth. The bedroom has some art important to Jamie: sketches his father did of him as a child; art he's collected; books. I curl up on the bed. I close my eyes and drift, searching for where I am.

I'm sitting in my car in a rush hour traffic jam on route 128. Because I'm directing the play in Concord, and since my day job is in Boston, the only real way to get to rehearsal on time is to drive to Boston in the a.m. and from there to Concord after work. Right now I'm not driving anywhere. This great mass of automobiles moves an inch at a time like one metallic body. The cd I'm playing is a recording of HAY FEVER from eons ago with Dame Peggy Ashcroft in the lead. I'm listening for inspiration and for the correct pronunciation of the British language. It all falls away as we creep along, and I wonder if my life has become something of a traffic jam: grid lock and detours. I bless this blog because it's the writing that I'm able to do now. My poetry and my plays seem parked somewhere. I've been working through some health issues and haven't been able to spend the time I'd like to spend with friends. Most of them are retired and I'm working so shared time is hard to find. And even if there's not much readership for this blog, I am hopeful that it is visited from time to time. I can't make the comments option work so there isn't a way to get feedback. If you're out there, my email address is in my profile. Say hi. Ah well. One thing is for certain, I will go on; the traffic will move again. And so will I.
There are people I love as much as my own life, and so much I want to share, and say, and do.
Yesterday little Keira, her mom and I walked the beach with the tide miles out. Keira calls it "the big pool." I fear I'm becoming a sentimental old girl. Becoming is the important word. The traffic is moving again. I'm going to the theatre.