The Disturbed Make Over- Part 2

"Look at you. You look so professional. Is that a new suit? It looks great....what's the special occasion?"

Silence

I heard her question....but my mind was in a tunnel. My brain was fuzzy. My feet heavy. But her question "what's the special occasion?" Had me barreling out off the tunnel...backwards...into reality.

There I sat. Propped up in a salon chain getting my hair "cut". I of course, didn't want it cut. But there I was at the Strictly Yours salon....the salon my Dad dropped me off in while he ran around doing errands.

What's the special occasion rang in my head. Then the realization....HE DIDN'T TELL THEM! Great SNOT...My Dad dropped me off at Mom's salon....& didn't TELL them?! That buttwipe! He left me here to ruin this woman's day. I battled the desire to lie & go on as if nothing was wrong. But I couldn't lie. Not to Moms salon buddies.

"What's the special occasion?"

"Today is my moms wake."

Blank look

"Mom died 2 days ago."

I watched this women's face in the mirror. I could see the statement hit her. It started in her eyes. Eyebrows edged up, redness seeps in. It flowed into her month, then slowly drifted down into her hands. Scissors drop. Hand comes to mouth. Left hand grips my shoulder...not in comfort but in desperately trying to support her body. She can't breath. Tears stream down her face.

"Gail?"

"I'm so sorry. She loved this place. I'm so so sorry." This would be the first time I would comfort someone else over the news of my mothers death. I hated the shock & sadness. I never wanted to be comforted...but I did have an intense urge to comfort others. I guess it took my mind off the reality of my life. It made me feel useful. Made me feel sane.

The stylist went to look for the manager as I sat in the chair feeling eyes burn into the back of my head. Women at the nail cabana (Strictly Yours was strictly tacky but absolutely fabulous. It was decked out in a tropical paradise. Cabanas, thatched roofs, creepy flamingo statues. They even served margaritas.) craning their heads behind them trying not to disturb the liquid cement on their nails. I watched in the mirror the reactions. Word spread that Mom is "no longer eligible for the census" 1 by 1 I watch from the mirror their reaction. Crumbled faces. Hands to mouth. Head bowed. Shoulder shake. I destroyed their day. I caused that cry.

Then.........The Pity look. Gosh I hated The Pity look.

I soon found myself clawing at my salon bib. I had to leave. I had to get this thing off me because.....the manager is heading my way. Get it off, get it OFF! Dang it...no Velcro, stupid snaps held it together. The manager glides closer. NOOOOO, I can't handle pity! Help me creepy flamingo statue in the corner! No No No! I knew what was next....pity with a side of comfort. Arrgggg! I just wanted to run.

But no.

The manager fills up the mirror. I am trapped....with half my hair cut. Notthepitynotthepitynotthepity..............

Hands rest on my shoulders. Here it comes.

"Let's finish your hair & get you on your way. I'm so sorry your mom died. She was a great lady. She was funny. I knew she had cancer but she never showed the pain. She talked about you all the time."

I looked up & realised the manager was smiling. She was easy...breezy. She was telling me about mom. I liked it.

"Now, what I want to know is ....how the hell did you end up here on the day of your moms wake?"

She used the word hell....& I loved her at this moment.

So I began my story.

Mom loved to pamper herself. Mani's/ pedi/scalp treatments/nails...you name it...she did it. She often dragged me to her salon to get her nails done. (getting your nails done...is just a way to handicap a woman. Women with nails say stupid things like "they are jewels not tools." They have a funny way of holding their hands up...like their nails are always wet. They don't garden or pick their noses. They fall down a flight of stairs & break their hips...but first thing they look at is their fake nails...to make sure they are intact) I sat in the cabana reading fashion magazines & hating myself (stupid magazines) I hated the smell of the place but I always got a kick out of my mom. You'd think she was someone famous as she breezed into the salon. Everyone would turn & shout her name. "So happy to see youuuuuu" It was erie...because...well remember the show "Cheers" Yeah, this was the chick version of Cheers.

My mom always made my Dad swear, SWEAR that after she was gone he would bring me to the salon to get pampered. It was his solemn duty to get his daughter made over & made up. I always protested. I hate paint on my nails...it makes me feel claustrophobic. Mom didn't back down on this one. My Dad had 2 jobs to do....get me to the salon & buy my sanitary napkins whenever I needed them....without acting weird about it.

Well my Dad took the words "when I'm gone" Seriously. So...Mom went to meet the reaper & Dad...hustled me off to the salon. I really think my mom had him sign a contract in blood. College? Whatever! Life skills? Pish Posh! Traveling the world? Overrated! You MUST get this girl to the salon! Her future depends on it!

My hair is cut. My bib is off. The salon manager & I laugh & laugh & laugh.

"I'm sorry, but that is so awful it's funny!"

Oh it felt good to laugh. It felt great to make someone laugh.

Soon enough Dad comes back to pick me up. Women flood around him hugging him & talking in quite voices....as the manager & I roar with laughter.

They refuse to take his money. I get hugs & The Pity look from Mom's buddies. Eyes are rimmed red. My heart swells with love for these women. I now realised why mom loved it here. In the salon they cooed & laughed with her. They rubbed her feet & styled her wigs. They gave her margaritas & made her feel normal. Whole. Feminine.

As I turned to leave the manager grabbed my arm. "Take care Sweetie. Come back to see us. Oh...would you mind if I tell the ladies in here what you told me about your make over?"

I see the women of Strictly Yours. Clients, nail techs, stylists take their places....heartsick. Crestfallen. Heavy thoughts will rule their sunny July day.

"Yes, please! I don't mind."

Yes please, one last memory of Mom...make them laugh in her honor.

The Disturbed series- Part 1

The high school "therapist" was manly looking....to put it nicely. I remember watching her lips move under her mustache & thinking..."If her mom insisted on bleaching that hairy monster at age 10...like mine had, maybe she would have grown up to CARE."

There I sat. 15 year old girl forced by the school to endure this joke called "counseling" Oh no...they could not have a young lady who's mom just bought the farm running around the High School willy nilly. This girl needs help....and the great school of South was going to give it to me, whether I wanted it or not.

I was pissed when my Dad tenderly broached the subject of the school wanting to counsel me. "Maybe you can talk about Mom? It will be good for you." So said the man who much rather drown his sorrows at bars every night instead of actually talking to a professional. "piiiishh"...men

So there I sat, awkwardly across from this professional who professed she would guide me through this difficult time. She would be there for me...a safe place to fall. I could open up about my Mom's death. "Just release all the pain" she said in a sullen, mono-toned voice.

Open up. I wanted to do that. I didn't want to burden my friends. I figured I might as well use this free counselor to my advantage. She's a professional. She will...guide me.

"How does this work?" I was hesitant but relieved to unload.

"Just start by telling me about your mom...or how you feel about her death." Dr. Ihatemyjob Counselor sighed


"O.K."


"well"


"They stapled my moms eye lids closed."

"umm, what?"

"yeah...STAPLED. I could see the staples. I know dead people sometimes have reflexes & their little dead eyes spring open so they have to glue them closed. But really? Stapled? They didn't even have the talent to cover the staples. Like...glue on some eyelashes man. Cover that up!"









"Well....I see. How did that make you feel?"


"Like....mad. Don't EVEN get me started about the fact that they painted her eyelids purple. My dead mom looked like a hooker that was trying to hard!"



"Well.....I see. So let's now talk about your future. Where do you want to go to college."


"College? Ummm, I'm only 15. I...don't... want to go to college. Do we have to talk about this now. College stresses me out. I'm only a sophomore."



"Well dear, It's never to early to start thinking about college. I have your grades right here. Lets talk about college"


And that my friends....was all the counseling I got about my moms death.

She died this month 22 years ago. I have written down little tid bits about my moms death in my little pink journal. But never have I dived head first in the story of her death. So I figured I have a blog....might as well reveal how disturbed I really am.

Hey, don't you judge me! You would have never had to deal with this if Dr. Counselor Hack had done her job!

So sit back kids and enjoy....my twisted teen hood. It will be fun...no really!