Summer Doo

Fuck art. . . let's dance!  

So it went yesterday.  I had a hair appointment at eleven.  That should have given me plenty of time to get things done in the morning.  I had in mind a leisurely but long walk before I showered.  But way led to way, as they say, and before I knew it, the morning was gone and I was out of time.  I had to rush to make my appointment.  

I was going to take that first wonderful picture of my beautician working with the Big Old Liberator, but she, too, was running behind.  She was slammed, she said, with clients back to back to back until eight o'clock that night.  

We didn't make the picture. 

What we DID make was me look differently. 

Low lights for the low life.  I told her my blonde was looking too much like grey after she "cooled" me with a silver tone last time.  

"I don't know what I want.  I'm feeling poorly about myself.  I look old.  Make me young, babe.  I want to be young."

She really worked me over good, sort of like a Waring blender.

Three hours later, I did look different.  Not a bit younger, though.  Nope.  Not a wit. 

I stopped by my mother's house to show her my short hair.  She always wants me to cut it short, hillbilly that she is.  But when I got there, she was gone.  Hmm.  I told her I would stop by after my appointment.  Oh, well, it was mid-afternoon and I hadn't eaten.  I thought about my options.  I chose to eat badly for the second time this month.  It had tasted so good the first time. . . . 

The meal and the hours in the beautician's chair had tired me to the bone, and even though it was late, I chose to nap.  

I didn't wake up until five.  Five is not a time to wake up from a nap.  You don't really wake up.  You are simply somnambulistic.  And dyspeptic.  Taking a nap after a Whopper had done me dirty.  I knew there would be no dinner for me.  Still, there were necessary things I needed to get.  First Whole Foods.  

This is, without doubt, the best cheese I've ever eaten.  Q says at $39/lb it should be.  Jesus. . . I hadn't read the fine print.  

What can I say? 

 

Dinner on the deck.  A poorly constructed Caprese and a criminal chard.  Two cats and some mosquitos.  A neighbor walking her dog.  

"You got a haircut!"

"Some color, too.  I've been revamped." 

"It must be your summer doo."

"That's it."

I had gotten two packages that day.  One was a cheap pair of cargo shorts from China.  They are not like the culottes I've been wearing.  Calypso pants.  Whatever.  The ones that make me look like a hippie gangsta.  Nope.  These are standard American.  I can wear them around "normal" people when I need to.  They are so good, I'm ordering another pair.  

I got more 4x5 film holders, too.  Brand new at 1/3 the price.  Winner, winner, chicken dinner!  

All in all, it was a good day.  

After dinner, I watched the news on YouTube.  It is much better than turning on the networks.  I can watch the first minute of the story and then, when they bring in the professional speculators, I can switch it off.  I get an hour's news in mere moments.  

Then I watched some of YouTube's recommendations.  I've been looking at some of the clips from the Newport Folk Festival.  If I were going to travel, I should have gone to that.  It looked beautiful.  The festival ended with a performance by Joni Mitchell who had last been there fifty years before.  Mitchell, in poor health after a brain aneurysm, was great maybe due to and maybe in spite of Brandi Carlisle.  What was needed was Paul Schaffer to manage the music.  In spite of the haphazardness of it all, though, I was brought to tears.  Over and over again.  Unimaginably.  WTF?  I can't explain it other than the inevitable sadness that comes with the final act, the end of things.  Nothing, not genius, not talent, not will nor grit, can save you.  

Not even a new doo.  

The cats are back.  The boy from next door has returned and lies on the deck to greet me every morning again.  I take him a little food treat, but he doesn't eat it.  He isn't here for the food, apparently.  I think he just comes to say hello.  He waits patiently until I come out, and then he leaves.  He had been there alone for a few days, but now the little feral cat is there to join him.  He has reestablished dominion over the property, I think.  I do not see the other cats any longer.  After his big lockup, I guess it took him awhile to get his legs back under him, but he's got the swagger once again.  The feral cat couldn't be happier.  It makes me happy, too, bringing back a little of the domestic normality that has been lacking.  

I eschewed sleeping drugs last night as I attempt to cone to that herbal hippie glow I so desire.  Of course, I slept like shit (if sleep it can be called).  I shall live on Caprese salads and Chardonnay, with the occasional expensive French cheeses.  It is untrue, but it sounds romantic to say so.  

So yea. . . fuck art.  Let's dance.