Dreams of toy monkeys and comic book junkies brought smatters of out loud laughter from our slumbering unsung heroine. A call to earn was issued by the day by way of the sun disrupting the plan and attack of the toy monkey pack. Familiar aches and pains are now long lost friends like bread, butter and cinnamon a way to begin; que the crescendo and let the day go.
Out from the shower she bounded, all aches and pains had their hands up and were completely surrounded and in front of the looking glass vanity minus cape and cowl was super girl hear her growl. Daylight illuminates her world saving mission and put her mid race in the human condition. Girl put your cd on, punch up your favorite song. Fire up that motor please and let the breeze tease your hair while you whip around corners on two wheels, all pretty blouse and low heels.
The heart of her work sat first in her chair, always trembling sometimes unaware but brought to life by scissors and dye. At times, when the havocs of old age would make their home a cage she would make the salon experience mobile and leave no former pin up girl without a good style. The tempo of her life is not what you do for a living but what you do for the living. Snippets of souls shared between purveyors and portrayers over a generation perform in harmony with color and cut in perfect benediction. A follicle of give and take where share is the root and with every shampoo two people grew. On her soul bear the mantra of a tattoo “the best that a person can do is to help each other make it through”.
The kinship of stylists becomes emollients of the salon softening the shop with song and emitting the fragrant scents of laughter that have become the chorus to her life hereafter. A bridge to contrast with the verse when clients go from bad to worse, a shoulder of solidarity, a bosom of forgiveness and together a witness of life, love and one another’s existence. Spray painted upon the walls of her ghost is a graffiti message from them all and when angels stare down from the sun a mighty mural it has become.
The symphony of her keys in the car’s ignition and the ring tone of her phone with a husband’s intuition disrupted the dim lit silence of the parking lot adrift in a single soul’s absence. Across her mind came a peace, a peace bartered for yet another piece of youth traded for another hair doo, swirling down the drain with the rinsed shampoo and another client sits across town feeling born anew. Come home my working class angel, I am waiting for you and I am not surprised by the things you do; and of all the good I am aware like oil spots from the Corvair, we take them for granted because they are always there.