in an effort to distract myself, i’ve been working on my assignments for my writing workshop (i even sat at my desk!). after dinner tonight, i need to do the art project portion (i can do that in front of tv…right?) but today i was able to cross one of the two writing assignments off my list. i think i spent more time on it than i was supposed to, because this was supposed to be the short piece (just a paragraph) and it turned into a bit more. i’m uninspired by the other part, of course the one i’m supposed to bring copies of for critique…so that’s the next challenge.

for now…the assignment was to begin by focusing on one of the senses (i choose sound) and create a list, sort of like an autobiography, through that sense. then to pick one thing from the list…and expand…here’s my bit…

I hand the valet the keys to Nani’s golden jaguar. The wheel is so heavy and stiff it requires me to concentrate all of my energy and strength on maneuvering safely. I wonder how her tiny frame, her wrists the size of a baby’s, her fingers as narrow as broken pencils, can possibly handle the weight and force necessary. We stand together in front of the large glass door, looking in. I hear her take a deep breath and realize I have just done the same. I steady her from behind, placing one hand firmly on the small of her back. I can feel each vertebrae pushing through her pressed cotton shirt and her thick merino wool sweater, with leather covered buttons and a cowl neck. I use my other hand to reach above her head and force open the door. I feel her gently rock backwards, pressing further into my stance, before steadying herself and at last, making her grand entrance.

While I could see the commotion from the other side of the door, there is no real way to prepare. Every station has at least one hair dryer blasting at full speed and as the stylists, often in tight pants and shirts open to nearly visible bellybutton levels, effortlessly glide the dryer from crown to nape, the pitch of the blowing air rises and falls. The receptionist, and her latest in a long line of transient assistants, stand behind the front desk, their backs turned to the door. They cup individual phones, silently screaming appointment details into the receiver. From the back room, Coco, smelling distinctly of her signature fragrance, No. 5, briskly makes her way through the haphazard obstacle course, narrowly avoiding women with dark dye coating their heads and eyebrows as they make their way to the sinks and chairs to be rinsed, all while distractedly sipping their complementary coffee or champagne. She arrives at the front desk to check to see when her next appointment is before patting my tush as she careens out the door to grab a quick smoke.

But above it all, the society women dissecting the latest mandatory gala, and the hair dryers and the endless mist of super hold spray that I can already taste in the back of my throat, I hear his voice. He has the first chair, obviously, and his distinctive English accent, with an effeminate and inquisitive after thought, leaves little doubt as to who is in charge. In this moment he is leaning into his newest protege, who stands next to him, alert and erect, ready for his next request, blind to how outlandish that might be. Currently, as hair flies in every direction at a speed that is so fast it is inconceivable, forget unexpected, the new guy stands completely still and I notice that his hands are entwined in the client’s hair, holding it in place; he’s acting as a human hair clip.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees my grandmother. Her Fendi handbag dangling from her arm as she deftly removes her hearing aides. And his scissors slow and then stop, just as all the hairdryers shut off, one after another, like an assembly line coming to rest. Rose is here. My grandmother looks at Martin as he loudly announces her arrival, drawing out the last few letters of her name as he raises his arms for a full embrace. She dismissively pats his arm as she walks by him and while I can’t see her face, I’m certain she is rolling her eyes. She says that she cannot stand the fuss, but at the same time I know that she wouldn’t want it any other way. Once she is out of sight, in the back, removing her unseasonable wool and putting on the highest quality linen robe, Martin again begins to cut. And the hair dryers roar back to life.