What a Nice Color

We don't rake our leaves so there they are, a carpet of them in their bronzes, golds, and browns, little worlds and beginnings beneath them. Sure, they endure the scratch of chickens here and there and the dry ones, they raise their arms to the gales of wind coming off the mountain. And the sun, slumbering along the southern sky throughout the day, is always at an angle illuminating them in their decomp glory. What nice colors, I always say about the arboreal rug.

Early this past autumn, I had to bring in my potted hybrid citrus tree (their name is Bitter Boy). I have so many plants and not enough windows so I situated Bitter Boy in the mud room amongst the spider plants and various succulents. When the winter temperatures began, though, Bitter Boy was not a fan of the naturally colder room. After some rearranging of a book shelf, I finally situated Bitter Boy in a warmer room, close to a heat register, and right at a south-facing window so they too can admire the arboreal carpet. Now that Bitter Boy was less out-of-sight, out-of-mind, I observed them more and discovered a sooty film and tiny, dark, removable specks on their leaves. I got a paper towel and wiped each leaf clean, rendering the the paper towel a lovely rusty bronze. What a nice color.

I don't look into the mirror all too often because I don't particularly think that I am much to look at. This doesn't bother me very much and any attempts at trying to be attractive are not worth the time or effort to me. I can spend that time in the wee hours of the morning drinking a hot cup of tea, reading a few poems, doing some yoga, or cleaning something around the house. Lately, though, when forced to look into the mirror to pluck the unwanted hair from here or there, apply moisturizer, or brush my teeth and hair, I have been bored by the dun of my hair. Is it dark? Is it light? I couldn't even answer this question of my own body. I often hear the word mousy when people talk about hair. I can see my hair color donning the mice that scamper in my ceiling, their fur dusty and blending in with their very brown lives.

I want a change of scenery, I explained to my gorgeous colleagues, the scenery being my reflection in the mirror. As I said this to them, I felt like a fool, like I had missed out on something integral about being a woman inside a body. I asked for suggestions for my hair and nodded approvingly at those suggestions as if they were suggesting hiking routes suitable for inclement weather.

I had nothing in common with the hair stylist (beautician? hair technician?) Mary so I inundated her with questions about herself. She is 25 with a one-year-old daughter named Ariana, two cats (Boots and Jangles), a boyfriend who is a commercial roofer (even in the winter), and has an aunt who lives in Pittsburgh. She talked about a Tupperware war she is having with her mother, how her boyfriend woke her up at 5 am asking her where his jeans and belt were (under the bed because Boots was playing with them), and how her daughter fell asleep on the ride home from the salon's Christmas party yesterday. I smiled every time she used the long, cool, silver parting tool on my scalp. She used some kind of comb that had a bristle that was a bit too harsh. She said that I had thick hair which shocked me due to the amounts of hair I stick to my shower wall. I asked her things that I never ask other women: How often should I actually wash my hair? What if I go to the gym? What is your favorite hairstyle? Can you tell me about the tinsel extensions you have advertised? What's a grommet? What product should I use in my hair?

I couldn't believe how long it took to get all of these things done to my scalp. I still had a gym session to go to, books to read, books to catalogue, things to write, laundry to launder, and a date with a friend. 40 minutes of those many hours were spent either sitting around with a towel or tin foil on my head. I'm not terribly naive; I'm aware of the process of beautifying but goodness, it took longer than I thought. After blowing warm air on my head and misting my hair with smelly dews, she turned me around to face the mirror. What nice colors. It looked really nice, well-sculpted, and I told Mary that she did a very good job. I bought some shampoo and one of the smelly dews. The price for everything bowled me over--I could have purchased some great gardening supplies or gone on several fun dates with my husband. The movies I could have seen at the movie theater--we are entering Oscar season, by the way. But oh well. After tipping Mary, I walked into the bright, harsh southern sunlight, my hair possibly blinding pilots flying above. I got into my car and sent selfies to my husband and gorgeous colleagues before I ruined my stylish hair at the gym. The landscaping of my scalp cost me close to a year's membership at that gym. Turning the key in the ignition, I thought about what women go through for beauty and rolled my eyes. Nice colors, though.