There’s a lady I see all over the place with a hairdo from Mars.
She’s tiny, like an old paper doll that, from the back, looks 12, while wearing a helmet on her head like a viking.
She power walks in the morning, shops at Duane Reade and Feldman’s Hardware Store and belongs to the David Barton Gym. I’ve seen her at Starbucks, Panera, Dunkin Donuts and Butterfield Market, buying Land O’Lakes butter and pricey bread. Though little in height, she’s very commanding telling the deli man…I want it sliced..evenly…even the ends, while watching with an eye like a surgeon.
She has a husband who’s actually quite good looking, I’d say in his 80th year, she bosses around, his balls bouncing back and forth in her Gucci shoulder bag. As an aside, why do women do that? What do you get out of turning your man into an Egyptian eunuch in a Brooks Brothers blazer?
Today I was behind her in Dean and Deluca buying tea. She smelled like the foyer of Campbell’s Funeral Home, that whiff of frozen lilies wafting from her head as if it was sprayed with formaldehyde.
She turned and said, “They need more help, don’t they !”
Not to trash the dead, but she sounded and looked amazingly like Nancy Reagan, just with a hard hat.
“Well,” I said, “it’s only 8 a.m. on a weekend. It’s okay to relax a bit, don’t you think?”
She sniffed and sneered like a bulldog and said, “I’m going to be late for brunch if that lazy, stupid girl doesn’t put a move on.”
“Brunch has to be at least three hours away.”
“Yes, and…your point?”
You have time for that mimosa and egg white omelet, and a nap. No, I didn’t say that.
I said, “But there’s plenty of time to get ready…it’s Sunday after all.” I kept my hands in my sweat pants pockets so I wouldn’t be tempted to poke her hair.
Then it hit me…her Jiffy Pop do needs more time. It’s not a …hop in the shower, pull a comb through, and away we go.
It probably has to be baked in the oven at 350 for at least three hours to look that way.
I couldn’t help myself, the imp in me making a cameo. “So, may I ask, who does your hair?”
“Mr. Robbie, on Lexington and 80th,” she said, suddenly a foot taller. “He’s amazing…just like Kenneth, but without the extravagant price.”
First of all, for the record, whoever does this woman’s hair is NOTHING like Kenneth who did Jackie O’s and my pal Nancy’s who had the chicest short haircut on the planet. Mr. Robbie must drop acid before he takes a comb to her mop that should come on a stick.
I’m just sayin.
She whips out a tiny Vuitton pad and pencil scribbling his number. “Tell him Dot sent you…maybe he’ll throw in a manicure.”
Jesus..was I happy when I heard
I watched her leave with her large baguette and vanilla iced espresso insisting it be double cupped. And you know what?
All the while her hair never moved a muscle.
Mr. Robbie, clearly, scared it to death.