The Glamorous Life of a Shampoo Girl

<--- That would be me, after the kind of day I'm about to describe.

I ran into an old friend from high school recently. And everyone knows how that goes. We exchanged “how ya beens” and “what ya up to nowadays.”

My friend, April: “So, Mandie, where you working? You still at GAP?”

Me: “Naw, I quit there two years ago. I’m a shampoo girl at _________ Salon.”

April: “Oh my gosh how cool! I’d love to do that…”

Hu hu hu. Yeah, okay.

Me: “So, where are you working?”

April: “Oh me? I waitressing at __________. It’s so boring. I’d love to have your job.”

Great! You wanna trade? Like right here, right now?

You see, some days my job is…

How should I put this?… Insane.

With extra emphasis on the insane.

Those days go a little something like the following:

Intercepting Crazy-People/Telemarketing Phone Calls

Ring. Ring. Ri-

Me: “________ Salon.”

Crazy Person: “Uh, yeah, let me talk to Keeva.”

Me: “I’m sorry she’s busy with a client. Are you wanting to make an appointment?”

Crazy Person: “No. I need to speak to her.”

Me: “Well, she’s busy. Can I take a message?”

Crazy Person: “No. I need to talk to her now. It’s really important. My name is _______ and if you just tell her, she’ll talk to me.”

Me: “I’m really sorry but she’s busy at the moment. Are you sure it’s not something I can help you with?”

Crazy Person: “Well, are you Keeva? Because I need to move my appointment. It’s very important.”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m her book-keeper. I book all her client’s. I’ve been working here for two years. I can move your appointment.”

Crazy Person: “I’ll just call back later.”

Me: “You’ll be talking to me again later, too.”

Crazy Person: “Uh?!”

Click.

Part of my job is making sure that I answer all phone calls so that our stylists can keep working and not have to stop to answer the phone all day.

So, no one. No. One. Gets past me.

And this pisses people off, so bad. They want to talk to the stylist. The manager. The owner.

Not the shampoo girl… Naw, ‘cause lawsy, she ain’t got no brains ‘bout her ‘t all.

(Sorry, I got carried away with my Southern drawl there.)

Ring. Ring. Ri-

Me: “_______ Salon.”

Annoying Telemarketer: “Yes, is this ________ Salon?”

Oh. My. Freaking. Golly. Pete.

Me: “Uh… Yes.”

Annoying Telemarketer: “Are you the owner?”

Me: “No.”

Annoying Telemarketer: “Can I speak with her?”

Me: “No.”

Annoying Telemarketer: “Is their a co-owner?”

Me: “No.”

Annoying (Brain-Dead) Telemarketer: “Why can I not speak with the owner?”

Me: “She’s busy.”

Annoying Telemarketer: “I will just call back later then.”

Me: “Oh, she’ll be busy then, too.”

Annoying Telemarketer: “Who ar-

Click. Slam. Bam!

That would be the sound of me taking my aggression out on the poor helpless phone.

I go through these same type calls, all day long!

Baby-Sitting

Now, I love kids. But for some reason, not the kids who come with their parents to the hair salon.

They’re brats!

For example, there’s this one lady who has four LITTLE kids and she always brings them with her when she comes to the salon.

And I don’t know how this became established as the norm or as expected but the shampoo girl has to babysit?!

It’s funny because my boss has a rather large sign posted inside the salon that says, “Parents please watch your children and do not let them play on or with our equipment. Unruly children will be sold as slaves.”

Ha. Ha! I wish.

Well, back to the lady with four kids.

They are always super hyped-up like they each just drank a gallon of Georgia sweet tea.

(Never underestimate the power of that stuff, People.)

So now, I’m stuck trying to handle four heathens while their mother is getting her hair cut.

One little girl goes straight for the stationary blow dryers.

No big deal, I think to myself. She won’t hurt the dryer.

Another kid goes for the magazine rack and starts yanking them all to the floor.

No big deal, I think once again, I’ll just pick them up once they leave.

Another kid goes for the shampoo bowls and plops down in one of the chairs and leans back like he’s getting his hair washed.

And I think, he’s not hurting anything.

And last but not least, the fourth gremlin is on his way towards the waxing station.

OMG!

I run as fast as I can to get to the other side of the salon before he--

Too late.

The kid had already stuck his hand down in the searing hot wax bowl and was now screaming bloody murder as he flung his wax dripping hand back out.

All over me.

His mother started freaking out over at the cutting station and Keeva wants to know what’s going on.

So, now I’m having to clean up the wax covered trouble-maker and get some burn aloe for his hand.

And now my shirt and apron are covered with wax and the floor is sticky too.

But before I can get to cleaning it up I hear something.

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

Oh no!

I know that sound.

Instinctively, I look over towards the stationary blow dryers and the little girl is trying to pull the dryer down over her head, but she’s too short and now she was trying to yank it down and break it!

I hurry towards her. “No. No. No.”

She peeks her head out from under the strained dryer head and looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “What?”

What?! Is this kid sassing me?

“You can’t pull it down like that, hun.” I grit my teeth. I try to smile and look all innocent and sweet and unalarming.

I see that demonic look in her eyes.

She sees right through me.

“Yes, I can!” She shouts. “This is my space ship! And I have to get to Dablueon.”

Well, unfortunately I don’t speak four year old.

“This is a hair dryer. Not a space ship.” Should also just go ahead and tell her there’s no Santa Clause, Easter Bunny, or Tooth Fairy?

Narrowing her eyes, she points her little finger at me, “You’re a liar!”

Rip. Rip. Rip. Riiiiiiiiiiiiip.
Now what?

When I turn around, the other kid is now not just pulling every magazine and hair book off the rack, but ripping them to pieces.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” I snatch the magazine he’s holding out of his hand.

And hear it comes… Wait for it. Wait for it.

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream louder.

My ears start ringing and now the mother is upset again.

I relinquish the magazine back to the kid so he can finish demolishing it.

That’s when I see the oldest kid, the one who had been sitting at the shampoo bowls acting all harmless and crap.

Now, he’s turning the knobs and once again, I’m not fast enough to prevent a calamity.

OMG!

I felt the wave of cold water rush over me before I see it. The kid was wielding the sprayer like a water gun and was soaking me!

When my brain kicked in, I wrestled the sprayer from him and managed to get the water turned off, before we all drowned.

By this time, the mother is finished and is paying Keeva.

And I’m standing in a puddle of water, with my hair and clothes soaked, dripping like a wet rat.

I’m sure I looked like one.

Janitoring

I scrub toilets. Sinks. Empty trash. Sweep until my arms feel like they are going to fall off.

I scrub mirrors and windows. I scrub hundreds of brushes and combs.

I wash towels and fold towels and fold more towels.

Goferring

I run out for cigarettes. Dr Peppers. Salads. Hamburgers. Shakes.

I make deposits. Returns. And pay bills.

And I’m suppose to do all this within a ten minute time period.

So I run around town running errands, honking my horn in traffic and acting like a crazy person to get back to work in time and with commissioned errand completed.

Oh! And The Old Ladies

At the salon we have the regulars who come in once a week for a shampoo and set. These are older women who no longer know-how to, or are just too lazy to do their own hair.

But fine with me. More money for the salon.

But they’re so mean! They never fail to mention to me when I look like I’ve gained a few pounds or look a little tired.

And they love to tell me how skanky my tattoo is.

They also love to tell me I’m going to hell because I wear pants.

I’d love to tell them they probably are too seeing as how they cut, perm, and color their hair…

But I don’t. For the sake of keeping my J.O.B.

Oh, and they don’t tip.

Well, I lied. Sometimes this one woman will dig out 50 cents for me.

Yeah…

Oh! And The Rich People

These ladies waltz in the salon with their Louis V’s in tow, dressed in Juicy sweats. And wearing Armani sunglasses. And talking on their iPhones and driving their Lexis and Mercedes.

Now I’d really have no problem with these people if they didn’t treat me like I was a slave, or a second-class citizen.

They’ve flung their jackets and purses on me like I’m a butler!!!

Has anyone ever seen the movie The Devil Wears Prada?

Well, you know how Meryl Streep is always flinging her stuff on Ann Hathaway?

Yeah, well you sort of get the picture then.

I Also:

Eat hair all day long. It’s inevitable. It’s in the air and floats around all day with the hair dryers going.

Breathe toxic fumes that are supposedly killing the Ozone layer.

So, yeah.

I just love my job some days.

But hey, at least I’ve got one.

Maybe Obama won’t try taking it from me, too.

Best Damn Mistakes.

I was throwing the last bite of my bologna and pickle sandwich into my mouth, when I hear my father start laughing.

Engrossed in my copy of Pride and Prejudice, I had been sitting on the couch in the living room for the past hour.

So out of curiosity, I look up at the television to see what my father had found so funny.

But there was nothing funny.

Just John Travolta beating the crap out of some guy in a bar.

I glance at my father and the beer in his hand. I had never seen him drunk, but perhaps tonight he’d had one too many.

It was close to one in the morning, and my father and I are the only night owls in the house. He likes watching the history channel and drinking a few beers. And I like eating weird stuff, like bologna and pickles, and reading my books.

“Uh, dad,” I venture, “What’s so funny?”

My dad looks over at me as though he had forgotten I was even in the room. And his smile fades a bit. “Oh.” He takes a swig of his beer. “Nothing.” His eyes go back to the TV.

I look back at the TV as well. I’m a Travolta fan, but I had never seen this particular movie. It looked old.

“What movie is this, Dad?”

Keeping his eyes on the TV, he responds. “Urban Cowboy.”

“Oh.” I go back to the part where Lydia runs away with Wickham.

Minutes tick by and I’m once again engrossed in my book.

I hear my dad crush his beer can. That’s usually his signal that he’s done for the night and about to hit the sack.

Waiting to hear the TV click off, I pretend to continue reading, never looking up.

My father seemed to be in a strange mood. Which isn’t typical of my father. He’s laid-back, humorous, and light-hearted.

Never moody.

I could still hear the TV, rolling the credits for Urban Cowboy.

My dad cleared his throat, “You’ve never seen Urban Cowboy?”

Wow. So I started this discussion how many minutes ago, Dad?

I didn’t actually say that. I just looked up at him, a little surprised that he was now interested in talking. “Uh, no. Not that I can remember.” And I go back to pretending to read.

Apparently my father really was in a talking mood. “Have I ever told you I’ve been there?” He gestures toward the TV.

Behind the rolling credits was a building and a parking lot.

I was confused. “Been where?”

“To that bar, Gilley’s. It’s in Texas. Me and Sandra stopped there on our way through to Arizona.”

Sandra, was my father’s second wife.

“Oh.” I’m a bit taken back. My father rarely talks about his past. I’ve gathered it’s something he’s not quite proud of, so I’ve never pried.

But what I’ve picked up from my mother, brother, grandmother, and step-mother was that my father was addicted to cocaine and used to run drugs from Miami. Apparently he ran with a pretty rough crowd before committing his life to the Lord.

My father looks back at the TV and mindlessly watched the credits continue to roll.

Before I open my mouth, I consider the question I want to ask.

Will it offend him? Will it make him feel bad?

But I was curious and I wanted an answer, so I drew in a silent breath and closed my book between my right index finger, just in case it didn’t go over well so I could just stuff my face back into my book.

“Hey, Dad?”

He looks at me. Nope. He’s not drunk. Because he looks at me, seriously.

Did my tone give me away?

“Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you like ever regret, you know, being married four different times?”

To my surprise, my father doesn’t balk at my prying question, but actually smiles.

A little.

“Do I ever regret it?”

I know my father’s an intelligent man. Do I need to grab a dictionary?

“Yeah. Like feel bad?”

My father’s face clouds over just a bit. “Now, feel bad? Yes, I would say I feel bad about it. But I’m not quite sure regret’s the right word.”

“Oh.” I consider for a moment diving back into the world of Jane Austen, but curiosity bit me again. So I push on.

“Do you ever wish you could take it back?”

He’s not looking at me, but flipping through channels. But nothing’s on but infomercials, because it’s one in the morning.

“Sometimes.” He continues clicking the remote.

I let my finger slide out of my book and I lay it aside me on the couch. “Did you ever marry for love, though?”

Now, this question seemed to throw him off guard. And he looked a tad offended. “Well of course. I married for what I thought was love at that time in my life.” My father looked at me like I was heartless.

“But why didn’t things work out between you and Katherine?”

Katherine was my father’s first wife and the mother of my half-brother, Chris.
My father rubbed his forehead. “Because I wasn’t the kind of husband I should’ve been.” He sighed. “I failed her. And I wasn’t the father I should’ve been to Chris.”

For a moment, I didn’t say anything. He’d failed Katherine? How? Was it okay to ask? He didn’t seem eager to divulge any details.

“What do you mean you failed her?”

The remote stopped clicking. The TV had stopped on the Weather Channel. Rain tomorrow.

Great. Just what I-

“I had an affair.”

Whoa! Whoa! Do what? No. No. No. No. Not my dad. My dad was a good man. He would never do something like that!

“Huh?” I couldn’t stop myself before I uttered that dumb question.

My father didn’t seem phased. “I wasn’t ready to settle down and so I had an affair. Stupidly, I figured it was the easy way out. But it was a coward’s way out. I hurt Katherine badly and probably damaged your brother for life.”

I feel numb at this point.

“Who was the other woman?”

He didn’t respond right away. He had a far away look in his green eyes. “She was an older woman. And I was young and dumb.”

“Oh.”

This conversation was just a bit too much for me, so I grab my book and start fumbling through it, desperately seeking where I’d left off.

“Right and wrong.” My father mumbles.

Huh?

I’m worried I’ve drudged up things from my father’s past that I shouldn’t have.

“What, Dad?”

“Right and wrong,” he continues, “I knew right from wrong back then, as I do now. And if I could go back and do the right thing. I would have stayed with Katherine and raised your brother in good home, one with a mother and a father.”

“Oh.” I feel a little pain in my chest. The kind of feeling you get when you’re heart broken. My heart cracked just a little.

Dad regrets me?

But I wasn’t about to let him stop there. I wanted to know the rest. Might as well break my heart completely if it’s already cracking.

“So what about Sandra?”

My father clicks the remote. The TV goes blank. And he turns his full attention to me.

“Are you wanting to know the whole history of my love life?” He smirks.

I shrug my shoulders. “Why not?”

My father grabs his bag of peanuts that he always keeps beside his chair and begins cracking them.

Oh man. Is this gonna be an all-nighter talk?

After popping two in his mouth, he says, “There was someone before Sandra.”

I laugh. “Who? The lady who had some of her intestines removed to get skinnier?” Some of his past, I did know.

He laughs. “No, Christine was after Sandra.”

“Okay, so who was this other woman?” I ask a little dramatically.

There my father goes again, with that far away look in his eye. “She wasn’t the other woman. She was the woman.”

Whoa. The woman? My dad had a the?!

“Wow. What was she, the love of your life?”

My father smiles, faintly. “Yes, I suppose she was. Her name was Diane. And I had loved her since high school. I got another chance with her after Katherine and I were divorced.”

I get way too curious at this point. “And…?”

Here comes another sigh. “And… I treated her horribly. I’m surprised she put up with my crap for as long as she did. I loved her. But I didn’t know how to show love. Like I said, I was young and dumb at that point in my life. So, I lost her.” And here comes the far-away look again.

Even if he had cracked my heart earlier, I felt sorry for my father.

“Oh. So then comes Sandra?”

My father looks like he’s re-entered the planet’s atmosphere once again. “Yes, and then came Sandra. And Sandra and I liked to party and travel and just goof off. But after five years, I was ready to settle down. Be a good father to your brother and have some more kids.”

Oh. “So what was the problem?”

My father looks me in the eye. “She didn’t want to settle down. She didn’t want to have children. She wanted to keep living like we were still two college kids. Which we weren’t.”

“So…” I pry.

“So, we divorced.”

“And then comes Christine?”

“Yep, but that didn’t last long.”

“Like her bowel movements…?” I smile.

My father cracks up. “Yeah, something like that.”

“So after Christine is that when Mom comes in?”

There he goes again with that far away look. “Yeah, that’s when your mother comes in.”

But there’s no need to re-iterate that story. I know it by heart. My parents were together for eight years before they had me and my little sister, Kim. And then my mother decides she doesn’t want to be married to a poor farmer and leaves my father for my rich step-father…

“I loved your mother, Mandie. Very much. She broke my heart into a million pieces when she walked out on me and took you and your sister away from me. I had always told myself that with your mother, I would do right what went wrong with Katherine. That I would raise you and Kim in a good home. But I deserved what your mother did to me. I‘d done the same things to Katherine and Diane. I guess I had it comin‘ to me.”

My throat starts to constrict and I try not to let the tears filling my eyes roll down my cheeks.

My father clears his throat. “And then came Leah. And she was far too young for me. And I was on the rebound after your mother and I let Leah think our relationship was going somewhere that it was never going to go.”

“Oh… And then came Marcia?”

My father smiles. A genuine smile. “And then came Marcia.”

Marcia has been my step-mother since I was four and I love her to death.

But now I wonder. “Is Marcia your soul mate, you think, Dad?”

It’s quiet for a few moments. “No.” My dad finally admits. “But I love her dearly. And I see myself growing old with her.”

My thoughts are everywhere at this point. “So you regret your love life?”

My father pops another peanut into his mouth. “Yes, I do. There were so many things I did wrong. So many places I failed. And I let Diane slip through my fingers.”

At this point I’m ready to just go to bed. I start to get up off the couch.

But my father starts talking again. “Have you ever felt horribly bad about something, yet, as wrong as it is, you wouldn’t take it back if you could?”

What is he talking about? “I… Guess.”

“Well, that’s how I feel about my life.”

I sit back down. “So you wouldn’t change things if you had the chance?”

“No.” My father looks me in the eye again. “I regret just about every thing about every relationship I’ve ever had with a woman. But as badly as I hurt them, I wouldn’t take it back. Does that make me bad?”

Why was he asking me? “Um, I don’t know, Dad. I mean there’s no way you could change the past anyway… So what’s it matter?”

My father smiles at me. “Because you and you’re sister are the only women in my life that I don’t regret. Things turned out the way they did because I was an asshole in my younger years. But it got me the two of you and your brother.”

I smile.

And so does my father. “The three best damn mistakes I ever made.”

Be Nice to Crazy People.

So this is something I wrote a while back when I was having panic attacks everyday. This was the worst one. Utterly terrifying. No joke.

When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t remember how I got there.

My jeans were wet. My face and hair were soaked. My arms were…

Wait, I couldn’t feel my arms. I tried to move a leg. Nope. No luck. I was paralyzed.

All over my body, I felt the sensation of pins and needles. I was completely numb.

What the heck?

I took a deep breath. But I choked. I was facedown in grass and had just sucked in some dirt.

Where am I?

Even though my head was spinning faster than the Tornado at the Fall Fair, I tired lifting it to see where I was.

It was completely dark, except for a dim yellow light coming from somewhere over my right shoulder.

But I didn’t try to turn to look for the source of the light, I felt nauseated. Bile began bubbling up the back of my throat, and I knew I was going to vomit.

I gagged and let the spit and bile fall out of my mouth onto the grass.

“I think she’s conscious!” Some unfamiliar voice shouted.

I tired to roll myself towards the voice, but my arms weren’t working. Neither was my mind, apparently.

A hand reached out for one of my arms, “Do you think you can sit up?” The voice, attached to the unfamiliar arm, asked.

“Should we just call 911?” Another unfamiliar voice asked. Only, this one was a woman’s. And she sounded suspicious.

“I don’t know.” The arm pulled me into a sitting position on the grass and my head spun even faster than before as I tried to process my surroundings.

I tried to lift my hand to my face, but my arm just lied in my lap. Dead weight.

The arm turned out to be a man’s. He looked like he was in is late twenties, but I squinted. I wasn’t quite sure. Why was my vision so blurry?

My glasses… Where are my glasses?

The man looked down at me, and I could see the faint yellow light was coming from a house, behind him. And there were three other people standing behind him. Almost like they were afraid of me… They all looked at me as though I had fallen from the sky…

Had I?

What was I doing here?

“Are you okay?” The man asked, stooping a bit to look into my eyes.

My head was still spinning. Was I okay? I didn’t know. What was I doing there? How did I get there? Who were these people?

And that noise. Some strange humming noise in the background. I glanced over my shoulder and found the source of the noise.

My car. It was running, with the driver door open.

And then I remembered exactly how I got there. Well, maybe not quite why I was lying facedown in the middle of some strangers’ front yard… But the memory of the night hit me like a ton of bricks.

I’d been driving, on my way to my boyfriend’s house, which is out in the middle of no where.

And then, all of a sudden, a panic attack strikes me. Out of no where. And I’m in the middle of no where.

In my panic, I call my mother. “Mom! I’m having an attack. Talk to me!”

I hear my mother fumble for something to say. “Okay. Just calm down. Tell yourself you’re alright. Focus on breathing slow. You’re breathing too fast I can hear it.”

Right. Breathe. Breathe. Ugh! Not working! “I’m trying but it’s not working! Say something. Distract me!”

My mother fumbles again. “Okay, what time do you have to be at work in the morning?” She rushes through the question. I know she’s panicking now.

I can’t even remember. I can’t think straight. Trying to drive while fighting hyperventilation and paralyzing terror, all the while trying to keep from hitting on-coming cars and mailboxes, was just too much.

“Uh…” Panic. Panic. I’m suffocating. My chest is caving in. Can’t breathe. “Uh, I can’t remember.”

“Mandie, are you still driving?” She sounds really worried now.

“Yeah, yeah.” Panic. Panic. I’m going to lose control and crash!

My breathing becomes more erratic. And my heart feels like it’s going to beat its way out of my chest.

“Mandie, listen to me. Do you need to pull over? I can come get you. How far away from Freddy’s house are you?”

Way too many questions at once. Okay, so maybe only two. But I can’t process information very fast when I’m in this condition.

My fingers begin to go numb. “Pull over?! Pull over where? I’m in the middle of no where!”

“Are you able to safely drive the rest of the way to Freddy’s house?”

My throat gets tight. And then my face starts losing feeling.

Dammit! Why can’t I breathe?

“Mandie?!” My mother shouts into the phone.

Where’s my voice? I cough. “I don’t know!”

I feel the numbness shooting down my legs. My foot begins to feel heavy on the gas petal.

“Mandie, you’re going to have to pull over. I can hear your breathing. You’re going to hyperventilate!”

Too late. My legs were numb. My hands were numb. My face was numb. And my arms were going numb.

“I can’t, Mom!” The thought of stopping here, in the middle of no where, in the middle of the night, shot another shock of terror through my already erratic body.

My heavy foot, which I’d lost feeling in, pushed down too hard on the gas pedal, and the car lurched forward, too fast.

My reflexes were still working, and I immediately lifted a numb foot and slammed the brake.

Too hard.

Thank God, I was wearing my seatbelt. It was the only thing that prevented me from face planting into my steering wheel.

By this time, the numbness working its way down my arms begins to intensify. My fingers begin to draw up. I can barely grip the steering wheel.

And that’s when I dropped the phone. I remember still yelling in my car, to my mom on my phone that was somewhere in my floor board.

I begin frantically looking for somewhere to pullover. I was going to kill myself. Because my vision was beginning to go black and I was about to pass out.

I had to pull over somewhere. Anywhere.

The last thing I remember was trying to claw my out of my car. My freaking fingers had drawn up so bad that I couldn’t grip anything! I couldn’t even put my car in park.

I couldn’t grip my door handle. I screamed.

I was parked halfway in some stranger's yard at midnight. Screaming. Trapped inside my own vehicle. Irrationally, believing I was dying. My body was numb. My ears hurt. My brain wouldn’t shut up. My heart was skipping beats. My breathing wouldn’t slow down. And I couldn’t stop screaming.

And then I thought about my horn. And I laid on it.

Someone would hear me and get me out of here.

But then I felt my door give way. My paralyzed hand had finally pulled the handle up enough to open the door.

I felt the cold air, the wet grass, and then nothing.

I was out.


(To have a panic attack is my biggest fear. It’s like being trapped inside your body, when your body is completely out of your control. They royally suck.)

Eh, Your Mother's Mustache.

Crunch. Crunch. Cruuuunnnnccchhh.

What in the world?

When I open my eyes, all I see is a blur of words.

And my nose feels weird. Like it's asleep. All tingly.

Crunch.

I pick up my head, out of my book.

And I see Zane. Eating my Pringles.

My vision is all blurry and I feel drool on my mouth. Ew, I'd drooled all over my book!

I squint my eyes at Zane. "Why are you eating my Pringles?"

Crunch.

He smiles. Apparently something is funny. "You look like you lost a fight with a wall."

Crunch.

I squint again. The sun was coming through the windows of the break room. "What are you talking about?"

Crunch.

Zane points to my face.

"How long have I been out?" The last thing I remembered was reading. I had just gotten to the part where... Wait. I couldn't remember the last thing I read.

"I don't know. Like half-an-hour, I guess." Zane loses no time shoving more of my Pringles in his mouth.

I get up and walk to the bathroom to examine my face and laughed out loud when I did. Zane was right. I looked like I'd lost a fight with a wall.

My entire forehead was bright red and my nose was blotchy red and looked smashed and a little crooked.

Great.

I'd had trouble staying awake at work all day. Even when I was shampooing someone, my eyelids had felt heavy.

It had just been a crummy day. I was exhausted and worrying about my husband and all the bills.

And I hated working on Saturdays. But alas, everyone wants their hair done on Saturdays.

So a few hours later, with a huge red mark still on my forehead, I collect my paycheck and what's left of my Pringles and head out to my car.

Usually on Saturdays after work, I just go home and take a nap and then stay up half the night watching rented Blockbuster movies with my husband.

But since for the time being my husband is out of commission, for lack of better words, and I've got absolutely nothing to do... Because Mom and Dad are at work...

So I go for plan, "Mother's Mustache."

Now, this may sound weird, but it's an inside joke in my family. Whenever you want to do or say something that you shouldn't or that would be offensive, it's my family's version of, "Just screw it."

We say, "Eh, your mother's mustache."

For example:

Me: "Hey, Mom. Smoking is bad for you. As crazy as you make me I'd like to keep you around a few more years."

My mother: "Eh, your mother's mustache."

Lol. We're weird.

So today instead of just heading home to crawl into bed, I drive across town to Long Horn, the steak house. And if you've never been, you should go, if not for anything else but their massive chocolate dessert called, "Chocolate Stampede."

On bad days, I go in and ask for a booth for one. Order a water and one Chocolate Stampede.

These are the days when the logical side of my brain says, "Mandie, that's an awful lot of calories to be consuming. There are better ways to work out frustration and bad days... Like going to the gym, or washing your neglected car, or just eating a healthy snack instead."

And this is when the non-logical side of my brain says, "Eh, your mother's mustache."

From the Shadows of the Twenty-Fourth Step of this Velvet-Lined Staircase.

She doesn’t understand the world.

She just sighs and relights that cigarette she knows she shouldn’t be smoking. From the shadows on the twenty-fourth step of this red-velvet lined staircase, she watches the rest of the world spin on.

No one’s eyes can detect her dark silhouette from the shadows. Laughing in merry oblivion, they pass her by. Silk glides through the air on delicate high-heeled, strappy sandals climbing up and down the steps around her, balanced on the arms of sharply pressed and tailored tuxedos, with fake smiles.

She doesn’t understand the world.

Ashes spread all over her satin get-up, as she flicks the end of her cigarette carelessly. She slides her fingers through her messy black hair. Just a nest of tangles and bobby pins from an up-do that was stunning just five minutes ago.

That tiny chip in her red manicure catches her eye as she lays her hand back atop her knee. The smile that transforms her lips is bitter. Perfection is intangible. So with a cigarette dangling from her fingers she chips at the polish until that tiny chip is a large gash.

She doesn’t understand the world.

Or why trying to cope without tears is just as effective as trying to swim without limbs. But she’s determined not to cry. Even though no one would know.

But her.

The smoke starts stinging her nose. Chanel doesn’t mix well with cigarettes. The fume is sickening. So she puts out her cigarette on the bottom of her Louboutin. And from the shadows she tosses the butt over the railing.

She doesn’t understand the world.

Or why a girl like her should even try. Why even stop to ponder, such a trite issue? What with the rest of the world twirling and laughing on the dance floor below her? None of them find reason to crawl into the shadows to wallow in confusion.

A tuxedo meets her eye. She feels caught, like a cat with a wing hanging out its mouth. But immediately her eyes cloud back over and she smiles automatically. Continuing to climb the red velvet lined staircase, he smiles back.

She doesn’t understand the world.

Because no one looks long or hard enough to see anything behind her brown eyes. No one cares to see anything beyond their glassy exterior. And then she wonders if maybe all there ever was, all there really is, is a glassy exterior.

Those brown glass windows begin to fill with tears. But she doesn’t let them fall. That would ruin her mascara.

She doesn’t understand the world.

She finds herself lighting another cigarette that she knows she shouldn’t be smoking. Her throat is raw she takes another rough drag.

But she doesn’t understand the world and she’s tired of trying. Just not quite ready to crawl back out of the shadows.

The Old Man

For those of you who don't know, I have a big family. Two stepbrothers and one stepsister. And a blood-related sister and brother.

Well yesterday, me and my blood-related sister and brother, Kim and Chris, crashed our dad's house while he and my step-mom were out. We played their Wii and ate their food and drank all their sodas.

When my parents came home to a house full of children that they had already shooed from the roost, they perked up. I find it hilarious that my parents couldn't wait to get all six of us all grown up and out on our own, and now that we are? They want to buy us dinner, take us to movies, put gas in our cars, and bribe us to come back home more often with shopping trips and new games for the Wii.

Haha! They have such a bad case of Empty Nest Syndrome.

God bless my dad. He's a good man. He's loyal. Honest to a fault. And hard working. Solid in his faith in God.

But Kim, Chris, and I gave my dad the hardest time when we were growing up. We were always into something or up to something.

Kim and Chris had their rounds with random drugs. And I just hated high school and skipped class half the time and nearly didn't graduate on time.

We were trouble makers.

So it wasn't really a surprise when Chris came home one day with his shoulders, back and chest covered in one solid tattoo.

And I suppose it wasn't a shocker when Kim came home with two of her own.

My dad figured I was his last hope. His last remaining proof that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't failed completely as a father. Well, yesterday my father's hopes came crashing down.

I live in a small, tiny, minuscule, think even smaller than that, town. So apparently word gets around fast. Especially when your step-mother is a judge and your father is a firefighter... I swear they know everyone.

Ever since I'd gotten my rather large tattoo down my left arm, I'd been wearing long sleeves. Of course it's something I'm proud of. It's Isaiah 43:3-4, some of my favorite verses.

Well when my dad got home, he looked at me and said, "So when were you planning on telling me about your tattoo?"

My brother and sister stop dead in the middle of their virtual tennis game, and the ball goes double-bouncing into my brother's court. But he was watching me and so was my sister.

Crap. "Uh..." How in the world did he find out?

My step-mother is standing behind my dad, with her arms crossed. Grinning from ear-to-ear. What was so funny?

I clear my throat and swallow loudly. "Uh, I was planning on it. So who was it that beat me to the punch?"

I glare over at my siblings. They both shake their heads profusely and throw their hands up in the air, with Wii remotes dangling from their wrists.

With one look back at my parents, I know they're not giving up any names.

Ugh. Freaking-small-can't-do-anything-without-somebody-being-up-your-butt town!

Chris comes to my defense. "Hey dad, it's no big deal, mine's way bigger."

Kim chimes in too. "Yeah dad, I have two. At least she only got one." Extra emphasis on the one.

My dad chuckles. "Yep, that's because I raised three idiots."

Cigarettes and Cellphones

In her left hand she held a cigarette and in her right her cell phone. I studied for a moment the way she delicately dangled her cigarette out the window while apparently reading a text message from someone in her endless network of friends. And somehow between the two, she managed to steer the wheel.

Ahh… What a nervous wreck I was. But soon I was pulled away from thoughts of my possible bloody end by way of car accident by a flickering thought. When had she picked up smoking as a habit? Oh, I am not so naive as to believe she had never smoked. I doubt many have made it through the teenage years without so much as a puff of smoke in their previously virgin lungs. The cause, I'm sure, is about ten percent curiosity and ninety percent rebellion. Ha. At least that was the case for me.

But what really got to me, I should say, rather was the thought that she had changed. Something quite remarkable about her demeanor. Possibly, I thought, it was the fact that she was a smoker? I questioned this to myself for a moment.

No. No. That was not it. Though, she had developed what I shall call the Traits of a Smoker 1. Haha! Yes, she had. Her head was cocked up in an air of arrogance. Her lips stayed in a constant purse as though she had some devious secret that would spill out at any moment. And that look in her eyes… A warning to all in her path that she was as tough as an anvil, if not tougher.

Yet, it was not just the physical condition of her poor lungs that I was sure had changed. It was something deeper inside. Something almost good, but smelled sinister.

Growing up with this friend of mine had given me the chance to see her in a way others can‘t. I knew the child inside her. I knew the awkward middle school-er in her. I knew the guy-swooning teenager in her. Yet, she was becoming a woman.

The bridge between teenager to woman, I must say from my own experience, is terrifyingly rocky. It sways and bows and threatens to throw off any who dare to cross it. Slow is the process, I must say. Some days one must crawl to prevent falling into the abyss. The abyss of broken souls of women, or should I say young women, who never made it.

I smiled to myself. That was it. And somehow I had missed it. When does one begin regarding oneself as a woman, rather than a mere teenager? When does that long-hoped-for day when we arrive at the other side of this torturous bridge occur? What exactly marks the start of womanhood?

Something inside my dear Friend had indeed changed. It was as if somewhere deep behind those big blue eyes of hers was a sign: Caution! Under Construction. What a fragile state this is, between childhood to womanhood. Marking or scarring one for life.

I smile once more. For I had every confidence my dear Friend would arrive on the other side of this bridge and become nothing less than a fine woman.

But for now all I could see was the image of my dear Friend at five, toothpick in hand, cocking that pretty blond head of hers, pretending to smoke a cigarette the way grown-ups did.


1No offence, Smokers, I am simply for the sake of this um, essay using a stereotypical description… (How horrid of me.)

The Disappearing Spoon Act

Anyone wonder about the whole "stealing spoons" thing? Well, this is the story. Very personal to me.


To say we’re being too loud, would not give the capabilities of our vocal cords the right amount of credit. It’s chaotic. Everyone is talking at once. Leaning over the tables with hands cupped around our ears to attempt a conversation.

There are six or seven tables jammed together, close to the front window. Same spot, every year. More of our family and friends are coming through the door, late as usually… It’s expected. Time’s really irrelevant. This always takes all night, anyways.

The date is January 16th. And I’m sitting in one of iHop’s uncomfortable wooden chairs. Just like every year.

I order chocolate chip pancakes. I dowse them in maple syrup. And I’m drinking sweet tea. (Georgia sweet tea, mind you.) Just like every year.

I do it every year. Usually, by the end of the night I’m sick. But it’s all worth it.

My aunt and her boyfriend are arguing about football and teams… Georgia/Tennessee…

My cousins can’t sit still to save their lives, not that all that syrup helps, and one of them just threw a cheese stick at me. I almost retaliate, but choose to act my age… At least until the waitress is out of sight.

My mom is getting antsy, I think she needs a cigarette, but she’s in between my cousin and her husband… Because they’re fighting over her new choice of hair style… So my mom’s not getting out anytime soon.

Carl’s telling the story about his dad burying their old refrigerator in the backyard…

Then someone pulls out the photo album. And the collection of drawings. Eyes begin welling with tears and soon we’re all laughing at his goofy camera poses and that long hair of his that he never got cut. We reminisce about what talent was lost, as we flip through the drawings we’ve all seen a hundred times.

And around the over crowded table-conjunction of ours, spoons are disappearing. One just went into a purse. Two just got jammed into a coat pocket. There went one "accidentally" falling into my cousin’s lap.

With a glance to my left then right, I reach for my spoon, next to the butter knife, and shove it into my jean pocket.

On the morning of January 16th of 1999, my cousin Michael Marshall was in a head on car collision that claimed his life. At the tender age of seventeen. He was an artist and an avid collector of spoons. He actually stole a spoon from every restaurant he ever went to.

Somehow, it became a tradition. Remembering Michael with a yearly get-together, that’s always at the same time, and always at the same place, iHop. And that’s only because it is the closest restaurant to the cemetery, besides the Huddle House.

(Now, don’t think me and my family to be nothing but a bunch of spoon thieves. We always tip big. Enough to cover the cost of about 20 spoons iHop knows they are going to lose on the same night, ever year.)

After we’ve finished our rather loud dinner, we head to the cemetery, with all our spoons in tow.

We all gather around Michael’s grave. We light a memorial candle, after fighting over who will get to light it that year. We say a prayer.

And then we each take our spoon and stick them into the soil in a circle around his grave marker.

Every time I visit his grave, I remember to grab a spoon from the kitchen drawer. It’s nothing real remarkable. It’s just my family’s way of keeping Michael’s memory alive.

One stolen spoon at a time.

The Devastating, Horrifying, Bloody-Awful Murder of...

Every woman has her own picture perfect idea of what beauty is. Strangely enough, I tend to see beauty in eyebrows. It’s the first thing I notice about a person. And sometimes, to my dismay, I find myself staring at a person’s eyebrows while conversing with them. Honestly, it is a difficult task for me to focus on looking someone in the eye. Especially when it is more amusing to watch the animation play in someone’s eyebrows. For anyone out there who’s never given that part of the human face much attention prior, it’s much like a theatrical production…

Anyways, continuing on topic…

For me, nice eyebrows are beautiful. They are the picture frames for the windows into the soul. So you see, they play quite an important role in "beauty". (For me anyways…)

When I was in the ninth grade, it was predestined for me to have a meeting with fate. Somewhere, somehow, I saw a picture of a female celebrity with a set of parenthesis for "eyebrows". Her "eyebrows" had been plucked, waxed, tweezed, whatever-ed down to two pencil-thin lines on her forehead.

Now I, as an extremely awkward and impressionable freshman in high school, fell for this terrible fashion faux-pax that, by the way, was a highly popular trend in 2004, almost five years ago.

Armed with my mom’s stainless steel tweezers, I marched right up to the bathroom mirror with the burning desire and intent to rid myself of the caterpillars above my eyes. This would be the biggest mistake of my life.

If given the chance to take back one thing I’ve done in this life, it wouldn’t be to have stopped the chair that fell on my sister which broke her arm when she was two (Sorry Kim), it wouldn’t be to have rethought my decision to run away from home by way of stealing my stepfather’s car when I was fifteen, it wouldn’t be to have passed the tenth grade by way of actually attending class instead of skipping nearly the entire year to do stupid teenage-like things… Nope. Amanda Kate West would go back to that awful, fateful day when she tweezed away nearly every hair on her forehead… Which were never to be seen again.

You see, to this day, my eyebrows still refuse to grow. Too-far apart, too-short, and too-thin, they are shaped completely wrong for my face. (The story of my life.)

Once I heard a theory that if you put cow manure on your skin where you want hair to grow, that it will. Fortunately, (or unfortunately) I have yet to reach that point of desperation.

The God Who Gives and Takes Away

Three weeks ago, I received a text message from my older sister, LeeAnn.

She was five months pregnant. Was glowing with that glow that only a pregnant woman can. We had yet to find out the sex of the baby so we all started calling the baby, P-Nut. At Thanksgiving, me and my whole family lovingly talked to P-Nut, all the while patting and rubbing LeeAnn's belly.

The text I received was on the day LeeAnn was suppose to get the ultrasound to find out the sex of P-Nut. The text read: No lung development, nonfunctioning kidney. DNC scheduled for Thursday. Talk to you later.

What? Such an emotionless message from my sister who was so looking forward to becoming a first time mother.

I looked up at the ceiling. I don't know if I was looking for God... Or thinking maybe he'd write me an explaination in the ceiling plastering... But I couldn't understand. Whether or not she would say it alound, this was breaking my sister's heart.

And it was breaking mine too. I have three neices and nephews and am about to have another one in about a week. But each one is special and P-Nut would have been no different.

Why had God given, just to simply take away? There's a worship song I've heard before about praising "the God who gives and takes away." But at that moment, I didn't want to serve a God that could take away. How cruel.

My sister went through with the DNC after begging the doctors for someway to save P-Nut. But there was none, aside from a miracle. P-Nut was born dead.

And if all that wasn't enough. My sister was taken into emergency surgery from complications. She almost bled to death.

All the while, I try to smile and hold back the tears while the rest of my family tries to wrap their brains around what had just happened.

LeeAnn had P-Nut's (named Ashley David) body sent to be cremated. And the next week my family held a memorial service for Ashley... Just weeks away from Christmas. Pastor Steve talked of the greiving process and how Ashley had not been forgotten by God and was in the arms of Jesus.

But how could we celebrate Christmas, the birth of the Savior, while grieving the loss of one of our own?

Praising God in the storm, admist the turmoil, when the world is falling apart. Is easier said than done.

It's so hard to keep loving God and praising Him when you know He could have prevented your pain. Keeping the faith is more difficult when you know He's testing that faith.

My favorite scripture of all time is Isaiah 43:1-4 which reads:

1 But now, this is what the LORD says—
he who created you, O Jacob,
he who formed you, O Israel:
"Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.

2 When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.

3 For I am the LORD, your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior;
I give Egypt for your ransom,
Cush [a] and Seba in your stead.

4 Since you are precious and honored in my sight,
and because I love you,
I will give men in exchange for you,
and people in exchange for your life.

I have verses 3 and 4 tattooed down my left arm and they bring me encouragement during tough times and on bad days.

I've interpreted it many ways at different times in my life. And this past month when I read these verses, this is what I heard:

Listen, this is what the Lord says-
he who created you, Amanda
he who formed you, Mandie
Don't be afraid, because I've rescued you,
I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you say goodbye to Ashley,
I will be welcoming him with open arms,
And when you've cried so many tears, you fear you'll drown,
The flood will not sweep over you.
And when you walk but don't understand where I'm leading you,
Trust me, for I will not let you go.

Because I am your God,
the Holy One, the ONLY one, your Savior,
I would pay any ransom to get you back,
I would give up treasures to have you back.

Since you are my precious and honored daughter,
And because I love you,
I will give anything in exchange for you life,
I will even die on a cross in exchange for your life.

I'm Back. I guess.

Okay... So I've been away for a long freakin' time. Having computer problems along with internet problems. So for now I'll be coming to you from la Madre's computadora.

I've moved three times since I last posted. I'm so tired of moving, some days I think I'd be happier just being homeless and living out of my car. Less complicated that way.

I also am now an aunt of three. Not two but three. And in just a week and half it will be four. Not three but four. Ahh!

So, I suppose I'm try to get to reading everybody's blogs that I've been missing and will start writing again as soon as I find my muse... In whatever box I packed him in...