4 July 2001: Third

I asked Trey, whose hair is short and who has a Meg Ryan haircut circa "You've Got Mail" as a goal, if she thinks my hair is too long. "It needs a trim," she immediately said, "but it's not too long." I haven't had it cut since December, probably. It certainly needed a trim. She found an Aveda salon through the Aveda store in the mall, and since then another coworker's gone, and so what the heck, I'd give it a try. I have not often seen the same cutter twice since I've lived here--nor physician, for that matter--and am always looking for someone I don't hate.

Last Sunday I had a walking date with Haitch and woke up sniffly. I walked anyway, all the way down in Highlands Ranch, and north again to swim. By Monday I was feeling worse but went to work. I only happened to glance at my phone, which only happened to be on, as I threw it in my pack. My sister had called, so I called her back as I walked to the bus stop. Our father had left one of his more worrisome messages. Usually he says "hey, it's Dad, it's Saturday," with not actually as many consonants as it takes to spell all that. This time he said "I have some news. Give me a call." "News" could only mean bad news. She had no idea what it could be.

I left early Monday and watched "Emma" in the cool of the basement. I already had the hair appointment, and I remembered to check my voicemail just before I entered the salon. I made the mistake of giving my father my cell number while I was in Connecticut, and I hope he doesn't use it habitually instead of the house number, because the thing's on maybe for an hour every three days. Anyway, my notstepmother had some sort of cardiac event the Monday before as the three of us sat by the lake.

It was 5:00, and I had my appointment, so I didn't call him right then. Instead I sat in the chair and let the stylist massage me. Yes, a massage. Not just a scalp but a skull massage, and face, neck, and shoulders. Acupressure. She kept snapping her wrists to throw from her hands the bad vibes she was removing from my body, which I found amusing. She didn't piss me off with inane chatter, a big plus in my book for cutters, she gave me the acupressure massage, and best of all, as the final step she used The Tingler.

It looked like an attachment to a big KitchenAid mixer: a handle twisted from the tops of the six thick strands of copper with a beaded end. She tingled my scalp with it and I had entirely impure thoughts. Wow.

On the curb afterward I sat and called Florida. I talked to my father and more to my notstepmother, hearing about a quite scary painful thing and a two-night hospital stay and the third night alone at home since my father didn't go home early--she probably told him not to--and what was the prognosis. I told her to cherish herself and to make Dad be nice and most of all to get herself a Tingler.

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My little buddy:

and

That leftmost tail feather is a brokwn stump, but he still preens it. The longest one is a paler gray; there should be two to cover the other ten when the tail is folded at rest. Ha. Also the grays show the tinges of yellow that hint at his being split for pearl or pied (the split thing is a sex-related genetic trait--his sisters were colored differently).

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The hair and heart thing was Monday of last week. Tuesday I swam and read Freak the Mighty and cleaned the house and Wednesday I cleaned the house and Thursday RDC came home and Friday the aunt and uncle arrived. They return tomorrow and leave for Connecticut sometime on Saturday.

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And I still haven't finished The Golden Notebook.