Brush with Glamour

            The glamour world rushes in.  I did not expect that in Freeland.

            The door opens with a jingle, and I am transported from the country into the city.  The shelves are well-stocked, the lighting is bright, and the air practically sings with glitz.  I am in over my head.

            All I wanted was a haircut.  Instead of going the economy route as usual, I settled on the easiest way:  dial the first number that came up on my Google search (Freeland, WA beauty shops).  Studio A could take me today (the day before Easter) so here I am.

            For my nineteen years in northwest Kansas, I had the same beautician, who operated out of her remodeled garage.  Ten dollars for a cut, forty for a perm:  I’m not kidding.  Since moving to the island, I have relied on Super Cuts.  But I don’t feel like driving to Oak Harbor this time, and I really cannot stand my overgrown locks another second.

            I have never, ever set foot in a spa, but evidently that is where I am today.  The young woman who is to cut my hair gives me a tour:  tanning beds, nail salon, permanent make-up room.  And then she leads me to her chair, and we discuss my hair. 

            There isn’t much to say.  I like it short and easy to take care of.  No perm, no color.  Keep it out of my eyes but cover my ears.  Yes, why not something a little different as long as it’s easy.

            She’s a nice person who clearly enjoys her job.  When she asks me what my plans are for tomorrow, and I say playing my flute for two services at church, she blanches and changes the subject.  Clearly that is not the answer she expected.

            Forty minutes later, my hair has been washed, snipped, trimmed, and styled.  I don’t recognize myself, but that’s okay since I will never, ever in my wildest dreams be able to duplicate what she has just done.  Dutifully, I purchase a few travel-size items and pay my bill:  way more than I usually pay but far less than I feared.   I even make an appointment for another cut eight weeks down the road.

            The door’s jingle signals my entrance back into my real world:  rural life on a scenic island.  I feel a little out of place with my new hairdo (which, fortunately, styles right back to what I’m used to the next morning).  I guess you could say I’ve survived my brush with glamour.

Easter Sunday

Glory bursts from Friday’s barren cross:

Spring scent, lush colors of life,

Profuse blooms and branches and sun,

Darkness dispelled.

He is risen!

Maundy Thursday Tenabrae Service

Hollow sorrow

of Good Friday:

Doubt and Sorrow,

Fear and Shame,

Agony and Hate,

all sneered at Christ.

The final jokester,

Death,

laughed at his victory.

All light vanquished,

worship symbols silently removed,

our sanctuary settled into the silence

of barren despair,

the world without Jesus.

"So Dizzy" Parody

One of the signs that I have too much time on my hands is the composing of parodies.  A stray line from "So Dizzy" ran through my mind this afternoon when I was feeling dizzy myself.  And, though I am quite sure this is a cold and not the flu, and I don't have a fever, "flu" worked much better for my parodic purposes . . .

Dizzy

I’m so dizzy, my head is spinnin’

Like a whirlpool, it never ends

And it’s you, flu, makin’ it spin

You’re makin’ me dizzy

First time that I caught you, flu, I knew that you were going to be mine

But it’s so hard to get rid of you with germs hangin’ around you all the time

I don’t want you for my pet

You’re just way too easy to get

Goin’ around in circles all the time

Dizzy

I’m so dizzy, my head is spinnin’

Like a whirlpool, it never ends

And it’s you, flu, makin’ it spin

You’re makin’ me dizzy

I finally got to talk ‘bout you and I told ‘em just exactly how I felt

Then I held my head and took my temp; I was hot enough to melt

Flu, you’ve got control of me

‘Cause I’m so dizzy I can’t see

I need to call a doctor for some help

Dizzy

I’m so dizzy, my head is spinnin’

Like a whirlpool, it never ends

And it’s you, flu, makin’ it spin

You’re makin’ me dizzy

My head is spinnin’

Like a whirlpool, it never ends

And it’s you, flu, makin’ it spin

You’re makin ’me dizzy

Oh, I’m so dizzy

You’re makin’ me dizzy

Yeah, I’m so dizzy

All Plugged Up

            I can stand it no longer.  I miss playing my new flute too much.  Who cares how plugged up I am?

            My sterling silver Avanti 2000 takes my breath away even when I’m not playing it.  The offline G key and B foot joint are new features to me, as is the high C gizmo key.   Yes, I am enamored with my flute and amazed by its rich tone.

            Before I start playing, though, there is one thing I must do, metaphorically speaking:  eat a piece of humble pie.  Let me take you back to a scene from forty years ago . . .

            My new Armstrong open-holed flute has finally arrived.  It’s a definite step above the used closed-hole student model I’ve been playing since I was ten.  I feel very sophisticated with my sterling silver French model (inline G) flute with the C foot.  Learning to cover the holes is a challenge, but there is no way I am going to use the cork plugs provided for beginners.   I’ll never lower my standards to using any artificial aids.

            In the intervening years, plastic plugs have replaced corks.  My piece of humble pie takes the form of a plug for the F# key.  Since purchasing my Avanti two weeks ago, I have discovered that, no matter what I try, my right ring finger does not consistently cover the hole when I attempt the lowest notes.  Of an age to be able to blame that problem on arthritis, I’ve decided to acquiesce.  So today I carefully insert one plug.

            Voila!  Problem solved!  The combination of a cold and four days without practice mute the sound somewhat, but, even so, the low notes show new promise.  Now the only question is if I will add another plug or two or three or four (five plugs are possible).  I don’t mind being plugged up anymore.