Chapter Seventy-Seven: Ma’am is mistaken…

I am constantly being mistaken for someone else. I would love it if I was mistaken for say, Nicole Kidman, or the doppelganger of Charlize Theron. Alas, I am continuously incorrectly identified as any other middle-aged blonde woman in DC. Point proved when I am at One too many’s back to school night. There are four levels in his school and a myriad of corridors. I huff and puff my way from the basement level, to the fourth floor. Upon arriving, sweaty and out of breath, I am informed that the teacher is not there. I have a good 10-12 minutes to rest and catch my breath. I plop down in a chair in the empty classroom. I am soon joined by an elderly gentleman. I can’t figure out if he is the grandfather of a student or an older father on his second family with his trophy wife(this is after all the modus operandi within our society).

He plunks down next to me. Right away, it is a case of mistaken identity. He smiles and says: “As you know, Peaches and I were summering at our home on the Vineyard.” I am too tired to protest and actually want to find out more about this Peaches person. I vigorously nod my head in agreement. At this affirmation, he continues: “We, of course, had our annual end of the summer Clam bake. It goes without saying how Peaches LOVES her seafood! Especially lobster! (again I enthusiastically nod yes.) Well, this year, as you are aware, Binky shared that Malcolm was in a slump because of his poor investment choices which sidebar I had warned him against, but you know how stubborn Malcolm can be!”

Again I nod in agreement: ” Anywho, Binky asked Peaches if I would communicate to Malcolm about our new purchase, you know how Malcolm enjoys water toys.” This time I actually say: “Yes! we all know about Malcolm’s love of water toys!”

Nodding, he continues: “So I say Redmond when the time is appropriate walk yourself over to Malcolm and give him some joy by talking about your new purchase!” (I now learn that he is Redmond and referring to himself in the third person.)

“I saunter over to Malcolm and per Malcolm and his usual behavior, find him stuffing his face with Peaches’ lobster and sucking down my Dom. I always order extra Dom as you know how Malcolm fancies himself a lot of drink!” (I cluck my tongue in agreement!)

“I tap Malcolm on the shoulder, and he turns with his mouthful of lobster and butter dripping down his chin, which is a thing to behold! But, not in a good way! Terrible table manners that Malcolm has! I think he was perhaps raised in a barn in rural Pennsylvania, although don’t quote me on that! Have to ask Peaches to ask Binky.”(I echo: “yes, rural Pennsylvania.”).

“Oh, so you heard that too? I believe someone at the club told me that, not sure if it was Jerry or Phil. Long story short, I overlook Malcolm eating like a neanderthal and sucking down my Dom from a bottle mind you!”( I feign what I hope is a look of horror at this announcement.) It seems to have worked as Redmond continues.

” I say Malcolm did you hear about our seventy-five-foot purchase? but because Malcolm’s mouth is stuffed with Peaches lobster he just nods his head. I continue and say, yes we decided on a good size vessel! Malcolm takes a giant swig of my Dom and says: “Why did you get such a small vessel?” I tell you, I cannot believe this guy! Imagine Malcolm telling me that I have a small vessel?!” Finally, Redmond pauses. I stand up and say: “Everyone at the club knows you have a small vessel Redmond.” and walk away……

Chapter Seventy-Six: Does Ma’am look like George Washington?….

Most of us ladies have been using the same hairdresser for years. We trust them explicitly. When we rush into their salon with a picture of a celebrity and say: “Cut my hair like this!” Usually, they are okay with what you ask for. Now, do you walk out of there looking like the photo? perhaps not. But, you are told by your coiffeur whom you trust with your life, that you have your own spin on the celebrity hair-do. So you exit the shop feeling confident. You also point out to your hairstylist that the celebrity in the photo IS the same age as you! Albeit your coiffeur looks skeptical when you divulge this info, you explain that you just don’t have the money for all the botox and plastic surgeries! You have to save up every 6-8 weeks just to be able to get your hair cut! So sitting in their chair you Google said star and their birthdate and then present with such matter of fact your driver’s license to prove you are the SAME EXACT AGE!

You also forget how horrible your driver’s license photo is! You look like a hostage(blink once for yes, and two for no), a serial killer, a mugshot photo, or all three combined! It is a hot mess! That photo didn’t help your case! You deflect and inform your hairdresser that the point is you are even a little younger than celebrity by a whole three days! I present a photo of an A list actress in a French bob. I inform my coiffeur that I am part French so this is a good look for me. I imagine how chic I will be. I also brought a scarf to wear around my neck after my hair is done, I was going to bring a baguette but One too many had eaten most of it for his snack earlier.

My coiffeur stares at the photo. Then he looks at me. It is uncomfortable! I feel like a rat in a lab being studied by a mad scientist. He makes the appropriate noises and gestures and sends me for a shampoo. I have no idea what his gestures and grunts meant. I only hope that we are on the same page.

Moments later, I am seated in his chair. He violently spins it around. I want to puke! I feel like I am in one of those spinning teacups. Finally, I stop spinning. He informs me that he has a vision based upon the picture I showed him. I feel apprehensive. Like Edward Scissorhands, he snips and clips with such gusto! My hair gets shorter and shorter. I am beginning to doubt my French bob idea. I close my eyes afraid to look. I can now feel my neck, it is bare. I hope that my face doesn’t look like a big pancake with this look.

After what seems like hours, I am spun back to face the mirror. At first, just because it is short I am shocked. I try to process. I look down at the photo I have clenched in my hand. The actress in the photo has great eyebrows, nose, lips, eyes, in general, a great face. I look back at my reflection. What was I on that made me so delusional that I thought I could pull this off?

I fake smile at my coiffeur, pay and head out. I feel like I am walking through DC naked. I run my hands through my remaining hair. I remember that I have a scarf. I fling it over my head. (Now I look like a gypsy or my Hungarian grandmother who always wore a babushka.)

On the metro, a man smiles at me. I become more confident, I remove the scarf. I realize that I am too hard on myself! I skip home and smile and greet every person I pass. My confidence grows! Now I feel chic and pretty! I hear the Mary Tyler Moore theme playing in my head.”You’re gonna make it after all!” I have no hat to toss up in the air. I improvise with my scarf. It catches the wind and floats away. I watch and smile. I don’t need it!

I arrive home and sashay into the livingroom. I twirl and walk my version of a runway model. Confused husband looks at me and states: “You look like George Washington.”

Like my scarf floating away in the wind, so goes the dream of my French bob…

Chapter Seventy-five: Is Ma’am a seasoned woman?…

Apparently now, the kind way to say you are middle-aged is to call you seasoned. The word seasoned reminds me of a piece of aged meat. Synonyms for seasoned are: mature, aged, mellow. Also, if something needs seasoning it is not good enough as is. No, I do not like being referred to as seasoned!

I was alluded to as “seasoned” by a millennial who thought they were being cute or hip. Let me tell you schmuck with your ripped jeans,  sportscoat, and fedora,  I do not appreciate your choice of words nor your ensemble. I was admiring an outfit in a boutique window, just because I was looking at it, didn’t mean that I was going to buy it, or even try it on. The shop hipster came over and suggested that I look at another outfit for as he put it: “The more SEASONED clientele”. I wanted to rip more than his jeans!
The rest of the day, I was in a mood. One does not need to remind me that I am “seasoned” . I have mirrors to do that every day thank you very much…