Should Your Hairdresser Really Be Eating Mexican Food...Part IV

...As I sat slouching in the barber chair totally inundated with the toxic, but not quite deadly combinations of refried beans and coal-tar petroleum hair dye I heard another volley fired off near the vicinity of where I had last seen P. Papappapow. Snap. "Ooooh!" Pedro exclaimed. "Perdone! Excuszi! My Gawd, P, what have you been eating?" he chuckled to himself. I sat in stunned silence. What should I say? What could I say? Should I laugh it off? Should I ignore it? Pedro walked over with the coloring mixture, grabbed another bite of the burrito and began the task of wrapping my hair in foil and applying the goop. When in doubt, do nothing is a motto that had helped me in the past and that is what I did now; absolutely nothing. As Herr Shultz would say: I see NOTHING! I know NOTHING! Soon my new hairdresser settled into a routine. While humming the Hispanic version of We Are The World to himself complete with dead-on impressions of the different voices...i.e...Bob Dylan, The Boss and Michael Jackson I soon found myself join in. "Oh, Chiquita, can you sing the girly voices for me? I didn't wear the tight pants I need to go high." "Weeeeellllll, well, well, there's a choice we're making. We're saving our own lives." I sang in my best Cyndi Lauper voice while P chimed in with a silky falsetto that would have made Barry Gibb proud. PPPPPaaaappapp. Snap "Holy Crap, P! You're killing me with the gas!" For a few moments as the green cloud spawned from P's flatulence floated around and fell down upon me I soon realized that what I had been smelling was the end result of my hairdresser's Mexican food binge. I mean, really, should a hairdresser really be eating Mexican food? No wonder there wasn't anyone here today. Before too long, P had finished wrapping and applying the color mixture and announced, "we wait", set the timer and said, "I'll be right back" and walked outside. I began to wonder if I might have made him mad because he seemed a bit subdued. As I worked my way through an out of date hair style magazine I was surprised to see Pedro walk back into the salon with an overflowing bag of what turned out to be more Mexican burritos. "Wednesday is all-you-can-eat burrito day," he said to my surprised look. "Would you like one?" Oh, really! Now, everything made sense. No wonder nobody came on Wednesdays. Who could stand the stench? For the next hour or so as P finished up my new hairdo (which turned out great) we continued to chat and munch on our burritos and it wasn't too long before I felt a rumbling in my gut. Poot! "Awwww, Chiquita! I like you a lot. There is nothing wrong with the passing of the gas. It is a natural thing. I told you, P lets everything hang out. I have something special for you. Do you want to see my snake?" "Uhhh!" And just like that, Pedro whipped off his shirt and showed me the coiled cobra that adorned the full-length of his back. Now, I'm not really into snakes or tattoos but I knew when something needed to be said to acknowledge such a fine piece of work. "Cool beans!" is all I could muster. "Oh, Bebe, thank you! There is no better honor than a 'cool beans'. Most people scream and hide their eyes when I offer to show them my snake. For you, half price on today's treatment and I'll schedule you for another Wednesday in three months for a touch up and more burritos." "Uh, thanks!" (Hey, you can't turn down 50% off, especially in this economy.)

Should Your Hairdresser Really Be Eating Mexican Food...Recap

I've mentioned a few times in the past about my difficulties getting a decent haircut. I've lived in Georgia for 25 years and I've never had a regular stylist--one who knew what I wanted without me--a complete idiot when it comes to such things--having to explain it all. Yes, I DO want my hair stylist to read my mind. Anyhow, I've become friendly with the nice lady that works the drive-thru where I do my banking and I noticed that she had a sassy new haircut. "Who does your hair?" I asked. "Well, he's a new guy at that Hollywood place right beside the Mexican restaurant. He's from California or somewhere, I have no idea how he made it all the way to North Georgia but he sure has my hair lookin' good, don't you think?" "Yep, sure does. That's why I asked. I can't seem to get a good haircut in this town." "Me either. Did you ever get that Edward Scissorshand lady up at that quick-cutting place?" "Holy Crap! She 'bout took my ear off one day. I stopped going there after they scalped me on my birthday. I had to go to Savannah looking like a fresh-faced recruit headed for eight weeks of boot camp. A different lady cut it that time and she even admitted she cut it too short. I was so mad I made myself cry; I hate it when I do that." "You poor thing. Well, check him out, just Wed....nes...day." I didn't hear the first part of what she said because another car had pulled up behind me so I drove off with a jovial wave of my hand... ...A few days later after another unsuccessful attempt at fixing my hair I decided to go to the Hollywood place and check out the guy from California. I was worried about having an appointment or having to wait a long time; I guess that's why I don't have a regular stylist because I don't like to do those things. I walked into the salon, the music was pumping and the place was decked out with faux head models wearing every flavor and size of wig, hair extension and several headpieces that involved various fruits and feathers. MA Fat Woman--you ain't in North Georgia no more, I thought to myself. As I stood with mouth agape staring at one particular headpiece that seemed to sway with the rhythm of the music a snappily-dressed Hispanic man munching on tortilla chips came out from the back. "Hola', you like hair sculptures?" he said with a sweep of his hand. "Uh, sure. That one seems to be moving, though," I said. "Oh, yes, si! That is new design; very nice. You want? Good price!" "You mean somebody's gonna pay to have you put that on their head? How much?" "For you, cheap price. Only 75. Today is good day, too. We not so busy on Wednesday," he continued in his broken accent. "You mean for $75, you'll attach a basket of fruit to my head and somehow get it to dance. It sounds like fun, but I was just looking for a haircut." "Hehehehheh, oooohh, Chiquita, you make me laugh, not $75! It's $7500! "Oh. Not to hurt your feelings or nothin', but I don't think ya'll is going to sell many of those in this town." "What is ya'll? There is no one else, only me. I am Chucko Pedro Santa Rosa Hose Munoz from California." "That's some name..." "Gracias, but people call me..." "Wait! I bet they call you Pedro?" "No, Chica. But you are close. They call me 'P'." "Well, that's some coincidence. I'm called 'G' and I'm from Ohio." "Ah, Ha! High in the middle and round on both ends. You like Bengals? Carson Palmer was one of my first customers." "What's that smell?" I asked... ...As Pedro launched into a full-blown Telenovela about the time he spent in California and the one that got away (a former Bengals quarterback) he escorted me over to his salon chair and offered me a seat. "You are lucky today, Chiquita. P normally has a three month waiting list. I am always free on Wednesday, but nobody ever wants to come in on that day." "What's that smell?" I asked again. P ignored my question, threw the smock over me, then twirled me a round with a flourish. "Hmmmm, what are we going to do with you?" he said more to himself than me. "You sure you don't want hair sculpture. I can make you look like Snooki" "I'm a little too tall to be confused with Snooki, don't you think?" "Oh, is she short? I was talking about her boobies. Bebe, you got the big D's like she does. You got the nice body, why you hide it under big t-shirts? Don't be afraid to let it all hang out? You wanna see my snake?" Pedro continued to tilt my head from side to side murmuring to himself in Spanish. I was still in shock from the snake suggestion and my nose kept twitching from some smell that I couldn't quite identify. "Do you smell something?" I asked. This question was asked to no one because P had slipped away into the back room and after a few minutes came out with a burrito in one hand and a roll of aluminum foil in the other. "We color!" he said as he took a large bite of the burrito and placed it on the stand. As P continued to get the coloring equipment set up, the smell of the food started drifting toward me. It smelled just like the horrible stench that I had been smelling since I entered the salon. Could the smell from the burritos be drifting all the way from the back? BBBBBBrrrrppppp, rip, ripp, pow "Perdone," I heard from the back...

It's My Lucky Day...Year IV

****It's the fourth time around for this post. I don't even remember what happened last year but I just know that today is my lucky day and the Pythagoreans believed that four was a perfect number. A perfect number for a perfect day! ****It's the third time around for this post. I just know that this will be the luckiest day of the year...Third time's a charm, right? ****This was what I posted last year on my lucky day. It didn't turn out as lucky as I would have wanted. So, I'm giving it another whirl. Maybe, better luck this year...year 2! Today, August 22, is the luckiest day of the year for me. If something exciting is supposed to happen, it usually happens on this day. I can't remember the specific events (okay, maybe I can, but a girl has to have some secrets) but I do know that it was on this date. I do remember that I got my wisdom teeth pulled on this date in 1989. I know that wasn't lucky but I did get to eat mashed potatoes for every meal for a few days. And luckily, my favorite food is mashed potatoes. I think I am going to try my lucky numbers on the lottery this evening. The problem is that I have to pick five numbers and I only have two: Eight for August and twenty-two for the twenty-second. That means that I will only get two out of five numbers and you don't win anything with just two correct. But, since it is my lucky day, I might get the other three numbers as well. I'm a winner and I didn't even know it. Now, what am I going to do with all that cash?

Should Your Hairdresser Really Be Eating Mexican Food?...Part III

...As Pedro launched into a full-blown Telenovela about the time he spent in California and the one that got away (a former Bengals quarterback) he escorted me over to his salon chair and offered me a seat. "You are lucky today, Chiquita. P normally has a three month waiting list. I am always free on Wednesday, but nobody ever wants to come in on that day." "What's that smell?" I asked again. P ignored my question, threw the smock over me, then twirled me a round with a flourish. "Hmmmm, what are we going to do with you?" he said more to himself than me. "You sure you don't want hair sculpture. I can make you look like Snooki" "I'm a little too tall to be confused with Snooki, don't you think?" "Oh, is she short? I was talking about her boobies. Bebe, you got the big D's like she does. You got the nice body, why you hide it under big t-shirts? Don't be afraid to let it all hang out? You wanna see my snake?" Pedro continued to tilt my head from side to side murmuring to himself in Spanish. I was still in shock from the snake suggestion and my nose kept twitching from some smell that I couldn't quite identify. "Do you smell something?" I asked. This question was asked to no one because P had slipped away into the back room and after a few minutes came out with a burrito in one hand and a roll of aluminum foil in the other. "We color!" he said as he took a large bite of the burrito and placed it on the stand. As P continued to get the coloring equipment set up, the smell of the food started drifting toward me. It smelled just like the horrible stench that I had been smelling since I entered the salon. Could the smell from the burritos be drifting all the way from the back? BBBBBBrrrrppppp, rip, ripp, pow "Perdone," I heard from the back...

Should Your Hairdresser Really Be Eating Mexican Food...Part II

...A few days later after another unsuccessful attempt at fixing my hair I decided to go to the Hollywood place and check out the guy from California. I was worried about having an appointment or having to wait a long time; I guess that's why I don't have a regular stylist because I don't like to do those things. I walked into the salon, the music was pumping and the place was decked out with faux head models wearing every flavor and size of wig, hair extension and several headpieces that involved various fruits and feathers. MA Fat Woman--you ain't in North Georgia no more, I thought to myself. As I stood with mouth agape staring at one particular headpiece that seemed to sway with the rhythm of the music a snappily-dressed Hispanic man munching on tortilla chips came out from the back. "Hola', you like hair sculptures?" he said with a sweep of his hand. "Uh, sure. That one seems to be moving, though," I said. "Oh, yes, si! That is new design; very nice. You want? Good price!" "You mean somebody's gonna pay to have you put that on their head? How much?" "For you, cheap price. Only 75. Today is good day, too. We not so busy on Wednesday," he continued in his broken accent. "You mean for $75, you'll attach a basket of fruit to my head and somehow get it to dance. It sounds like fun, but I was just looking for a haircut." "Hehehehheh, oooohh, Chiquita, you make me laugh, not $75! It's $7500! "Oh. Not to hurt your feelings or nothin', but I don't think ya'll is going to sell many of those in this town." "What is ya'll? There is no one else, only me. I am Chucko Pedro Santa Rosa Hose Munoz from California." "That's some name..." "Gracias, but people call me..." "Wait! I bet they call you Pedro?" "No, Chica. But you are close. They call me 'P'." "Well, that's some coincidence. I'm called 'G' and I'm from Ohio." "Ah, Ha! High in the middle and round on both ends. You like Bengals? Carson Palmer was one of my first customers." "What's that smell?" I asked...

Should Your Hairdresser Really Be Eating Mexican Food...Part I

I've mentioned a few times in the past about my difficulties getting a decent haircut. I've lived in Georgia for 25 years and I've never had a regular stylist--one who knew what I wanted without me--a complete idiot when it comes to such things--having to explain it all. Yes, I DO want my hair stylist to read my mind. Anyhow, I've become friendly with the nice lady that works the drive-thru where I do my banking and I noticed that she had a sassy new haircut. "Who does your hair?" I asked. "Well, he's a new guy at that Hollywood place right beside the Mexican restaurant. He's from California or somewhere, I have no idea how he made it all the way to North Georgia but he sure has my hair lookin' good, don't you think?" "Yep, sure does. That's why I asked. I can't seem to get a good haircut in this town." "Me either. Did you ever get that Edward Scissorshand lady up at that quick-cutting place?" "Holy Crap! She 'bout took my ear off one day. I stopped going there after they scalped me on my birthday. I had to go to Savannah looking like a fresh-faced recruit headed for eight weeks of boot camp. A different lady cut it that time and she even admitted she cut it too short. I was so mad I made myself cry; I hate it when I do that." "You poor thing. Well, check him out, just Wed....nes...day." I didn't hear the first part of what she said because another car had pulled up behind me so I drove off with a jovial wave of my hand...

Friend's Birthday...Year III

Birthday wishes go out to the Friend that I mention in my posts. Friend has experienced several of the MA Fat Woman's mishaps and can always be counted on for a good laugh, a no nonsense quote, or a story that will upstage mine every time. Which reminds me of a story about Friend. Friend had a big time job and several underlings at her disposal for years. When birthdays and holidays floated around they always celebrated big. Everyone got cakes, presents, and usually taken out to dinner or the such. Well, Friend was really excited when it was time to celebrate her birthday. She had heard them planning and plotting the details of the party and was very excited. It didn't turn out that way. It seems the person that had done the planning had an emergency and all of the plans fell through. On the day of the birthday, there was nothing. No dinner! No presents! And no cake! Somebody realized what had happened and ran to Walmart to get an emergency cake. The day was a Friday and the office was scarcely staffed. After about 3 or 4 people sang Happy Birthday, each grabbed a slice of cake and scattered back to their respective offices. When it was time to go home that evening Friend went into the break room to get the cake to take home... ...it wasn't there! "Where's the cake?" she asked. "Oh, so-and-so took it with her. She said nobody had chipped in, so she was taking it home!" I know! Stuff like that happens all the time to her. Happy Birthday, Friend! I hope you get a cake that is all yours...

The Latest Craze

Have you heard about the latest craze called planking? I wonder where people come up with these ideas? It seems the idea behind planking is to go to a public area and lay face down on the concrete, in the mud, on a bench or wherever with hands placed to the side and have your photo taken while you're kissing the dirt, mud, excrement, gum, rotting insects, dog crap and pigeon poop that might be strewn about. I can't make this stuff up; check out the pics: I'm trying to figure out if I need to become involved with this. It could be kind of fun. Can you imagine being in a public place enjoying your coffee, reading the paper or even partaking in a little PDOA (public display of affection) when you suddenly see a middle-age fat woman laid out flat on the floor? I mean, what would you do? Would you offer to help? Would you laugh your ass off? Would you call 911? Would you take a picture or film it? Or? Or? Would you shake your head in disbelief and think that lady has had one too many bon bons? Well, whatever you do, be prepared, you never know when you might get planked. And at least you'll know what that crazy middle-aged fat lady is doing...

Wordless Wednessday...My New Mower

I hope this one runs better than the last one...

Chigger Bites

In a recent conversation with one of my younger cousins she posed this question to the masses on Facebook: How do you diminish the itching that comes along with chigger bites? Now she's a few years younger than me and it was interesting to watch the responses from folks her age and younger come in from all over the country. Here are a few examples: 1. Go to the Urgent Care Clinic and get a special lotion from the doctor. 2. Put ice on it. 3. Run to Walmart and ask the Pharmacist. And so forth and so on. What is even more interesting is the responses that she got from her family members my age and up. We all said the same thing: Put fingernail polish on it. In the summertime you could always tell the kids that spent their days, evenings and nights in a kind of blissful unawareness: We all had many multi-colored splotches all over our body; the stranger the colors, the better. Mom always said the polish suffocates the chigger that is trapped under the skin. I don't know if that is true or not and I was going to Google it and see what came up but even the mention of that bug made my skin crawl and I started to scratch. Just a word of advice: I don't think the nail polish works for skeeter bites. Another word of advice: Stop scratching or you'll leave a scar...just sayin'!