Writer: Beth Hallman | The relationship between a woman and her hair dresser is sacred. You exchange silent vows the first time that smock whips around your body, exposin’ your locks to their hands. For better or for worse, your hair falls to the floor in delicate piles around you as they snip here and there. When you sit down in their chair, it’s like bellyin’ up to a bar. You’re ready to share your secrets while they freshen up your current look or introduce an entirely new cocktail of color. Some relationships end in divorce over that one bad perm, but honey, what were y’all thinkin’?
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Four years ago, I have a meltdown at this little historic theatre in Milledgeville, Georgia. It’s the last day of a leadership camp for College Girl who’s about to start her senior year in high school. All the kids at the camp crowd into this theatre and perform a drum major routine they’ve learned during a week long camp. Simple enough. A proud mama moment, right?
On the way to the theatre, I’m already having the meltdown. It’s an anxiety attack. I don’t remember all the details. I write a post about it. Some of y’all may remember it. The meat of the story is about the theatre seats. The damn seats. The theatre was built in 1926, so the seats are narrow, like I don’t even know how half those folks wedged up in those seats back in the day.
In 2012, I can’t stand myself. No, seriously. I cannot stand myself. I’m out here, preaching the love yourself sermon, ’cause I’m trying, but it’s not taking. I’m back and forth, talking about it. I’m steady tryin’ to walk the walk. And then, I get to this theatre, and I can’t wedge into these seats. Not even sideways. I mean, if I lean back and kinda put an ass cheek in the aisle, I can. Kinda perch like the middle-Little used to do with this stuffed walrus she had. She’d let part of it hang over the side of her shelf, ’cause bless. That big old thing wasn’t ever gonna fit up there beside those Beanie Babies.