Illinois, headed for Wisconsin
I am a natural blonde. Or I was, once. When I was born my hair was so white, people compared me to Brad Pitt in that movie where he goes from old to young over the course of his life. Okay, that movie wasn’t out yet, but where do you think they got the idea?
I was a towhead for all my growing up years, and I soon became aware of its color, its silkiness and its length. For a chubby kid, my hair was my beauty spot and if I didn’t particularly like my eight-year-old figure, I could always revel in my head with its long silky locks.
It darkened over time, of course. Nobody has that kind of hair when they’re past puberty. Or rather, nobody comes by it naturally. Sorry, Britney Spears, your secret is out.
My hair is naturally wavy, not curly or straight, and very susceptible to humidity, which sort of puts me in nowhere land, style-wise. In college I used to iron my hair. Or wrap it around toilet paper rolls. The problem was, I’d fall asleep on them and wake up with crushed toilet-paper-roll hair. You don’t want to know.
I got married, had a baby, then another, and my hair grew gradually darker. Dark blonde, I was, by then. And then I hit 40 and welcomed my first white hairs. Like my grandmothers on both sides, I never had grey hair. It went from blonde to white. Which was kind of cool for a while, except that eventually the white started asserting itself a bit too much for me, so I began to color it. I found a great colorist at Frederic Fekkai, a name you might have heard of, who only charged me $250 to put my “real” color back.
That got old pretty fast, and I switched to Barbara, then Louise, then Kit, then Barbara again, because she was the best of the lot. Not a $250 hairdresser, but not cheap either. Then I retired and “fixed income” took on real meaning, so I began to get to know Miss Clairol. I found that Monsieur L’Oreal delivered a better product, so I switched again.
But remember, I live in a bus, where the water is pumped in from outside, and you are at the mercy of that campground guy with the beer belly and suspenders, oily t-shirt and sweaty brow, who may just think that recycled or heavy salinated water is just as nice as softened water and a lot cheaper, so as good as your dye job is, the water may make it look like straw anyway.
First we bought a water softener, then we bought a whole new bus with a built-in water softener. That helped a little. But still I longed for the good old silky shiny days.
So I ventured outside the bus and got to know small town USA salons.
I’ve had my hair done in thousands, okay hundreds, of small towns, at prices ranging from $32 to $175, and let me tell you a $175 job isn’t a whole lot better than a $32 job. More importantly, it’s interesting to see what various hairdressers call blonde.
Gary in Florida, who came highly recommended, and whose salon looked like a cross between an Egyptian palace and a 20’s bawdy house, decided blonde was dark brown with white stripes. Wide white stripes.
Gina in Ohio tut-tutted over that one, and decided the only way to fix it was to cross-hatch the dark color as it grew out. I was plaid for a few weeks. Not to worry. I went to CVS and bought a $9.99 hank of fake hair and tacked it onto the back of my slicked-back hair. It was 104 degrees in Kentucky, so it was cooler that way, anyway.
Mary up in Syracuse seemed to know her stuff. Then she smiled and revealed a single front tooth. My color looked like a single tooth would work with it. Hey, no problem. I washed it right away, and some of the orange came out.
Ralph in Pacifica, just below San Francisco, gave me brown for Christmas. He kept asking me for my number. He was gay, so I was confused Turned out colors are numbered and he wanted to know if I was a 6, 7, 8 or 9. I think he made me a 5. As in brunette. My husband thought it was “different” but my son was not amused. He’s the honest one in the family.
I’m headed back to New York, eventually, where I’m hoping Barbara hasn’t retired to the world of punk rock with a little punk rock baby – I know her other life and it scares me, but she can cut and she can color.
I’m going to ask her about a Brazilian. Not a person, and not what you’re thinking of, but a new hair process that makes your frizzy, dry, unkempt hair exceptionally long and strong, sleek and chic. You have to put up with lank for three days while it does its thing but you emerge a diva and your hair is lush, full and glorious. I’ve heard it costs $350, and this is way out of the ballpark, but maybe all my friends who’ve done it are lying. You never know.
Meanwhile, you’d love how my glasses, all three pair of them, one for reading, one for sun, and one for driving, hold back my mop, hide the streaks and generally give me the look of a cool, confident “I’m worth it” woman.
And I am. In a small-town kind of way.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Camptown Lady
Natural Springs Resort County Park
Owensboro, Kentucky
You’d think it would be easy.
You pull into a beautiful county park. It looks deserted. The temperature is 104 at 4 in the afternoon. There are lakes galore. A pool. Golf carts. A horse in a corral. Even a go-cart setup.
The office has a snack bar that promises grilled cheese, burgers and other assorted deadly American food. Perfect. We won’t have to cook. We can park, have a swim, grab a burger and watch TV in the air conditioning and go to bed refreshed. There’s a country music concert on Saturday night that promises to be fun.
I’m excited for this break in the long hours of driving.
There’s a nice lady behind the registration counter. John gets a spot. We drive half way to California and there it is. With a nice view of the dumpster. And trees that make it impossible for him to negotiate the turn. In this huge park, isn’t there something nicer?
I drive our little tow car back to the office and ask, sweetly, if there might be something else. But with 50 amps of electricity. We need that much to run the AC.
“Wayl,” she says, “Let’s see. Y’see, that’s the problem. I don’t have much that can accommodate your vee-hickle. But maybe …”
“I just don’t want to be near the dump, “ I say. “How abut that one right there?” I say, pointing to a lovely spot overlooking a small lake right across from the office.
“Oh, that one is too small for you.” She says.
“No, I’m sure it’s fine, “I say. “I checked it out.”
“No, your car won’t fit.”
“I’ll park the car in the parking lot.”
“No, let’s see if there’s something else. Now here’s a spot that has everything you need, but there’s someone coming in tomorrow.”
“That’s perfect,” I say, “We’re leaving in the morning.” A sudden decision. I can miss the concert. At this point, I just want to be back in the air conditioning with my pajamas on. This whole negotiating thing has taken almost 20 minutes. I’ve left out the part about 7 spots that were offered and then retracted for one reason or another.
“No,” she says, “that one’s reserved.”
“But for tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll leave early. I promise.” Now I’m planning getting up at dawn. John will love this one.
“No,” she says, staring at her computer screen, apparently mesmerized. “That’s not gonna work for me.”
The negotiations continue. This one doesn’t have 50 amps, this one is booked, this one has too many trees, this one has someone coming in for the weekend. The weekend! It’s only Thursday and we’re only staying for one night! Half a night! Twenty minutes! I’m getting desperate.
Finally, among at least two hundred empty sites, she finds one. It’s a pull-thru, yes! With 50 amps, yes! With no satellite or cable, because this is the country, honey. Fine, I’ll do without.
John can’t figure out what’s taking so long. He drives the bus over to the office and the nice lady shows him on the map of the campground, the precious, one-of-a-kind spot. We head for it.
It’s a nice spot on a little hill with a view of, oh I don’t know, something acceptable, I guess. We pull in, set up, and hook up. And nothing. Nothing works. We don’t have electricity. It’s not working. We’re going to die in this heat, in this giant coffin. Even the dog is grumpy now.
Half an hour later, the bus is an oven, but the camp’s handyman has fixed the problem. Oh joy. We eschew the burger, drown our sorrows in beer, ice-cold from our own refrigerator, and wait for the cool to kick in. Ah, there it is.
It happens that we’ve pulled into another time zone, so we could stay up an extra hour, but instead, we hop under the covers with our books and read until the eyelids begin to shutter. After all, tomorrow is another day and, since we’re leaving, another campground. We need our beauty sleep.
We’ll have to be fresh for the next round of negotiations.
Owensboro, Kentucky
You’d think it would be easy.
You pull into a beautiful county park. It looks deserted. The temperature is 104 at 4 in the afternoon. There are lakes galore. A pool. Golf carts. A horse in a corral. Even a go-cart setup.
The office has a snack bar that promises grilled cheese, burgers and other assorted deadly American food. Perfect. We won’t have to cook. We can park, have a swim, grab a burger and watch TV in the air conditioning and go to bed refreshed. There’s a country music concert on Saturday night that promises to be fun.
I’m excited for this break in the long hours of driving.
There’s a nice lady behind the registration counter. John gets a spot. We drive half way to California and there it is. With a nice view of the dumpster. And trees that make it impossible for him to negotiate the turn. In this huge park, isn’t there something nicer?
I drive our little tow car back to the office and ask, sweetly, if there might be something else. But with 50 amps of electricity. We need that much to run the AC.
“Wayl,” she says, “Let’s see. Y’see, that’s the problem. I don’t have much that can accommodate your vee-hickle. But maybe …”
“I just don’t want to be near the dump, “ I say. “How abut that one right there?” I say, pointing to a lovely spot overlooking a small lake right across from the office.
“Oh, that one is too small for you.” She says.
“No, I’m sure it’s fine, “I say. “I checked it out.”
“No, your car won’t fit.”
“I’ll park the car in the parking lot.”
“No, let’s see if there’s something else. Now here’s a spot that has everything you need, but there’s someone coming in tomorrow.”
“That’s perfect,” I say, “We’re leaving in the morning.” A sudden decision. I can miss the concert. At this point, I just want to be back in the air conditioning with my pajamas on. This whole negotiating thing has taken almost 20 minutes. I’ve left out the part about 7 spots that were offered and then retracted for one reason or another.
“No,” she says, “that one’s reserved.”
“But for tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll leave early. I promise.” Now I’m planning getting up at dawn. John will love this one.
“No,” she says, staring at her computer screen, apparently mesmerized. “That’s not gonna work for me.”
The negotiations continue. This one doesn’t have 50 amps, this one is booked, this one has too many trees, this one has someone coming in for the weekend. The weekend! It’s only Thursday and we’re only staying for one night! Half a night! Twenty minutes! I’m getting desperate.
Finally, among at least two hundred empty sites, she finds one. It’s a pull-thru, yes! With 50 amps, yes! With no satellite or cable, because this is the country, honey. Fine, I’ll do without.
John can’t figure out what’s taking so long. He drives the bus over to the office and the nice lady shows him on the map of the campground, the precious, one-of-a-kind spot. We head for it.
It’s a nice spot on a little hill with a view of, oh I don’t know, something acceptable, I guess. We pull in, set up, and hook up. And nothing. Nothing works. We don’t have electricity. It’s not working. We’re going to die in this heat, in this giant coffin. Even the dog is grumpy now.
Half an hour later, the bus is an oven, but the camp’s handyman has fixed the problem. Oh joy. We eschew the burger, drown our sorrows in beer, ice-cold from our own refrigerator, and wait for the cool to kick in. Ah, there it is.
It happens that we’ve pulled into another time zone, so we could stay up an extra hour, but instead, we hop under the covers with our books and read until the eyelids begin to shutter. After all, tomorrow is another day and, since we’re leaving, another campground. We need our beauty sleep.
We’ll have to be fresh for the next round of negotiations.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Compliments to Mother Nature
On Rte 90 heading for Hudson, Ohio
A few days ago, when we were in Connecticut, Laurie and Mark Johnson very sweetly asked us if we would like to join them for dinner on their anniversary, that night. We declined, saying we'd been (pity) pre-invited by Pam and Dick, but thanked them for offering to share their special day with us. Imagine. Two pity invites in one day. We certainly are worth feeling sorry for, obviously.
Instead, we are now headed for Hudson Ohio, to which they've only just returned, to keep the dinner date and celebrate their anniversary belatedly. On my sister Kathy's birthday, ironically. (Why that is ironic I can't tell you. Maybe coincidentally is the better word, but it certainly isn't as interesting.)
After all my carping about the hot weather last month, I felt it incumbent on me to remark on Mother Nature's recent gift of low temperatures, low humidity and high clouds in blue sky. It's been fabulous, hasn't it. And great sleeping weather. We kept all the shades up so the breeze could waft through our bedroom, which also meant the sun showed up earlier than I wanted, waking most of the campground.
Why is it that some people think 5 in the morning is not the nighttime? Why do they insist on walking their pooches at that hour ... and talking to them in full outside voice? "Good boy, nice poopie, good dog, ready for a run? Yeehah! Let's go!"
Do they really think the dog is interested in their patter at that hour? My dog hears it, wurfs in his sleep, adjusts, then goes right back to snoring. Now that's a dog worth having, let me tell you. And I never have to give him a poop pep talk. He just does it. Then again I watch Cesar Millan regularly and know all about dog psychology. My dog is in balance, as Cesar would observe. And being an old dog, he likes to sleep late, same as his owners.
Nevertheless, it was nice to get up and brew a cuppa early in the morning and enjoy the rising sun, the sweet breeze and the pearls of dew on the grass outside. Not to mention doing the NYT Sunday Crossword on line. I'll bet Joyce and Pam and Dick and Maggie and Fred haven't even started yet. Heh heh.
Okay, now I'm going back to sleep. John's driving, the road is flat and wide, and my eyes are closing. It's 11 in the morning. Time for my nap. Obviously.
B
A few days ago, when we were in Connecticut, Laurie and Mark Johnson very sweetly asked us if we would like to join them for dinner on their anniversary, that night. We declined, saying we'd been (pity) pre-invited by Pam and Dick, but thanked them for offering to share their special day with us. Imagine. Two pity invites in one day. We certainly are worth feeling sorry for, obviously.
Instead, we are now headed for Hudson Ohio, to which they've only just returned, to keep the dinner date and celebrate their anniversary belatedly. On my sister Kathy's birthday, ironically. (Why that is ironic I can't tell you. Maybe coincidentally is the better word, but it certainly isn't as interesting.)
After all my carping about the hot weather last month, I felt it incumbent on me to remark on Mother Nature's recent gift of low temperatures, low humidity and high clouds in blue sky. It's been fabulous, hasn't it. And great sleeping weather. We kept all the shades up so the breeze could waft through our bedroom, which also meant the sun showed up earlier than I wanted, waking most of the campground.
Why is it that some people think 5 in the morning is not the nighttime? Why do they insist on walking their pooches at that hour ... and talking to them in full outside voice? "Good boy, nice poopie, good dog, ready for a run? Yeehah! Let's go!"
Do they really think the dog is interested in their patter at that hour? My dog hears it, wurfs in his sleep, adjusts, then goes right back to snoring. Now that's a dog worth having, let me tell you. And I never have to give him a poop pep talk. He just does it. Then again I watch Cesar Millan regularly and know all about dog psychology. My dog is in balance, as Cesar would observe. And being an old dog, he likes to sleep late, same as his owners.
Nevertheless, it was nice to get up and brew a cuppa early in the morning and enjoy the rising sun, the sweet breeze and the pearls of dew on the grass outside. Not to mention doing the NYT Sunday Crossword on line. I'll bet Joyce and Pam and Dick and Maggie and Fred haven't even started yet. Heh heh.
Okay, now I'm going back to sleep. John's driving, the road is flat and wide, and my eyes are closing. It's 11 in the morning. Time for my nap. Obviously.
B
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Dropping of the Other Shoe
Not Lake Placid
I knew it couldn't last.
We are not in Lake Placid. We are not camped on a serene lake with view. We are in a KOA Kampground (sic) in a heavily wooded area in the town next to Lake Placid with no view. There is a busload of French Canadian kids camped out nearby with what appears to be all of two adults with them.
Our first site was a muddy slope which assured us we'd never ever be able to level this monolith. It's just too big for the world. Went back and requested another site. It took almost half an hour, but we were moved to the site next door. Fine.
John backed the bus straight into a tree and put a three-inch crack in our fiberglass hull as I ran up to him, arms waving, yelling stop stop stop. He didn't didn't didn't.
I opened the door and he looked at me and said, "I hate this place already."
I suspect we'll be coming home early.
Stay tuned.
Betty
I knew it couldn't last.
We are not in Lake Placid. We are not camped on a serene lake with view. We are in a KOA Kampground (sic) in a heavily wooded area in the town next to Lake Placid with no view. There is a busload of French Canadian kids camped out nearby with what appears to be all of two adults with them.
Our first site was a muddy slope which assured us we'd never ever be able to level this monolith. It's just too big for the world. Went back and requested another site. It took almost half an hour, but we were moved to the site next door. Fine.
John backed the bus straight into a tree and put a three-inch crack in our fiberglass hull as I ran up to him, arms waving, yelling stop stop stop. He didn't didn't didn't.
I opened the door and he looked at me and said, "I hate this place already."
I suspect we'll be coming home early.
Stay tuned.
Betty
A Three State Day
From CT through MA to NY Upstate
I have been home with friends and family (too briefly with family) for much of July, and after numerous dinners out, reunions by the score, two bridal showers, a baby shower and a funeral, we are once again on the road, headed for someplace I’ve heard about all my life, but have never seen: Lake Placid.
The bus is behaving well, nothing has fallen out of the refrigerator, and our little Honda is tagging along behind us with no surprises. I’m unfamiliar with all this serenity. Why isn’t the dog barking? Why isn’t anyone passing us on the wrong side? Why isn’t some trucker giving us the finger just because we are also driving a big rig and didn’t have to go to trucker school or get a special license?
All this peace is making me nervous.
We aren’t even arguing about driving skills or lack thereof. Am I asleep? Is this a dream?
No, it’s just one of those perfect days when it all seems to fall into place and Bad Luck takes a holiday from the Betty Bus.
I guess we’re just getting ready for Lake Placid. La dee da.
I have been home with friends and family (too briefly with family) for much of July, and after numerous dinners out, reunions by the score, two bridal showers, a baby shower and a funeral, we are once again on the road, headed for someplace I’ve heard about all my life, but have never seen: Lake Placid.
The bus is behaving well, nothing has fallen out of the refrigerator, and our little Honda is tagging along behind us with no surprises. I’m unfamiliar with all this serenity. Why isn’t the dog barking? Why isn’t anyone passing us on the wrong side? Why isn’t some trucker giving us the finger just because we are also driving a big rig and didn’t have to go to trucker school or get a special license?
All this peace is making me nervous.
We aren’t even arguing about driving skills or lack thereof. Am I asleep? Is this a dream?
No, it’s just one of those perfect days when it all seems to fall into place and Bad Luck takes a holiday from the Betty Bus.
I guess we’re just getting ready for Lake Placid. La dee da.
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