One Last Hurrah

So, this one is going to be a tad bit irreverent. If you don’t think you can handle it, please just keep on scrolling and go find someone else to scold. I’m giving you fair warning, so don’t be mad at me if you keep reading and your eyeballs are burned.

It has to do with the final hairdo for My Ron’s client. You know, the one I mentioned in the previous post. I’m sure I won’t be able to do it complete justice on paper, it’s one of those stories that’s hilarious-er in person, but I’ll do my best.

We’ll call her Judy. She had been Ron’s client for quite a while, actually she and her husband, I think. And listen, I mean absolutely no disrespect to her or her family or anyone reading this. We did our best, but it came off the tracks rapid fire. We lost control.

Judy passed away, and honestly I’m not sure why. She wasn’t my client, so I have missed some of the details. But, the family requested Ron to come style her hair, and he graciously agreed. Remember, we’ve done this before for one of my clients. But with my client it was like one last party. My client was an absolute hoot and wanted her makeup done and her hair styled not like an old lady, and she wanted to be buried in a sequined top. Did I mention she was 98? So, yeah, different scenario altogether. This time around we tried to “act right.” It was pointless.

Judy was being taken care of by a long-time local funeral home at their new location, to which we had never been. We needed to arrive after our work day and the funeral home owner agreed to wait for us. We’ll call him Marty. Marty greeted us warmly at the door and thanked us for coming. Made small talk and asked if we’d ever done such a task, and was pleased with our response in the affirmative. He led us down the long foyer and took us to the left to the double doors which he unlocked with one of his many keys.  Marty threw open one of the doors to a room dark as midnight on a new moon winter solstice, and with absolutely no fanfare, warning, or otherwise handholding, flicked on the bright light like a semi coming straight for us, and suddenly we’re standing dead in front of her.  Pun definitely intended.  And that’s when our soon-to-be-derailed train left the station.

Ron and I both had the same thought – how could you just leave her lying there in the pitch dark, on a metal gurney, in the middle of the room, like she’s taking a nap or something, but it’s cold and dark like a cave, and then open the door and bam there’s the lights on and surprise there she is just lying there in the middle of the room?!?!?!  We both stutter-stepped but recovered quickly.  Act calm, act like you’ve been here before, act like you’re not freaked out that he just flicked on the lights like nothing.

We put our tools out on the counter and began to work.  I am generally pretty calm at these events.  My Ron, not so much.  And we kinda got started on an odd foot.  But Judy was dressed, her makeup half done, and her hair washed.  And therein lies the problem.  Well, that, and the fact that Marty The Mortician never stopped talking.  He was so glad to have someone around who could actually talk back….

But back to Judy and the fact her hair had been washed.  Well, that wasn’t the problem exactly.  What the problem was exactly was that they had let her hair dry in a straight back, off the face, brushed flat manner, and that was most definitely not the way she wore it.  She had her hair in a very simple curled under bob, with bangs that she wore straight down covering her forehead.  Definitely the polar opposite of what she had at that moment. And that’s when our little choo-choo threw the first bolt.

I’m trying to keep Marty The Mortician occupied in conversation while Ron takes care of Judy’s hair, but I’m beginning to see a problem.  Ron has heated up the curling iron and is attempting to curl Judy’s bangs back down to her eyebrows, but they won’t go.  Remember, they’ve been dried backwards, so that’s the direction they’re gonna go, no matter how hotly you curl the ends.  The roots are headed straight back to the far wall, so there’s where the rest of the bangs are gonna go, too.  He curled, aimed them downward, released the curling iron and like a boomerang those curled bangs shot back toward the wall behind her.  Curled, mind you, but flying straight up off her forehead in the opposite direction.

He curled again.

Same result.

That little engine that could, just couldn’t.  The derailment had officially begun.

I momentarily excused myself from Marty The Mortician’s endless chatter and as gently as I possibly could, said to Ron, “um, honey, you’re going to have to wet her bangs and re-dry them in the right direction for them to do what they need to do.”  He looked at me, stunned.  Not because he didn’t know that, or couldn’t understand that, or didn’t agree with that, but because he had forgotten his water bottle and didn’t know how he was going to DO that.  With hopefully non-visible panic we looked around the room and saw a sink, probably ten feet away from our work area.  He calmly walked over, turned it on, cupped his hands and collected a bit of water.  Hear that metal screeching? That’s our train in full-on derailment now.  Hold on for the ride.

He quickly walked over toward his peacefully patient client, hands near a tremble, and just as he reached across her to wet her bangs, the water dribbled from his hands…..all over her face.  He did get some of it on her bangs, but not enough. So, Lord help, he did it again.  Only this time, after he got her face wet again, he reached for this white hand towel that had been, seemingly for no reason, lying across her chest.  He pulled it up, ever so gently dabbed her eyes dry, and promptly revealed a set of forceps that were holding God only knows what together under that towel.  We BOTH panicked this time.  Our eyes met in sheer despair.  What the heck is that and why is it there and what are we supposed to do now?!?!?!  I quickly snatched the towel back down to it’s proper position and tried not to look at Ron – ever again.  All the while, Marty The Mortician NEVER STOPPED TALKING.  I’m not sure that he even noticed, or perhaps cared, that we looked like the three stooges even though there were just two of us.  Again, so happy to have someone who would talk back, he never missed a beat.

We, on the other hand, have given up on our train ever making it back to the station.  We were so sideways at this point that we just hoped she was laughing at us from above. Ron cracked out his blow dryer, which remarkably he did bring, and dried those freshly wet bangs downward toward her eyebrows.  Success.  A little curling iron work, a little brush work on the sides, and Judy was finally beginning to look like herself again.  We were sweating, ready to have a nervous breakdown, didn’t know if we should laugh, cry, or just crawl up on the gurney with her.  All the while…….Marty The Mortician never. stopped. talking.

Our little red caboose had finally screeched to a halt.  We were dazed and confused and needed a drink.

But Judy looked like she had just come from the beauty parlor, freshly coiffed, dressed in her usual neatly attired style, with a sweet little notecard from her grandchild gently tucked into her shoe.  For all the shenanigans, the family’s request had been granted and fulfilled, and we were humbled at the honor.  Even if we were like a three ring circus.

On a side note…..

During Ron’s trips back and forth across the room with cupped hands of water, he asked Marty The Mortician……”Marty, can I ask you a question???  Why, WHY is there a urinal on the wall???”

I had not even noticed it.  What?!?!? A urinal?!?!? RON!!!!!!!

Well, there actually IS a real urinal on the wall.  Perplexed does not even BEGIN to describe us.

Marty The Mortician explained that urinals are at the perfect height, have the perfect water flow and a water hose, for rolling the gurney up to it and washing the body of the deceased.  The gurney tilts a bit, so everything flows back down to the urinal and drains.  Wow.  Who knew?!?! Makes perfect sense – now.  He also gave us a bit of ancient Tallahassee trivia.  The old house at the corner of Thomasville and 6th, where Table 23 restaurant is now, many, many years ago was a funeral home.  In one of the ladies bathrooms, or the kitchen, or somewhere like that, if you open one of the cabinets, well, there’s a urinal.  So apparently this is an old, handy custom, passed from generations.  Who knew?!?!