It is always easier To write a poem Than a story Because a poem can have several Interpretations And you can look as hard as you want to But still not find the true one Is it better to start the day off Like a dog With no expectations Of what the day will hold Or should we expect the very best scenario And then be disappointed when it's everything but And then what Because that's what typically happens But sometimes Just sometimes It's even better.
I was idly scrolling through Facebook tonight. It has become a time-consuming bad habit during the Q. I could be using this time to read, or throw out receipts after checking them against my bank statements, or cleaning baseboards. But no. I’m watching TikTok videos that y’all share (because I refuse to download the app), or laughing at inappropriate memes, or rolling my eyes at y’all trying to convince one another that A) our only “safe” option is staying shut down until flu season or B) that China is trying to kill us by selling us hospital-grade masks that actually recirculate deadly carbon dioxide. I don’t even know anymore. But I do know that I’m not missing people breathing on me in line….but I miss hugs and impromptu drinks with friends at the local watering hole more.
So anyway. Back to this post.
My hair is, to put it bluntly, crazy. It’s virtually untame-able without the aid of an industrial can of hairspray and a flat iron jacked up to the highest setting. I don’t even try. I’ve just been embracing my curls as they fall after I shake them upside down and scrunch a handful of mousse liberally into them. Seriously. That’s my styling regimen. Some days I get lucky and it looks like I tried. Most days I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket and then went outside to play in a Category III hurricane.
My poor beautician, Christy, just does the best she can during the two hours every eight weeks I’m parked in her chair. She knows her name is on it so she tries her best to make it not look like a family of rats has taken up residence in my red locks. She, without fail, asks, “Same thing?” as she heads for her mixer bowls and color. And before she picks up her scissors, “Just shaping up?” It’s good she checks, but as far as the cut goes, I’ve told her for twenty years, “Whatever it needs. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”
I never thought this may be hurting her feelings. While it is just hair, I say this to her because I TRUST her. She wouldn’t purposely do something to my hair that would make me look awful. And my hair is pretty long and thick, so if she did mess up, I’d just wad it into a bun or plunk a ball cap on top of it till something could be done. Now, rest assured, if it all fell out or turned blue, I’d be camped out at her salon till we found a solution, be it wig or alternate identity. So I shouldn’t be so blithe in saying, “It’s just hair”.
But tonight on Facebook, one of my hairdresser friends shared a little something that gave me pause. I have elaborated on it significantly below. Original post by a lady named Liz Faughn.
- It’s just hair – I got to be a part of your wedding! ….Absolutely! There were only two things I didn’t worry about on my wedding day: my hair and my carriage. I didn’t worry about them because I trusted the people in charge of those two things implicitly. They would go off without a hitch, no matter what outside forces tried to interfere. My hair, in 100° heat with 375% humidity, is no match for Christy. It simply wilts into submission, unlike with me. I’m a pushover. Christy takes hold and flips and pins and takes no prisoners. We did a trial run of the updo a month prior for my bachelorette party, just so we’d know for sure how it would look with my tiara and that I was happy with it. I don’t remember having to tweak the design. I went to the salon early on my wedding day to get it squared away and out of my face. Then Christy got to my wedding early enough to make sure it didn’t need any adjustments before the ceremony and to place my tiara. THEN, the next day, she was at my house early to touch it up AGAIN for bridal photos. I’m telling you, the woman is a SAINT. And I’m not even to the second part yet. Nor have I told you about all the things she is forever doing for others…that doesn’t even have to do with hair.
- It’s just hair – I was there for your child’s first haircut. Well, this one doesn’t apply. But I’m sure y’all can supply your own story here. You probably still have the curl.
- It’s just hair – I was there for your first date. Hmmm. Not even sure I remember my first date. I doubt I had my hair done for it.
- It’s just hair – I was there for your school dance. Well, okay. Christy wasn’t doing my hair then. She’s just a year younger than me!
- It’s just hair – I was there for their funeral. I’m glad it didn’t say “your funeral”. But she will be, if she outlives me. We’ve already talked about it. She does it all the time, doesn’t faze her in the slightest. She always says matter-of-factly, “It’s the last thing you can do for somebody.” I already have her on retainer for a funeral that I’m certain will be forthcoming shortly that I will need to be looking my absolute most snottiest.
- It’s just hair- I was there for your graduation. Well, no. But if I went back for my doctorate, she would be.
- It’s just hair- I was there when you didn’t like the way you looked. Now, that’s a fact, Jack. I sure don’t like it when my wisdom hairs get to showin’. And I don’t like it when my eyebrows get wonky. Christy is there for me. And my errant wild chin hair. What is UP with that thing? I guess I should be thankful it doesn’t have friends. Christy keeps me cleaned up. Nobody would mistake my hair for box dye. And most everybody thinks it’s natural. All I do is grow it.
- It’s just hair- when you got offered your dream job and nobody else knew but me and you! Oh boy!! That’s the TRUTH!! Christy was the second person I told because I was quivering with excitement over the job I have now. I think I’d just heard for sure the day before my appointment. No way could I hold it. She was so happy for me <3
- It’s just hair- when you met the person of your dreams and they told you they loved you for the very first time! Yup. And the guys who weren’t my dreams but still fun to dish about!!! And we still do, she knows ’em all!!! She’s made the mistake of playing matchmaker once or twice, too, but I don’t hold it against her. She’s just trying to help.
- It’s just hair- when all you wanted in the whole world is a hug from your hairstylist because you knew they’d give it to you with open arms! Every time. And I always tell her I love her when I’m leaving and she says it back. ‘Cause we do.
- It’s just hair- when you lost your job and didn’t know what you were going to do. Well, I knew what I was going to do. But it was still scary and exciting all at the same time!
- It’s just hair- when you were getting a divorce and just needed to feel better about yourself. Oh my stars and planets. This one hit home. The day after everything crumbled into a disgusting pile of manure, where was I? Christy’s chair. I cried, she colored. I cried, she cut. And we got through it and it was awful and I have never been more acutely miserable in my entire life. But my hair looked fabulous. And that’s what I had on display.
- It’s just hair- when you had a terrible day and looked forward to being able to vent without being judged. Oh my!!! Every appointment for at least fifteen years!! And her husband worked with me, so he could back me up!
- It’s just hair- when you are about to go on vacation and can’t wait to tell me all about it on your next visit. I am completely insufferable for at least a month before location, and two months after. She has to hear all the details.
- It’s just hair- when you bought your very first home. Yes, one that she’s visited a few times!
- It’s just hair ….I think we’ve proved that it’s not.
- It’s not “just hair” Never has been and never will be!
I’m so glad they’re back to work. And I hope everybody appreciates them now more than ever. Funny how this quarantine has really showed us how we’re all truly dependent on one another.
My hair was the wrong color So I dyed it And I felt much better I wouldn't put up with it So I left And I took my horse And the cookie dough I couldn't stand it And I told them so And they didn't take me seriously So I left And I was happy For a time You were all I dreamed of But it was an illusion And I thought I could fight it But you wouldn't stand beside me And so I sent you on your way Do you see the pattern I finally do I have a low tolerance for bullshit And I won't put up with it Not for five minutes Not for forty years And I don't trust any of you
Sometimes I have words, sometimes I don’t. But I know that by writing it, I’m much more likely to get it right than if I try to say it with my mouth.
I usually have an idea of what I want to talk about before I sit down to write. Sometimes I have to look at writing prompts to kick-start my motor. Since I’m not getting out a whole lot, I’m limited on subjects. Y’all can only read so much about my dog. One of my favorite columnists could benefit from this notion. I sometimes think if I have to read one more article about baseball or his dead daddy (who’s been gone way longer than he was ever here) I’m gonna send him a list of other stuff to write about. Just when I can’t take any more, he’ll pop off one about pound cake or some old lady eating alone at Cracker Barrel or something, and I’m good for another month or so.
Anyway….yesterday I wrote about the herbicide thing. Well, really it was about women needing to pull themselves up by their flip-flop straps and believe in themselves what needs to be done, can be done. BY THEM. Sure, it’s nice to have a man around for the gunky parts of life, like plumbing, or the parts you just don’t want to do (like plumbing). Or the parts you’re scared to do, like scaling the roof to clean out gutters or hammer back down the wayward nail. My take home message is this: marry a plumber, or make sure your sister does.
I’m kidding.
Kind of.
You need an electrician, too.
All joking aside, my little story wasn’t that fascinating in my mind. I was just recollecting and asking for forgiveness of sorts. We all need to be reminded of what we’re capable of every now and then. It’s easy to forget you’re great at planning fundraisers for your city’s 200 most elite power couples when you’ve been anchored at home for five years raising your littles. A thankless job, most days, as I’m given to understand. So I wrote my little blurb about how empowering it was to kill stuff and how I hoped that every woman I’d ever helped felt at least a little bit more accomplished after she’d completed this one act deemed “man’s work”. Well, it wasn’t the most popular piece I’d ever written, and I didn’t expect it to be. I’m not after that, anyway. Most of the time I just sit here and bleed and hope somebody will maybe bring me a cupcake or something. But since I posted my memory yesterday, I’ve had a couple of disclosures from people I don’t hear from regularly, enforcing my opinion of how much we need to stay strong. To remember what we’re capable of. And one of them needs your prayers. Desperately. Please pray for comfort and strength as she prepares to learn just how resilient she is. She knows, she’s just kinda covered up with worry right now and can’t see past that.
I’m fortunate in that I’ve never questioned my worth. I’ve never had to ask myself if I was good enough for a certain person, a specific job, or to gain respect. I just did. It’s never crossed my mind to ask if I belonged somewhere. If I’m there, I belong. I try to dress the part to throw people who might second guess my worthiness. Fake it till you make it, and all that.
So. Coming up on two years ago, I had a life-altering incident. It was traumatic, to put it bluntly. Everything I thought I knew about someone I loved and trusted was a lie. It made me reevaluate everything in my life. I felt like I couldn’t get my breath, even just sitting still. I hate to include the overused expressions “I was blindsided” and “pulled the rug from under my feet” but that’s exactly what it was. I couldn’t have been more surprised. It was like some disgusting joke that would never be funny. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t smile, I couldn’t listen to the radio, watch movies, or read books. I was a straight-up honest-to-goodness MESS.
But my makeup stayed in place.
And I’ll tell you what else stuck.
My friends.
Ladies, you need your friends. I know they drive you crazy with their drama. I know they’re not always available when you’re dying for a margarita on a particularly taxing Monday. I know they don’t answer your texts fast enough. I know you hate the hairstyle/ husband/ couch they’ve chosen. I know, I know, I know. But you NEED them. You need them when life throws you right splat in the middle of the gutter. You need them at midnight when you can’t quit shaking. You need them to take you to church and hold your hand and let you cry. You need them, and they need you.
I had a fairly new friend when my world went all to hell. She barely knew me. I mean, I’m legendary in my own right so she knew that I was rumored to be awesome but obviously I didn’t have my best self showing at that moment in time. But you know what my new friend did? She came by my work, she gave me a hug, she dropped off some flowers, and I think she even brought me something to eat (although I can assure you I did not eat it). And a few weeks later, she called me and asked me to come by her house on my way home, she had me a “little something”.
What she had me was a handmade quilt. In addition to being a baker, a beekeeper, and probably a blacksmith, she is also a quilter. It’s lap size, and something about it is fundamentally me. And she hardly knew me. It had the sweetest card ever with it, describing the hours of work that had gone into it, her prayers and own tears, and maybe some bad words for a bad man, too. She said it was just for me. She said I needed to have something that he hadn’t touched. I remember this vividly because I thought about how true that was. To have something in my possession that didn’t have a single memory of him attached.
So I brought the quilt home, assured that it would prove to be as low maintenance as she confirmed that it would be. I slept with it that night on my bed. I felt reassured that someone who barely knew me obviously loved me.
In the afternoons, the quilt was on my lap or by my side on the couch and then I’d drag it to bed. You can call it my security blanket, I don’t care. Just because I’m forty doesn’t change a thing.
I went to Florida in September that year. I was packing the car. The man who had almost ruined my life showed up to “see me off”. Like I needed that. He was surprised that I had my car already loaded.
“You need anything else loaded? What else is going? This?” He picked up my quilt I had folded and laying near my purse. MY quilt. The one he had no business touching. I jerked it from his hands.
“I got it.”
And the quilt accompanied me to St. George Island.
I’ve sat on this quilt nearly all day, carrying it from shady spot to shady spot as the sun moves. And I’ve thought about my good friend all day while I’ve done it. Of course we’re still friends! How could I not be? For one, she’s closest in proximity, and two, have I mentioned her baked goods? I’m KIDDING. She’s a nut; we share the same sense of humor and ninety mile an hour chatter. Not everybody can hang.
You need friends. Even if they can’t quilt. Even if all they can do is give you some words on a page. I hope my words help you. Let me know if you can use some more.
I sat on the porch today, watching birds.
It wasn’t like I didn’t have anything else to do. But I like to watch birds. I’ve thought many times, as no doubt many of you have, about what it would be like to fly. More specifically, what it would be like to be a bird. In the past, I’ve thought I would most like to be a hummingbird. They’re fast, they’re tiny, they’re brilliantly colored, everybody likes them, and they hover like a helicopter and can fly backwards. Lots of friendly people feed them sugar water, which, I imagine, is the avian equivalent of Mountain Dew. This all sounds quite ideal to me.
However, I have been giving this more thought. Hummingbirds have to fly south for winter. That’s a long way for such a little bird. And I don’t hear them do a lot of chirping. Which made me think about the mockingbird. Mockingbirds aren’t stuck with one birdsong throughout their lives. They’re gifted and continuously chatter with over twenty different voices. As much as I like to talk, this would be peerless. And, as an added bonus, they’re the state bird. But then I got to feeling guilty, because about the time I landed on being a mockingbird, the barn swallows showed up, calling and darting through the sky, chasing bugs. I love swallows so much, enough to get one tattooed on my forearm. I especially love them because they eat 60 mosquitoes a minute. And I LOATHE mosquitoes. So really, I owe them my highest honor. I should be a barn swallow. They’re sleek, they’re graceful, they’re fearless, and man, are they fast! They’re also messy and careless and I think their young sorta hafta fend for themselves pretty quick. So that suits, too. And I’m under the impression they’re always just a little bit irritated….you can divine whatever you want to from that.
Which leaves one last bird that I truly adore. The bluebird. But they work way harder than I want to and are truly devoted to their young. So that’s out. You ever sat and watched them? All they do is flutter around, gathering material for their nests, then once they’re hatched off they work themselves to death constantly hunting food to feed them. No, thank you. I need some Me Time. A little leisure.
So there you have it. How I wasted at least one full hour today. Because I watched birds three separate times on two different porches on this day.
Tomorrow I’ll probably do it again. I’m a world-class porch sittin’ Southerner, and proud of it. My porch isn’t perfect, the concrete needs redone, or at the very least it needs to be painted, but it serves its purpose. I wish it was screened in, or even had a roof that extended to the edge so I could have one of those cool palm frond fans, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t have a swing or rocking chairs anymore, but it does have plastic chaise lounges and a table for your beverage. It has a good view of the road and usually, there are a few lizards running around for entertainment. It’s not so bad. I like to watch my flag wave and admire the redbuds I planted 11 years ago out by the fence.
So, even though quarantine is pretty much lifted, today I sat on my porch and I watched birds.
Photo credit The Hiking Fish
I have a confession. I used to silently judge these women that would come into Co-op and not know anything about killing weeds or, conversely, growing grass. They would ask me to put their $10 one gallon sprayer together before they left. “My husband always did this,” they would explain, sometimes glancing a little forlornly at their empty wedding ring finger. I would try (and often fail, I’m sure) to avoid rolling my eyes. I would instruct them on how much herbicide to mix, frequently using my ever-present mountain dew can as a prop. (I also did this for the men, because 100% of people carry the misconception that the more weed killer you use, the better. So wrong. So, so wrong.) Anyway, I haven’t mixed up or sprayed herbicide in ages and found both my sprayers gommed up because the last time they were used they didn’t get cleaned out. I was not the last one to use them, tyvm. So I had to prance in Co-op yesterday and buy a new one. I was on a cake delivery, anyway. I got my new Chapin sprayer out of the box this morning to use and was instantly assaulted by memories of the dozens I assembled for ladies. 
I had almost forgotten what a joy it is to spray herbicide. I felt like the Terminator. I hope that every woman I ever helped felt just a little bit more empowered after she killed all the weeds in her fencerows.
I had NOT forgotten how terrifying it is to be on the roof on the backside of my house cleaning out gutters. But I did that today, too. Because I’m able and because no fairy is going to come in the night and do it for me. Because stuff has to get done. The world keeps on turning no matter what’s going on, be it pandemic, divorce, death, or a hundred other misfortunes.
My work will tell on me in less than a week. I think it will be ok. If not, I still know my way around sprayers and herbicides. 
Now, if somebody wanted to come mop my floors or wash my car, that’d be great.
These old men Mountains Men of the mountains Mountains made these men The ground cold into May Wet till October And then the gold is abundant Don't pan- just look up Salamanders scurry And squirrels scold And bear chew Lazy, arrogant Brides with wildflower halos And dulcimers on the porch Chicken and dumplins on Sunday After Bible thumpin' amens Old baying dogs with black patches Flogging roosters Rusted tools hanging forgotten But don't kill the black snake Didja hear about Shorty Gonna run 'em a cobbler Porch swing's squeakin' What to do with all this squash Yes ma'am And thank you Please don't trouble yourself Prettiest quilt I ever laid eyes on There's watermelon And sweet tea Cousins are all comin' too Just wanna drop in this heat We're headed to the lake To the funeral home Just want to set a spell All we do is run run run Rain's on the way Mail's late Kids comin' in for Thanksgiving Can't wait to get to the beach So green it'll hurt your eyes So humid you can wring the water off of you So slow you think you'll never get there And everybody's talkin' 'bout football
Stay Southern, y’all
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
I’ve fallen super far behind on these writing prompts (shocker) but when I was looking at the topics this morning for ideas (I’ve got the itch again) this one jumped right out.
I’m a great example of a person you would come to for precisely this kind of advice. “Hey Amy, what’s fun to do in Knoxville?” “Hey, Amy, if you had one day in Pigeon Forge, what would you do?” “Hey, Amy, whatd’ya think about ridin’ this horse?” But the monumental worst decision I tend to make is….”Yes! Cotton Eyed Joes sounds like a FANTASTIC IDEA!”
It’s not. It never has been. And I’ve not even been in more than ten years, but it was a terrible idea then, too. Cotton Eyed Joes is a bad idea of catastrophic proportions. It sounds like fun, let your hair down a little, have some beers, laugh at some drunk folks trying to dance or ride the mechanical bull, and then…..then it’s two o’clock in the morning and you’ve had two fishbowls, nine beers, and a line of cocaine and you’re the drunk girl on the bull….or you’re hunting “the queer in the yellow vest” to go the hell home.
See how it deteriorates? QUICKLY. And then you’ve gotta pretend to be sober long enough to get past the bouncer and then there’s always a cop out at the road so it’s just a train wreck all the way around. I’d hate to think how much vomit has been spewed in that gravel lot.
Perhaps I should explain what Cotton Eyed Joes actually IS. It’s a club, as you’ve probably gleaned. They teach line dance lessons until the sun goes down, then the older folks go home and by ten the place is throbbing with Luke Bryan wannabes in cheap cowboy hats and cowboy boots that have never been on either side of a horse. Used to, there was a van that you bought longnecks from as soon as you made it through the door. Turn right, coat check, then pool tables. In front of you is the wooden dance floor with a tiny elevated stage in each corner. Evidently it’s bad form to put dollar bills in their exposed g-strings as they gyrate in a very unladylike fashion. The whole smoky, dimly lit warehouse is anchored by bars on each end, with 2-P neon signs right off the edges. Tall round tables are scattered throughout, while benches covered in cheap vinyl line the walls. There used to be a smoking porch behind the mechanical bull in the back right corner, and beer pong nearby. Things have probably changed. But not too much. Lots of 21-year-olds that can’t hold their liquor, overly made-up girls acting dramatically, and some swerving going on from all walks of life on every square foot of space. The DJ, Boy Bill from Maynardville, as I recall, dispatched country remix tunes via a converted 18-wheeler cab on the back wall. It was just over the top redneck. And people circled, spilling their drinks and screaming they’d lost their friend, a contact, the love of their life. The bathrooms were a catastrophe, girls vying for space at the mirror, no toilet paper, just a damn mess.
It’s awful, every time, without fail. No matter who you’re with, you end up picking a fight. It’s hot, it smells, and it’s crowded. If you want to go to a place and just forget your cares, or if you want to feel pretty good about your life, this is still a bad idea. Go to Wal-Mart instead.
