Big Questions

Why do I always look my worst in the beauty shop?

Waiting for the dye that has transformed my head into a glossy, greasy dark brown porcupine to work its chemical magic, I leaf through a tabloid featuring photos of the young and the gorgeous: actresses, models, celebrities for a day with bikini-perfect bodies swaying on long-stemmed legs having fun at parties and premieres, or walking hand-in-hand along the beach with their latest paramours.

The glitter doesn’t fool me the way it once might have, but images of youth and a life full of possibility make me wistful.

Thoughts of botox and liposuction cross my mind for a moment but, who am I kidding? Except for the hair, I prefer the natural look.

As Carlo combs me out, I stare into the mirror and see a composite of the dear departed: my mother’s big ears, my daddy’s abdominal hernia poking up under my flowing linen dress, Uncle Velvel’s mass. My hazel eyes do not sparkle back at me. Can that be a reflection of tragic Uncle Sol’s sadness and resignation?

Mafalda, who is quite the cut-up even without a scissors, keeps everyone in the shop in stitches punctuating her endless Italian chatter with dramatic “oh, my Gods” in English. She is not around today to distract me.

What does this session accomplish? It relieves me of my grays for 30 days.

It also makes me ask, yet again, those two big questions. What have I become? Who am I?

When I return next month for another go-round I will be sure to bring a newspaper along. The foibles of Italy’s high-and-mighty described by some of the shrewder pundits always bring a sparkle to my eyes.

I will also look in the mirror.