My hair-raising story, ala Laura Bower’s BEAUTY SHOP FOR RENT contest, proves that the Power of Positive Thinking is sometimes a big ol’ pile o’ hooey. 

A few years ago When I was twenty, I dreamed about shortening my lackluster, shoulder-length locks into an airy, Princess Di ‘do. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense: no one would notice my new braces if I had a fresh hairstyle to distract their attention. That’s what I tearfully explained to those who asked me later, “What the heck were you thinking???”

Like most recent college grads, I was short on cash, so I ventured — for the first and very last time — into my neighborhood SuperCuts. (Need I say more?) Before I had time to explain the look I wanted, a scissors-wielding maniac spun me away from the mirror, grabbed a handful of hair, and chopped it into a senseless mess of short layers. I watched in horror as she unceremoniously dumped my shorn locks into the trash. Without waiting for a blowdry, I skulked out of the beauty shop, my dreams dashed and my self-esteem (temporarily) crushed. 

The day after I got home from the East Coast, I realized I’d carried home some nasty cooties. I’d never heard of the Norwalk norovirus, but we’re now on intimate terms – enough so that I now realize how ghastly those critters really are. 

 

I’m almost back to “normal,” so I’m trying to catch up on the home front. All y’all are definitely a bright spot in my day, even if I haven’t managed to stop and leave a line to tell you so. Still — and I’ve been thinking about this for a while — I sometimes worry that I’m not your intended demographic. 

I’m honored to share your writerly progress. I love to commiserate when things get rocky, and I’m genuinely excited to help celebrate your good news. But true confession time: I think I need a glossary to help me understand your posts about YA fantasy. Auras, I know, ‘cause I live in la-la land. But fey? Pooka, dryad, fox-spirits, and Otherworlders? Am I the only person on earth who’s got difficulty seeing what you’re imagining?

A funny thing happened on our way to my nephew’s memorial party this past weekend. It was scary at the time, but it’s laughable now that we’re seeing it in our rear view mirror.

 

After landing at LaGuardia at nearly 9 o’clock at night, we still faced a two-hour-plus drive over rural roads to western Connecticut. It was about 7 degrees outside, but the wind chill factor plunged the temperatures well below freezing. Inside the car, however, we were warm and dry. We enjoyed the long ride through an increasingly snowy countryside: our headlights spotlighted snow-covered tombstones in churchyard cemeteries, wood-framed farmhouses situated on white-blanketed acreage, and boxcar diners shuttered against the storm. 
 

Just shy of midnight, we reached the base of my in-laws’ driveway. It’s not a short path to the front door, mind you; they live on approximately 58 acres, and their house sits at the top of a very steep, winding road. Accumulated snow was plowed into grayish berms at the bottom, but pristine snow covered the hillside. Whistling winds sliced through the trees, and everything was eerily illuminated by a fog-shrouded half moon. Through the windshield, we looked out at a winter wonderland.

 

But our perspective soon changed. About 1/3 of the way up the hill, our rear-wheel-drive rental car spun out on the accumulated ice, its tires refusing to inch forward a single iota more. Obviously, we had two choices: stay in the car overnight and call a tow truck in the morning, or trudge up the hill on foot. We decided to hoof it.

 

Did I mention what I was wearing? Layered sweaters, a leather jacket, Lucky jeans and smooth-soled canvas tennis shoes. A reasonable question might be, “Whatever were you thinking?” Honest answer? I wasn’t. I was quasi-fashionable but definitely foolish.

 

I finally figured out that walking through the snow gave me enough traction to move forward, rather than sliding sideways and backward on the ice. And so it was that I traipsed up the hill, my shoes and jeans getting ever soggier. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and as I wiped them away, I scolded myself for being such a weather-wimp wussy girl. Meanwhile, my husband, hero that he is, walked behind me, schlepping both our suitcases up the hill in silence. I swear, it was a scene straight out of Doctor Zhivago.

 

An eternity and about 1/8 of an uphill mile later, we finally turned the key in the lock on my in-laws’ front door. We stood in the entryway, hugging each other and celebrating the fact that we’d arrived intact. We shrugged off our wet clothes and started a pot of tea, then looked at each other and started to laugh. Call me crazy, but I like to think my nephew was laughing right along with us.

Left: The view from the top of the hill at sunrise. Llok closely and you’ll see our stalled car at the curve in the road. Right: The same road, as seen from the bottom of the hill, after the ice had partially melted. The house is at the top right side of the photo.

While my feet are firmly planted in Southern California, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the South. Over time and by example, I’ve become a cultural hybrid of palm tree and magnolia, a quirky combination of “Hey, how’s it going’?” and “How’s your mama ‘n ’em?” 

I learned quite a few life lessons from my Dixieland sisters, many of them taught symbolically through Mardi Gras traditions: The crowning glory of finding the small plastic baby Jesus baked into a Kings Cake; the delicious decadence of Fat Tuesday, a last opportunity to “eat hefty” before the dawn of Ash Wednesday; the collecting of beads, each color representing closely-held values; and a secret family recipe for gumbo that relies on a well-made roux.

In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, these Steel Magnolias also taught me how to maintain grace, dignity, and resiliency – come high winds or high water. So today I’m reprising my Mardi Gras “parade,” a rolling tribute to the Southern women who’ve successfully weathered the storm. In my mind, I’m playing the “bead game,” tossing them these symbolic gifts:

Purple beads, representing justice. May sunlight serve as disinfectant for the political impurities and social injustices exposed by the storms, and may it also serve as a spotlight for the important work that still needs to be done to help heal broken hearts and homes. 

Green beads that stand for faith.  I pray that each of them will be rewarded for their deep, abiding belief in the power of prayer, combined with a personal commitment to doing the hard work necessary to rebuild their lives. 

Gold beads, signifying power. Not in the form of backlit, bloviating speeches by posturing policy wonks; but rather, a roll-up-the-sleeves, dig-deep-into-the-pockets commitment by politicians and ordinary citizens who are willing to put their collective muscle behind putting things right.

White beads, serving as long-distance kisses. May they continue to heal your hurts and reaffirm our connections.

Of course, no parade’s complete without an afterparty, is it? C’mon then: Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez (Let the good times roll)!