From my semi embalmed horizontal state, the outside world looked like a dream. But hopefully with a happy ending. I was under wraps at the Christine Valmy beauty school, one of the finest in NYC and the first in America to teach esthetics. As one of a group of victims for the tested skills of emerging estheticians, my hair was wrapped to avoid hirsute interruptions to the beautification of my skin, and anything that stood in the way was plucked, waxed or fussed out of existence. My body was wrapped in toweling and covered in Egyptian cotton, and my feet were bound and buried for future examination.
Contrary to the visual domination of youth in the beauty industry, the examiners at CV were veterans in the field. For more than 25 years after rising to the top of their teaching profession, they regularly reported for duty at the two hour tests and they are not done yet. Insight to the latest potions, powders and shadows are theirs forever. Not to mention back door entrance to the Vodka Bar in the fashion district on the west side…
Being one of 15 or so victims, my apprehension of appearance post facial, and having to rush to the bathroom to restore normalcy to my public face, was misplaced. You should have seen the other guy! A very generous husband – the only man in the room, was the willing victim for his wife’s career aspirations. By the end of the treatment his sparse hair stood on end, the towel wrapped around his barreled middle did nothing to hide his burgeoning chest hair, and his face was more like Betty Davis in Baby Jane than mine. Who cares about beauty, when you have true love!
Well, I hope it was all well worth it…
What a hoot!
Always wanted to experience said treatment
Oh it sounds dreamy!
Hi Ms Fitzi
I’m Harry from Utah. Recently I was in Adelaide where, I have been led to believe, you once resided. I was meeting with writers from Ad Astra (sci-fi group), who I had connected with via the internet, to share our passion for the genre.
We were walking homeward through the city backstreets, somewhat raucously in the early a.m. after a joyous party-party night, when I stopped to admire an immaculately renovated vintage (50’s or 60’s) car. It was much smaller than we are used to in the States, but way quaint and unique.
I had been enthusiastically sampling the local wines, ales and spirits but I was not under the influence of any hallucinogenic or psychotropic medications. So, I attribute the subsequent events to my relaxed open ad astra headset—almost as if I was in a time warp.
I heard a voice say “Are you American?” And although I could see no one I felt an immediate, intense connection with a Presence. I said “ Yes I am.” (I was alone—my new friends had kept on walking).
“Tell her I miss her” said the voice.
“She. She left me.”
“She left me. I felt abandoned, so alone. We were soul mates.” The voice was intense, sorrowful.
“I don’t know –20, 30 years ago. I don’t know. It seems so long ago…forever.”
“I can’t see anyone. It’s like the car is talking to me.”
“Yes I am the car.”
Incredulously, on reflection, I continued as if I was having an everyday conversation…nothing unusual.
“You sound so sad, but you look so good –shiny, almost like new, so well cared for.”
“Yes but that is all external, superficial—my soul has not been renewed. I feel lost without her. We were soul mates…so I thought. Can you take me to America so I can see her? Please. Please.”
“No I’m sorry I can’t. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“It’s probably best I stay here. She probably has a big American car, much bigger, faster and flasher than me. She lives in a bigger, faster, flashier city. I wouldn’t fit in. And she’s probably forgotten all about me.”
“How do you know she’s in America?”
“I hear on my radio sometimes…and I cry. Then I’m taken to the mechanic. But he can’t understand….can’t repair my soul. So, well if you can’t take me, then tell her Morrie misses her so much, so much.”
So Gabrielle as crazy and as unbelievable as all this must sound: Morrie misses you.
Well Harry, what an amazing message – thank you very much for sharing it. I miss Morrie as well. He is a 1954 Morris Minor Ute and was a constant part of my life for 20 years or so. I took him from Adelaide to live in Sydney ( and then back again ), gave him a new engine and a strengthened body, a new red leather bench seat and a Phantom / Ghost Who Walks shade of blue enamel coat. His radio was hidden in the glove box so no-one would break in to steal it. Morrie always started and stopped. He was a real trooper with a great sense of humor. People would stop me as I drove down the street to talk about him. I couldn’t bring him to New York because there is no space here, and even Morrie couldn’t fit in the elevator. I ride a bicycle now, no car. I left Morrie with friends in Adelaide who drove and looked after him until he went to stay on a farm with a family of children, who now drive him to the school bus. I understand he is much loved, but yes, I still miss Morrie too…