A French shop, a woman named Sharb and a message from the sky

Interesting People and things

I walked out of my job with a confused feeling deep inside. I thought, hmmm…the little French shop is open. I should not go in there today, or else find me with some postage stamp or birdcage I really don’t need in my tiny little living space. I kept walking and caught a reflection of myself against one of it’s display windows. I had knotted up my hair into a bun, I was wearing an oversized grey button up sweater, a skirt that barely fit me, and I had forgotten to put concealer on (the miracle cream) on all my pimples.

This is how I worked today? I thought to myself. Have you no shame! Have you no sensitivity to the ways you were trained in your vocational industrial club from high school? If my teacher who taught me all about leadership was around he’d say, “Lis why have you not ironed your shirt?”

What’s happened to me?  I thought as I looked into the glass and saw a stranger looking back at me.

Have I been taking this lone writer who writes in the wee hours of the night too seriously? 

Luckily for me, beside the french shop is a hair salon I always threaten to go into when I have my self-talk session. It looks like the kind of place that charges $100 for your hair to be blow dried. But honestly, I haven’t treated myself to a style hair salon place in a long long while. So I go in.

Two ladies greet me by the door. They tell me they have no openings, but might be able to squeeze me in tomorrow or next Thursday. So I sign up. They looked totally different and totally hip. I forget what hair dues can do to a person’s face.

A woman named Sharb talks to me. She is a beautiful brown woman, but she tells me she’s not Hispanic – though her last name is Delgado. It’s because of her husband’s name she says, and adds that she is happily married. The other woman, who never tells me her name rolls her eyes and continues to take down my information. Sharb walks around the counter and says, “Let me see your hair!” She pulls off my hair tie which unleashes my mane. Everything is reveled: the waves, the split ends and the flakes from not washing my hair that morning because I heard that you shouldn’t wash your hair everyday or you’ll go bald.

Sharb gives me a scalp massage as the other woman listens to me ramble about how my mother is a cosmetologist and I’ve gone to 2 stylist in all my life because she always cuts my hair. “Though she lives in LA, and I’m up here now – and I need to do something with my hair.” The lady gives me a weak smile as I speak to her, Sharb continues to explore my mane. I look at lady’s plaid purple shirt and wonder if she’s got a Kurt Cobain station on her Pandora radio. All the while Shab is calling my hair “virgin” and “shiny” and I feel a million times better than I had ten minutes before as I looked at my reflection against the French shop. I walk out with appointment in mind and realize that I’ve fallen under the spell of good sales people. I can only hope my hair won’t suffer in the process.

As I am thinking this I feel a “pop” on the left side of my head. Not an unusual feeling when walking under trees on a windy day. It’s usually an acorn or some twig falling down. I realize my hair is still down and Sharb has wrapped around her wrists right now my rubber band that was keeping my strands together. Oh well I say. The sensation on my head continues to exist. I ignore it. The hair ladies did a sales number on me. I feel like a million bucks and I have not even cut my hair yet! I run my fingers through my mane, feeling utterly sexy. In my mind I was in some kind of slow motion montage. If I were a heroine in a film right now, this would be the beginning of my turning point. After today I get my sh*t together and get published and make movies and so forth! You get the picture.

As soon as my fingers get to the back of my head, I realize what the substance that hit me was. I pulled my hand away and confirmed my suspicion as the runny sliver green and white colors painted the tips of my fingers.

I had been pooped on.

I was pooped on.

A bird pooped on me.

A bird took a dump on my head.

I had bird sh*t on me.

I began to laugh and found another rubber band somewhere in the pit of my side bag. Thankfully my hair is so thick the poop dried up and hid within the innards of my pelo. I saw some of the poo on my bag as well. Honestly!  I thought to my self. People walked by like normal, and my internal film had been put on pause.

As I stood by the Bart, avoiding eye contact with strangers for the poo had also hit the back of my sweater.  I sent my sister a text message. “I got pooped on today. FML.”

She called me back laughing, KA-KA! KA-KA! She hollered on the other side of the phone.

“Very funny smart butt!” I say.

“Lis, did you forget? In the states being pooped on is like – oh crap, I got pooped on! But in Perú, being pooped on (by a bird) means good luck and money!”

“Oh yeah!” I responded.

The rest of the ride was a bit smelly. The runny poo had stiffened the side of my head. People around me tried their best not to look at my shoulder or bag. And I smiled; I had met really interesting people and had been sent a message. I have to lighten up on myself! I have to stop attacking myself and my appearance. So what if I look like I haven’t slept in a week?!. This may not be Perúbut I am betting this is going to be a good Memorial Day Weekend.

It’s only uphill from now.

May you have a good break Blog Land.


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