Confidence

Liz doesn't even flinch:

I always end up paying too much for a haircut. I got one yesterday along with some pizazz in the form of highlights. It sort of looks like a bird, after eating a hearty helping of gold, had diarrhea on top of my head. Stunning. I don't know why I keep doing this to myself.

While processing, my new hairdresser was telling me about a woman who left their shop. She didn't make it long at her new job either. My hairdresser said, "You know, it's really sad. She lost her confidence and just couldn't cut any more."

Rarely does a line hit me like that. I INSTANTLY had the entire screen play download into my head. I mean, you're fucking telling me that a hairdresser can become incapacitated because she loses her confidence? To cut? Hair? I was cutting hair when I was six. You can tell because my first grade school picture has a giant chunk of bangs missing. Even after that awful mishap, I didn't lose my confidence. I continued cutting my hair and will still trim it up myself on humid days when I just can't take it any more.

I imagine the hairdresser explaining to the disabilities commission why she qualifies for a check. When the clerk opens a drawer to get a pen the hairdresser sees a pair of scissors and frantically runs out of the office. Many days of wandering the street in her dirty frock later, frightened and now a crack addict, she turns to prostitution. I mean, what other life can she have? She's lost her confidence.

To cut. Hair.

Today I had lunch at a home-cooking joint where the owner's mom is kind of a token local personality. She used to work the register but now that they've moved into a new and giant facility, she mostly just wanders around with that really blank stare that the mentally unstable often have. She's the "greeter"- that person that comes by your table and asks if everything is OK and if you're enjoying your meal.

I was lunching with my friend, V, and Lamar, the most adorable redneck you'll ever meet. He did not disappoint today. He was wearing his American Flag print button-down with snaps and the obligatory cap and cowboy boots. He's 60 years old and speaks with a southern drawl that is hard for even me to understand. He's a story teller, a character, and dirty as they come. I love him.

Momma came wondering by. You always move your purse and make sure your chair is pulled up because she's around 70 herself and does not appear to know where she is or that there is furniture around her. She's hobbling on, pausing at tables and having conversations that don't make a lot sense. She gets to us and, upon laying eyes on Lamar, her face was washed with a new expression. It was one of joy one of... connection.

Momma is a widow. We know this. Momma sometimes has a tierra on, just for fun. I've seen Momma several times and I don't recall ever seeing her so overjoyed to make eye contact as I saw her today with Lamar.

She took his hand, started straight into his eyes and said, "I'm IN LOVE!"

Lamar smiled and replied, "Why, thank you ma'am!"

To which momma loudly pronounced, "WITH JESUS CHRIST!"

Then she turned and stumbled away to the next table.

Now THAT'S confidence.