I’m Walking on Sunshine” jangled overhead while I strolled through the drug store. It was time to feel good. My meeting with Frank and the rest of the board had gone better than I could have hoped. He said my analysis of the effect of China beginning to mine tungsten on the global mineral markets had nuance. In front of a room full of people, he said I was a valuable member of the team. Letitia never made me feel part of a team. Now I had a team. I credited my two interns on the last slide as contributors and emailed them a modified copy of the presentation to use in job interviews.
I contemplated shampoo and wondered if the executive board would have taken me as seriously if I hadn’t been wearing my snazzy new suit. Jane insisted I get the skirt shortened to make me look taller and bullied me into wearing a lilac silk blouse beneath the understated fitted jacket. I wanted to think that they appreciated my work on its own merits but suspected Jane was right—the clothes do make the woman. I still wasn’t comfortable wearing skirts that showed my knees, but I did feel powerful in purple pointy-toed pumps.
I tossed a bottle of bargain shampoo in my cart and caught my reflection in a display of hand mirrors. Is that my hair? I look like crap. Chlorine had stripped my long hair until it resembled an overused mop hanging down my back. Broken strands stuck out at odd angles and it had taken on the color of wet cement. I needed help.
I’d parked in front of a new salon a few doors down from the pharmacy. I gambled that I could walk in and get a new hairdo that evening. The space had once been a paint-your-own-pottery place. It had been completely transformed. The walls were electric blue and the floor was a checkerboard of black and white linoleum tiles. The front window was dominated by a line of black pleather chairs perched over tubs of bubbling water. As soon as I opened the door, a woman who matched the shop accosted me. She wore black from head to toe, which was for the best. Any color would have taken away from the impact of her blue spiked hair. “Hello!” she squealed. “Do you have an appointment?”
I resisted the impulse to make some excuse and get out of there quickly; I needed a change. “No. I was hoping to get a haircut tonight.”
The blue hair did not move as the woman checked a large appointment book perched atop a glossy black podium. There were no names written in it. The woman flashed me a grin. Her eyeteeth were crooked. “I think we can squeeze you in.”
There was no one else in the shop. Who are “we”?
She pranced around the podium and led me toward a chair. “What are we doing today?”
“I need a haircut.”
“We’re running a winter special. A cut and style, a pedicure, and a facial, all for $199. What do you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You save $75. It’s like getting the facial for free!” Maybe it was residual adrenaline from my meeting with Frank or maybe I was dazzled by the blue hair. “What the hell, it’s only hair. Give me the works.”
Did I really just say that? I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“Great, I’ll even do you myself. I’m Cherie, by the way. This is my shop. Let’s start with the facial.” She reclined the chair.
“Can we do this sitting up, Sherry?”
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. And it’s Cherie, as in ma cherie.”
Cherie was right. It didn’t hurt. It took a few minutes, but once I closed my eyes and surrendered to the rhythm of Cherie’s fingers moving in time with the bells and gongs of the eastern inspired background music, it was wonderful. Cherie, of the ridiculous name and clownish hair, had magical fingers.
When she was done, Cherie wrapped a cotton candy blue cape around my shoulders and started washing my hair. “Where are all the other stylists tonight?” I asked.
“It’s just me. You know what they say, ‘build it and they will come.’”
“So it’s just you all the time?”
“Yeah, well, it’s always been my dream to have my own salon. Here I am—living the dream.” She didn’t sound very sure of herself. As Cherie ran her long fingers through my hair, I tallied up the costs of running a salon—rent, insurance, supplies. Finally getting what you always wished for was a daunting proposition. I had wanted to be free of Mama and Dale and, now that I was, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with myself. I took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the feeling of Cherie massaging my scalp. How could I have wasted so much time worrying about Dale and Mama? They were never even looking for me. They were lying, cheating, awful people, but after I left, they just went on with their miserable lives. They couldn’t have cared less about me.
Cherie wrested the chair upright. I looked in the mirror. The towel wrapped around my head matched Cherie’s hair. Now we both looked demented.
“What are we doing here?” Cherie asked.
“I have no idea.” My heart skipped. Like swimming a mile the first time, trusting was hard work but it felt good. “Do whatever you think would be best.”
“Really?” Cherie smoothed the smock over my shoulders. “Wow, what a treat!” She was like the cat that caught a canary but didn’t quite know how to eat it.
“All I ask is that it’s easy to maintain. I swim several times a week and have to get dressed for work at the pool.”
“Do you want to keep this color?”
“I don’t know. I guess not. I’m open to… Well, not blue…” I thought of the pictures I’d seen of Jane at my age. “How about a goldie blondish color?”
“Goldie blondish it is.” Cherie spun me around so I couldn’t see what she was doing. I knew I was getting far more than a $199 special should have covered. First Cherie hacked off what felt like years of growth and then parked me in a massage chair with my feet soaking in bubbling water while she stood behind me and folded silver and bronze foils all over my head. I watched my reflection in the front window. I looked like a Halloween costume gone bad with the foils all over my head and a bright blue smock wrapped around my shoulders. While my hair “cooked,” Cherie pulled up a stool, drew my left foot out of the water, and inspected my toes.
“Haven’t you ever had a pedicure?”
“I don’t like people touching me.”
“That would make it difficult. What color do you want?” I shrugged. Cherie held up two small bottles. “Bubblegum or Twinkle toes?”
“Twinkle toes,” I laughed. I watched Cherie deftly wield small instruments of torture on my toes. It was fascinating. “I never knew you were supposed to cut the skin around your toenails.”
“I can see that.”
I expected Cherie to quickly clip my toenails and paint some polish on them but was pleasantly surprised when she started rubbing my feet and massaging my calves. The tension from running on hard pavement and wearing awkward flippers in the pool quickly melted away. The chair was kneading my back muscles, the music was whining affably and my feet were being rubbed. Someone was touching my body, and it was glorious.
With my feet encased in foam slippers, Cherie led me back to a shiny black throne to finish my hair. She rinsed and lathered and clipped and re-clipped until I thought I would end up bald. When Cherie finally holstered her hair dryer and spun me around with a flourish, my long mousey hair was gone. In its place was a halo of soft waves. I hardly recognized myself.
“Go ahead, play with it.” Cherie pushed the hair back and forth across my scalp. “It’s all different chunky layers so there’s no right or wrong way to do it. All you have to do is wash it and you are good to go. No blow dryer, no curler, nothing.”
I played with the pieces around my face, tucking them behind my ears and then pulling them forward. I looked altered, but in a sense, I looked more like me. I smiled at myself in the mirror and then at Cherie beaming behind me.
“What do you call this color?” It was somewhere between café au lait and bamboo with gold streaks running through it.
“Goldie Blonde,” Cherie giggled. “I used four different colors. But don’t worry, I wrote everything down so we could replicate it next time. Or we could adjust it a little this way or that.”
“You, Miss Cherie, are an artist. This was exactly what I wanted.” Cherie looked like she could float she was so pleased.
I didn’t know how to thank her enough. I felt new and improved. On the way out, I took a handful of business cards and stuffed them in my coat pocket. People were bound to notice my haircut and I would be sure to tell everyone about Auberge Cherie. Stupid name, but a great place.
***
A week before the big race, I pulled a muscle in my left shoulder. I fully intended to keep training regardless of the pain, but Elkie, when she saw me favoring my right arm, suggested I skip training in the pool for a day or two. She said I should be tapering anyway. The concept of letting up on my training regimen in order to be more powerful on race day seemed silly to me. “You should go get a massage and have them work on that shoulder.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “A massage? How about applying ice or hot packs?”
“It’ll help. But you don’t need to be afraid, dear,” Elkie assured me. “You can ask for a female masseuse.” I wondered if Vanessa had said something to Elkie about my “issues.” The idea of letting someone touch my shoulders and back made my hands feel clammy, but I trusted Elkie. I took the number and made the appointment right then and there before I had a chance to talk myself out of it. Impulsivity had led me to Cherie and my great new hair cut. Perhaps a massage would help me, too.
The lobby of the day spa Elkie sent me to was completely white with sleek white furniture, plush white carpeting, and plain white walls. A lone pink peony blossom floated in a giant glass bowl on the reception desk. The receptionist, also all in white, spoke slowly and deliberately as she led me down a dim hallway to a tiny room. She murmured about how the platforms were heated for my comfort and I could choose to have aromatherapy as she opened a door. I froze in the doorway. The only thing in the small room was a table.
Holy crap! Why do I keep ending up naked on a table?
My heart jackhammered against my ribcage. I had the urge to run but I stood my ground. Elkie said it would be okay. Trust Elkie. The receptionist said something about starting face down and left me in the close dark chamber. I took a deep breath and repeated, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay” until the initial panic passed.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time in years, I prayed. Okay, God. I take it you are trying to show me something here. The parallels between this place and my nightmare are not lost on me. I’m just going to go with it and trust that I will be okay. Elkie said it would be okay. But I’m telling you right now, God. Don’t screw with me.
I took off my clothes and climbed onto the table. Fortunately, I realized I was supposed to get under the light cover rather than lay on top of it. I adjusted my face in the padded headrest and waited. For what, I didn’t know. I was letting go, letting things happen. I needed to trust. After several minutes of listening to tropical bird songs and waterfalls splashing, the masseuse came in. She was an average enough looking woman with a kind voice. She didn’t look like she would hurt me.
“I’m Brianna, we’ll be together for the next hour. What kind of massage do you like?”
“I don’t know. I’m new to this.”
“Why don’t we start with a gentle all over relaxation technique then? Are there any areas you want me to concentrate on this evening?”
“Yes, I pulled something in my left shoulder swimming. Maybe you could help me with that?”
“Certainly. We can work the kinks out of that joint.” I stuck my arm out. Brianna rubbed the shoulder and said, “Just relax.” A pulse of anxiety shot down my spine, but as Brianna rubbed her hands over my back and shoulders in long gentle strokes, the tension began to melt away. “If I am pushing too hard, just say something, okay?” Once I let go of my fear, the massage was a fabulous experience, completely different from any other. I focused on each muscle Brianna kneaded and repeated inwardly, what does this mean? I was determined to get the message God was trying to send me. I imagined Brianna pushing out the years of pain and sorrow with each pass over my back. Brianna moved to my feet and pulled on each of my toes. I imagined her tugging out splinters of resentment and regret from my soul. The holes filled with the soft music from the room. I felt waves of emotion bubble up from my core and burst in the lavender scented air.
Suddenly, I was aware of my body again. Brianna was rubbing my lower back. She pressed a spot along my spine that shot a bolt of searing pain down my legs and out my toes. I flinched and she backed off. “Does that hurt? I feel a lot of tightness through here. Do you carry your emotions in your pelvis?”
“You could say that,” I replied. “I have cancer.” Oh my God, I just told another total stranger. It wasn’t hard at all.
“I see,” Brianna stepped back. I was afraid she was going to stop the massage.
“But I am doing much better now. You don’t have to stop. You go ahead and wail on those muscles if you need to. I can take it.”
Brianna lightly touched the center of my back with her fingertips. “Let’s try a different technique to see if we can release some of that built up tension, hmm? Are you familiar with hot stone treatments?”
I lifted my head to look over my shoulder. Brianna had a smooth black stone in her palm. She appeared to be praying over it. “Hot stones? Like lava?”
At first all I could feel was a burning sensation but, slowly, the warmth from the stone radiated out through my pelvis. “Oh, that feels nice.”
“Good,” Brianna replied. “Let’s push that tension right out of your body.”
***
It had taken being diagnosed with cancer and withstanding the pain of treatment for me to stop seeing my body as an instrument of evil. It was work, but I was determined to integrate my mind and body into one entity. I still visited with the Lee’s every Tuesday and chatted with Susan over a large bowl of her delicious hot and sour soup, but I had also bought a twenty piece set of enameled cast-iron pots and pans and planned to put them to good use in my tiny kitchen.
As spring approached, my self-confidence blossomed along with the fruit trees and daffodils. Swimming daily gave me a sense of calm I never got from working out at the gym. The muffled sounds under water and repetitive motions transformed my morning workouts into a daily meditation practice. I enjoyed training with the team a couple times a week in order to keep in touch with the other women. The team was fun to be with, but they ran at half my pace.
My most consistent running partner was now Barkis, a pit-bull mix. We found each other outside the local food co-op one Saturday morning in early February. The local animal shelter had set up an adoption booth. To one side, several dogs with jaunty red bandanas were tied to a bicycle rack. They all sat politely and smiled at the passing shoppers, except for one brindled brown dog with a black patch across one cheek. He squatted, shaking, under the table. The dog growled when a little boy leaned over to look at him. The boy’s mother hustled him away squawking about the shelter exposing the public to such a dangerous animal. I could see in those big brown eyes that the dog wouldn’t have attacked the little boy; he was afraid of him. I quickly threw my groceries in the car and went back to look at the dog more closely. When I knelt down next to the table, the volunteer pinning flyers to a bulletin board warned, “Careful with that one. He’s part pit-bull. He’s liable to do anything.”
“Really? He’s not that big.” I slowly extended my hand under the table. The dog came over and sniffed it.
“You’re brave. He could have bitten your hand clean off. He’s been at the shelter for months now. Nobody wants him.” The dog nosed my leg then looked at the volunteer as if he understood the derision in the woman’s voice. I ran my hand over his back. As soon as I touched his soft fur I knew I had to take him home.
“What do you know about him?” The dog sat at my side and looked up patiently.
“He’s two years old and had all his shots. Like I said, he’s been with us for a long time. We think he was abused as a puppy. He’s part pit-bull. He won’t get any bigger than that.”
“This is the dog for me.” I didn’t know the first thing about caring for a dog but was determined to give this creature another chance in life.
“Are you sure? That lab over there is a good dog. Let me bring him over.”
“No, I want this one,” I said. I paid the fee, collected the free bag of food, and loaded the dog into Ruby’s back seat. He quietly trembled behind me during the ride back to my apartment. I couldn’t tell if he was excited or terrified. We spent the rest of the day getting to know each other. The dog was hesitant and alternated between letting me pet him and sitting close by but just out of reach.
The next morning I woke up to find the dog staring at me from the foot of my bed. “Well dog, you want to go for a run?” He gave a joyful bark in the affirmative. “Barkis is willing!” I said with a laugh. I searched around the garage for a piece of rope to use as a leash and tied it to the dog’s collar. “We’ll need to go to the store later and get you some more food and a real leash. Maybe I can pick up a book on how to be a dog owner.”
Barkis enjoyed the run as much as I did. I had found my new running partner. Later that day we bought a pile of manuals, an assortment of dog toys, and a large gold identification tag engraved with Barkis Blaine.