BOUFFANT
“Angela,” her father yelled from the backyard, “go see if your mother is done at that hairdresser.”
Angela knew better than to talk back even though she was practically an adult at age 12.
It was the 60’s and she had already been grounded twice since spring. She threw down her magazine and secretly gave her father the finger.
The hairdresser was right down the street in Josephine Amorello’s basement. Of course, everyone called her Jo. Jo, with impossibly arched eyebrows, frizzy hair dyed goldy-red, Florida tan and bony-slim. Jo, Marlboro Light hanging out of her mouth as she gossiped and cut hair simultaneously. Jo, spouting advice as she held your head under the too hot water sprayer.
Underneath the cellar stairs was a wobbly card table covered with a flowery plastic tablecloth. The table was piled high with coffee and snacks; a little anisette to make coffee corretto, Stella Doro cookies, salted fava beans and those miniature hard candies called Glitterati. Plus, a stack of flyers advertising the Saint Anthony’s summer festival. Angela made a beeline for the table even though she wanted desperately to fit into those hip hugger jeans without her baby fat spilling over. And the festival was in two weeks!
Angela tried to steer clear of Jo’s sharp scissors and comments because she was growing out her bangs, just like Cher. Too bad that her teacher didn’t think that look was appropriate. “Angela,” she said, “Principal’s office, now.” The rest of the day Angela had to attend classes with a rubber band around her beautiful black bangs.
Jo’s three kids were always misbehaving underfoot as she was working. She was constantly yelling “Tommy and Joey stop screwing around,” as she did your comb-out. The louder she screamed the harder she teased your hair. Angela’s mother had read that a high bouffant hairdo made one look thinner. Let Jo tease and spray till the cows come home.
Angela whispered to her mother “Why is Jo so mad today?”
“Because her husband is running around”, her mother barely answered. You see, Jo’s husband Sammy was a schmoozer and womanizer. He had the perfect job, a door to door salesman. The smell of his cigars and cologne lingered long after he had charmed the woman of the house into buying pricey pots and pans.
That day Sammy sauntered down into the basement hairdressers and all of the women’s eyes lit up. He made a beeline for Jo who was putting the finishing touches of noxious spray on Angela’s mother’s hair. Sammy grabbed Jo roughly and hissed, “Stay out of my business, or you’ll be sorry.” On his way out, Sammy’s wandering eyes spied Angela. Zeroing in on her breasts, he hummed Neal Diamond’s “Girl, you’ll be a woman soon,” under his breath.
The acrid smell of perms, snips of hair all over the floor and floating in the air. Puffy heads under the dryer (Jo only had one). The Maytag washer behind a swirly pink and orange curtain and dirty laundry baskets in the next room for all to see. Was this your life when your husband runs around?
Bio:
Elisa Lanzi is an artist and writer working at the intersection of printmaking and book
arts. An ardent traveler, she draws inspiration from sojourns to the Mediterranean. Elisa
had an earlier career in libraries and museums, fueling her deep engagement with
literature and art. Her writing has appeared in Ovunque Siamo, and her artwork is
exhibited nationally and internationally. Outside of the studio she enjoys herb gardening
and cooking with friends and family. Elisa grew up in an Italian-American family in
Rochester, NY and lives in western Massachusetts.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 