Wash that Ghost Right out of My Hair

Yesterday was hair control day. Every five weeks I traipse up to Middlebury, VT to a salon called Texture to see the genius David for color and straightening. I have what I refer to (lovingly) as very Jewish hair. It is bushy and curly and frizzy and left to its own devises will keep growing like a Chia pet in the humidity of summer. It was a great look in the 1980s but for my age and this day I prefer to take an iron to it and wear it long and straight. So David repairs the natural highlights and I get a lovely nap while under the dryer.

It's a challenge to be able to read or write while waiting for the color to set since I do wear reading glasses. If I put them on once the color and plastic baggy are on my head, the ends of the eyewear get color on them. I have given up trying to keep them clean and have a special pair for such occasions. So yesterday, for a little bit of time I worked on an outline I need for a writing project I will tell you about in another blog post. I did manage to close my eyes for a bit and felt very relaxed which is an invitation for things to start happening.

David called me back in to have the color washed out of my hair. I closed my eyes as he rinsed and massaged my hair and scalp and then she showed up. Her name was Mary and she had dyed red hair and strong red lipstick on and was puffing on a  cigarette mumbling about the building electrical. I saw her in my third eye. When I wondered if she had been a customer or not she just threw her head back and laughed.

I asked David about her. He was casual and said that one of the previous owners was Mary Forte and maybe it was she who had popped in. He had not met her so was unsure about the physical description I gave him. So we don't really know but I did say to him that he should check into the electrical. He mentioned that the fuse box was dicey.

"Well get it checked!"  But who, save a medium, tales advise from the dead.

I  do love it when her sort pops in. I had one similar woman do the same when talking with my editor. She had been the previous owner of the editor's home and loved the place. She came back to it after death and hung around the kitchen table smoking those third eye cigarettes - chain smoking actually and attracting the attention of the golden retriever. These are the sorts of visitors I enjoy.