I saw her in the obituaries a couple days ago–and now her funeral is just across the street, in a stately Catholic church, but I won’t go.

She was beautiful when she was young, according to the tastes of the crowds; I found her loud.  I will confess, her photograph on the electronic obituary held only a memory of her beauty when I knew her.  I suppose her real beauty was on a George Orwell sort of scale; the fleeting beauty of youth hanging soggy laundry in the ghetto side of town.  Then marriage, children, a thickening waist — so become lumps.

Sometimes the beautiful don’t do well with the lump stage of life.

She wore the short skirt of a cheerleader on Friday. She was invited to all the parties on Saturday and went to Mass on Sundays. Her hair was always perfect.

I remember her parents, how proud they seemed of how fine she looked cheering the football team on in those chilly October nights.  They stood close to the cheerleaders, passing them hot cocoa and smiling back at friends who sat close together under blankets looking safe from the cold of autumn and the promise of winter. 

She was a hairdresser at her own upscale salon that she and her friends started. I was a walk in. I wanted a cut, something different. She didn’t recognize me from our high school days. Why remember a wall flower? After shampooing my hair she asked,”How do you want me to cut it?”

“I’m looking for something different.”

She pursed her lips and looked out the window. Friday night was beginning to glow outside the large window. “Right. Well I need some direction okay.”

“You in a hurry?”

She looked at my reflection in the mirror. She narrowed her eyes and tapped the sharp little scissors on the edge of my chair. I paid her for the shampoo and didn’t tip her. I went home and cut my own hair. No hard feelings, sincerely.

Her obituary stated she was survived by her fur baby, Hank.