September | 2011 | I Hate To Embarrass My Mother, But...

When Pad Kee Mow Attacks

The names have been changed or omitted to protect the innocent.

I realize IBS is no laughing matter. In fact, there are plenty of things that are funnier. Take, for instance, a Saturday that started like any other. There I was, slapping wigs around when a hunger pain hit. It was mid morning and I’d had nothing for breakfast. You see, I’d met a friendgirl for drinks and appetizers the night before. What should’ve been a couple of cocktails and a few bites turned into ten years of therapy crammed into three hours and one of everything from the small plate menu. The next morning, I figured I’d had enough calories to fuel a small Delta town, so I skipped breakfast.

Shortly after ten thirty, I became ravenous. My stomach began to rumble and gurgle loud enough for clients to hear, on the other side of the salon. “More coffee.” I thought. Later, I checked for snacks, but there were none to be found, and the half a pack of gum I’d swallowed hadn’t helped a bit. “Another coffee.” I said to my assistant.

Eventually I made it to my last client, but my enthusiasm was short-lived, as I realized she was in for a Keratin Treatment. For those who don’t know, a Keratin Treatment takes a couple hours, at least. In the beginning, I saw this service as a break from the monotony of cutting and styling hair all day. But now, after eighteen months and countless Keratin Treatments performed, it had become dreadful. I smoothed and dabbed, combed and sectioned, as my stomach processed cup after cup of coffee. By the time I was finished flat ironing and setting with hairspray, my face was red, my heart rate elevated and I could almost read people’s minds.

I suggested to the client, if she was free, we might check out the new Thai place for a late lunch. She, being a fan already, took me up on my offer. I clipped along Lakeland Drive at a hurried pace, as hundreds of other drivers bobbed back and forth in the lanes ahead. My impatience grew and I’m ashamed to say I honked at an elderly woman in a Buick.

Once inside the restaurant, we chatted about the menu and what looked good. My client’s sister had met us there, and was eager to try something new. It was soon my time to order and I waffled for a bit, then landed on a spicy chicken dish. The server, with caution in his voice said “You like spicy?”

“Sure” I said confidently “Bring it on.”

As they picked at appetizers, I ate my soup and declared it “delightful.”
When the entrees arrived, mounded high and steaming fresh, our eyes grew large like children on Christmas morning. My client waxed poetic about her Thai Basil rice and I was more than happy to sample. The sister however, declared her dish inedible, as it was too spicy. Plucking a bit of chicken from her plate, I said “Oh honey, that’s not spicy.” and shook my head out of pity for her weak palette.

Then, as the sisters looked on, I took the first bite of my dish. Before it reached my tongue, the heat coming off my chopsticks singed my nose hair. As the tender morsel of chicken came to rest on my tongue, steam began to waft from my ears.

“How is it?” said my client, who wasn’t eaten meat in over a year.

“Isss goooth.” I forced from my scorched mouth.

With each bite, the burn crept out of my mouth and began to claw it’s way up my face and down my neck. Just as my nose let loose a free flowing stream of my liquified brain, I poked in another mouthful. “Thispppp Isss show gooooth!” I offered.

I reached to undo my collar button and loosen my tie, as tears streamed down my face. Much like a kid who’d been dared to jump from the roof to the trampoline below, I continued to eat.

My client, staring in disbelief, asked “Honey, maybe you should stop for a moment? You’re starting to sweat.”

“Hoooo no, isss fiiiide. Isss sssoh thelishusss!” I replied.

Four glasses of un-sweet tea later, they took their to-go boxes and I scooted to my car. As I pulled out of the parking lot, my stomach began to make growling noises I’ve only ever heard from a pissed off feral cat. “Oh, dear god in heaven, please don’t let this happen.” I prayed silently.

Again, absent minded drivers seemed determined to take turns blocking my hurried commute home. I tried not to focus on the increasingly alarming sounds from my gut, but as I looped onto the interstate, sweat dripping from my brow and pooling at the small of my back, the contents of my belly began to flip like an unborn baby.

“GET OUTTA MY WAY!!!” I screamed, as I launched my car from one lane to the third one over. “IM GONNA SHIT MYSELF, YOU DUMB FUCKS!!!”

A false sense of security settled over me as I exited on to Pearl Street. With only four blocks left, I felt confident about getting home safely. Until, that is, my sphincter began spasm as if in an epileptic seizure. “Holy shitballs…” I whispered, as I caught the Congress Street red light, “I’m not gonna make it.”

I live on the twelfth floor if a recently renovated hotel. That, combined with a parking garage designed by a drunk five year old, makes getting from car to apartment challenging on a normal day. Today, however, was unlike any other I could recall.

I stabbed at the elevator button like Joe Pesci going at a goon with a ball-point pen. I’d noticed someone exiting their car as I whipped into my parking place and I’d hoped to beat them to the lift. As is my luck, it was my next door neighbor, and she made it just as the doors opened.

“Hey Eddie, how’s it going?” she asked.

“”Great!” I replied, I little too enthusiastically.

“Big plans for the weekend?” she pressed.

“Nope!” I chirped, as I crossed my legs and shifted my weight.

“You okay?” she implored with a worried look.

Then, the elevator stopped as recorded voice announced “Twelfth floor.” and I darted into the hall. “Okay! Later, bye!” I exclaimed as my sphincter gave up on me. Now, we’ve all heard what it sounds like when a baby relieves itself, right? That mix of squishy fart, muffled by a diaper? Imagine THAT sound, repeated with every step, as I trotted down the hall.

As I mouthed “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” over and over, like some sort of mess defying incantation, I fumbled for my keys. Once inside the safety of my own home, and as the pets scattered for cover, I let out a cry that might have scared the the Union soldiers back across the Mason-Dixon Line. Utterly defeated, thoroughly ashamed and mad as a wet cat, I sat backwards on the toilet and rested my head on my arms, atop the tank, whimpering.

Another “Life Lesson” learned in true Outlaw fashion, that sometimes bad things happen to good people, after great Thai food.

7 comments

19 Sep 11

Being The Help

What started out as just another Thursday at the salon took a turn towards surreal sometime around mid-day. As I finished with a client, my receptionist inched towards me with the phone looking a little frightened. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I’d rather take a knee to the groin than answer a “cold call.” I hoped my Xanax would kick in, as I was the only “boss” available to handle what was inevitably going to be a complaint. Rather than an unhappy customer or a misguided sales call, I’d been keeping Hollywood on hold. Yes, that Hollywood. After a short conversation, I hung up and wandered around the salon desperately needing someone to slap me. At some point, I finally relayed the conversation that went something like “Hi, I need three more stylists to take care of the cast of The Help this weekend, and I immediately thought of you.” Later that day, as we found ourselves less than twenty-four hours from literally being “the help” for The Help, the excitement took hold and spread throughout the salon.

The next morning was a flurry of activity as we packed up our tools and met up with other stylists for the drive to an undisclosed location somewhere near south Bucksnort. The cast of The Help was staying in a private home for the weekend. I followed, one in a line of cars full of “groomers.” Somewhere north of Jackson, MS just south of Memphis, it seems, we came to a gated driveway. Once cleared to enter, we made our way further along rolling hills that finally opened up to a home sitting atop a hill. The terraced steps led to a structure clad with stonework and columns that appeared to have been there as long as Mississippi had been in the union. I began to sweat just a bit, “I can’t go in there. What if I break something?”

We were quickly greeted by the lady of the house and escorted to where the beauty was to happen. It was a large room filled with natural light and more than enough room for individual work stations where the stars would be double teamed by hair and makeup. I was told I’d be working upstairs in the guest suite. I had the distinction of working with Allison Janney and we’d be alone. I was led through the great room and kitchen, to the stairs which led to the guest suite. I took care not to stomp like a plow mule, as I’d been informed Ms Janney was still asleep.

and she started moaning like a fat girl with a box of Twinkies.

I was left alone, in a living area just off a short hallway to the guest bedroom where Allison was sleeping. I busied myself with Angry Birds for a few minutes and then stood in a window facing east marveling at the rolling hills around me. Just when my eye began to travel along the salvaged wood that ran the full length of the vaulted ceiling, I heard footsteps and turned to see my movie star in all her glory. With pillow tousled hair, unlike the polished images I’d seen online the night before, she smiled brightly and held out her hand, “Hello, I’m Allison. Are you doing my hair today?” as if she’d rehearsed it a million times.

When I was informed I’d be caring for Ms. Janney, I pictured her as a larger than life character with a repertoire of one-liners that would keep the room in stitches. At the end of the day, she’d kiss me on the cheek and say something campy like, “Come see me when you want to know what Hollywood feels like.” Then she would throw her head back and give a throaty laugh. Later, as her helicopter lifted off whipping my hair into a hot mess, I’d stand there caressing the Q-tip I’d stolen from the waste basket in her bathroom.

As it was, I told the makeup artist that I’d need a few minutes before she began as I wanted her to enjoy a head massage and blow out before she had a stranger poking around in her face. I was surprised to see that she had a bit of wave in her hair, so I applied an anti-humectant to deflect the infamous humidity that abounds this time of year. God forbid she steps out of her stretch Hummer and her hair explodes like a troll doll while all of Jackson’s high society looks on. As I layered on product, I took care to massage the pressure points and she started moaning like a fat girl with a box of Twinkies. By the time I started in with the round brush, she was putty in my hands. Occasionally she’d ask about my life in the South, how I came to be a stylist or what I knew of the Mississippi Delta. It felt like the kind of sharing people do when they feel comfortable with a stranger they might never meet again. When I was done, I sent word that she was ready for makeup and took my place on a settee near the fireplace.

The makeup artist arrived and arranged everything on a glass coffee table near Allison. She explained everything she was doing, even instructing Ms Janney as to which direction to look while she dabbed and smoothed. When she was finished painting, she took her leave. Before I realized what was about to happen, the “movie star” began to paint her own toes, offering only “I just didn’t have time to do this before I left LA.” I watched, mesmerized by the skill with which she touched each toe, and it reminded me of watching my mother apply her lip color with a brush when I was a boy. There she was, human just like the rest of us.

Years ago, when I was more idealistic, I was given some advice that I considered gospel for many years. A seasoned stylist told me “Never forget, at the end of the day, you’re just the help. There’s always someone else that can do for that client better than you.” Eventually I realized that was just a cold and hardened way to view my place in the world. It happens that way, the chipping away of the things I think concrete in my life. Some of life’s lessons don’t come in the form of “the sky is falling!” Some are as quiet as a pin drop and just as unnoticeable if you’re in too big a hurry. For all the excitement over “being the help” I could very well have missed the chance to see what enables Allison to bring something real to every character. For all of my expectations that I projected on these “stars” I might have left feeling they were shut off or stuck up, had I not picked up on the subtle way they retreat into themselves, shutting out unnecessary chatter. I can’t speak for the other stylists but I can tell you that, whether Ms Janney meant to or not, I left that experience feeling more like an ambassador for the South and less like “the help.”

4 comments

10 Sep 11

The Act Of Creativity

Originally published August 24, 2011 Jackson Free Press

I grew up in the Mississippi Delta in a large family with some of the most artistic people in Humphreys County. Some could paint; others received riches of literary talent; all could spin a tale. Mamaw Outlaw’s youngest, Uncle Richard, was a hairdresser like me, and for several years handed out business cards that said “Your hair looks like sh*t.” I spent countless hours with this colorful group, gleaning our history and embracing my God-given place in a long line of far-from-Broadway performers with great comedic timing.

When I hear of a high-school kid interning in some big city for the summer, I wonder how I might have turned out if given that opportunity. What could I have picked up from more cosmopolitan folks had we vacationed in New York City or Los Angeles instead of the Ozarks? As it was, I spent hours plowing though issues of Metropolitan Home during study hall. I’ll never forget the first time I saw a loft apartment in glossy print. I looked around our two blocks of “downtown” and wondered if I could do the same thing. Secretly, I began to squirrel away pages of materials and furnishings from Mother’s Spiegel and Sears catalogues. Anyone with half a brain would have urged me toward interior design or architecture, but how in the world is a 17-year-old supposed to know which way to go if nobody has shown him the options?

Mrs. Mortimer, my high-school English teacher and wife of the local mortician, wins the award for trying. She survived two heart attacks, and the rumor was she’d been re-animated like the bride of Frankenstein with less hair and makeup. Almost all the students were afraid of her. One day she asked me to come to her classroom. I quickly scanned the day’s events for something I’d done wrong. Finding nothing, I followed obediently, shoulders slouched, brow furrowed into a knot. As I entered the room, the door shut behind me. “If she sucks the life out of me now, I’ll never know who shot J.R.,” I thought. She sat down, opened a drawer and pushed a book in my direction. “Show this to your parents. Tell them I said this is the place for you,” she said, with an accent devoid of the typical Delta drawl, and sent me on my way.

If someone is willing to show me how, I’m more than willing to take it up

Later that day, I bounded off the bus.

“Look, Momma!” I yelled excitedly. “Mrs. Mortimer thinks I should be an artist!” I handed her the catalogue, and Mother flipped through the book. “New York? Paris? Has she lost her mind?” she asked.

“But Mother, it’s Par-sons!” I replied. (I had no clue what Parsons was, and knew even less about New York.)

She handed it back to me and said: “Son, you’re going to be the first in this family to finish college. And that college is Mississippi College.” She then gave me her patented Bonnie nod. That nod was like ending a statement with “or I’ll whip you ’til your butt won’t hold shucks.”

I never gave myself permission to refer to myself as “a creative” until I moved into the Fondren Corner building. There, I found myself neck deep in a community serious about its art. Hell, if one of our graffiti artists worked over my car, I’d consider myself lucky. I once spent an afternoon watching William Goodman put the finishing touches on a collection and then deftly turning and whitewashing a wall with the same reverence. From time to time, Ginger Williams would show up at my door with a story about teaching classes to inner-city kids at the Mississippi Museum of Art. Back before we lost Josh Hailey to his dreams in Los Angeles, he often burst into the salon to say “hey” and ask an opinion about his outfit. Remember the Borat bikini? Not my idea.

Over the next few years, I met several creatives and befriended quite a few. What I discovered by watching them is that creativity grows by the act of creating. Their works are a result of countless hours of practicing the act of being artistic. Ginger Williams once debuted a mini retrospective in my salon during Arts, Eats and Beats, covering every wall with works that she produced during her life’s highs and lows. Every piece spoke to me on some level.

Inspired by Goodman and others, I picked up the brush again. I thought back to time I’d spent with Mamaw Outlaw. One afternoon, we hopped into her maroon Oldsmobile and rode to Yazoo City. As we made our way down the aisles of the local Rite Aid, she stopped at the craft section and selected an oil paint set. Her bright blue eyes lit up as she whispered “How would you like me to teach you to paint?” I felt something take hold, and it’s something I’ve never forgotten. If someone is willing to show me how, I’m more than willing to take it up. It’s no wonder that every single time I smell linseed oil I think of her. Thankfully, living in Fondren ensures I never forget.

I Hate To Embarrass My Mother, But…

Month: September, 2011

29 Sep 11