PM2 25: Painful price to pay

What's the most you ever paid for something you didn't want?

Preamble: I had to think long and hard for this one, and while there were several recent purchases that came to mind, I was looking for horror. Once I honed in on that emotion, it came to me.


It was 1988. I was twenty. I was living in Frankfurt and loving life. I had reached the pinnacle of young adulthood, gained enough self-confidence to be dangerous. I prided myself on my propensity to get up and go around the bustling city, to hop a train to some - any! - random village, to drift along on a cushion of curiosity. I spoke rudimentary German, never turned down a beer (that would be rude!) and avoided anything American. In this phase of self-discovery, I decided to give myself as physical of a makeover as I was experiencing internally, and booked an appointment at a chic hair salon in the city.

I was nervous when I arrived, knowing that the language barrier potentially posed a problem, but the energetic stylist was eager to please, and between our broken communique, I described my desire to turn my weighty, unkempt half-asian/half-irish mop into grand orchestrated waves. Grosse, I said, gesturing in sweeping motions along my limpid locks. Big curls. The stylist nodded approvingly, then went about prepping solutions, draping protective cloaks, and making short work of winding isolated sections of hair around plastic framework. Even at her dizzying speed, the process took some time. I knew I had legendarily thick tresses, a blessing from both genetic pools, but soon I began to wonder. The plastic clamps proliferated from my crown to my nape, tight against my scalp. It was my first perm, and while I knew in concept what the process was, I was woefully unfamiliar with the actuality. The waiting. The odor. The slight itch and burn. The slowly emerging dred of 'what have I done?' that was sprouting its way up my spine. While my discomfort reached crescendo levels, I had no words to express my concerns. I had no translation for 'wait a minute' or 'how will this turn out'. I simply sat, petrified by misgiving.

Once the torturous time had passed, and the setting and rinsing had concluded, the stylist cheerfully unfurled, coil after coil, chemically induced curlique. My heart was pounding, and yet still, I had no words. I didn't know how to ask for the corkscrews to be calmed down, in either language. As the lingering moisture evaporated from the ringlets, the thickness of my hair began to take on a life of its own. I stared, aghast, in abject horror, as the carnage was puffed and teased. My previously timid tresses had transformed - into a half-asian afro. I'd turned into Gilda Radner's slightly yellow-toned cousin. Still in shock, I'd paid the bill - a reasonable number until I you applied the exchange rate to Deutchmarks - and turned sideways at the doorway to exit my explosion of grosse - MANY - curls.

:::

PM2 143: When were YOU last in a church?

Write about the last time you entered a church - what brought you there?

preamble: this was a hard subject for me, so I chose to write it in the third person, for a little emotional distance. I may try it in the first person at some point, but I'm not there yet...


The assembled group sat in scattered clusters amid the rows of rigid folding chairs. You could guess at the connections - family cloaked in black, coworkers in their somber suit coats, social acquaintances united by subdued yet street-wise fashion sense. The mix was diverse, and noticeably contrasting. It was, in fact, a snapshot summary of Mark's life: varied and seemingly contradictory aspects, combined yet segmented. The church hall itself held the same sense of contradiction. A modest - downright sparse - rectilinear space (perhaps a renovated warehouse?) surprisingly graced with horizontal rows of elegant stained glass, high up on the flanking walls. The lavender paint, iconic rainbow flag wall banners and pointedly non-denomination symbolism all highlighted the dichotomy of alternate lifestyle and religious piety.

There was no viewing. The body had been discovered much too late for that. At the front of the hall was a folding card table draped in velvet cloth, where photographs of all shape and sizes had been assembled. Classically framed portraits (high school graduation?) adjacent to inkjet printed snapshots. A family photo album, opened to images of Mark surrounded by siblings. Mark skateboarding in a vacant parking lot. Mark, richly illustrated by an encompassing tattoo never seen under his broadcloth button-down work attire, clowning for the camera. Mark smiling that infectious, ear-to-ear grin, carefree and happy-go-lucky. But that these were the only remaining traces of that smile revealed a darker, hidden facet of Mark that no photo had captured.

The ceremony was short. The minister read a passage, the organist played a piece. Two life-long friends each took to the podium for a brief address, both tributes heartbreaking yet humorous. Amid the underlying current of pain and grief, the divergent guests seemed joined in a collective sigh of release, of peace. Then, in the clusters they arrived in, they spilled forth, out of the shadowy cloister into the bright mid-day sunshine.

:::

PM2 77a: Define an object

Define and describe a common object in 20 words or less.

Symmetrical and cylindrical, tapering and textured. Dimpled, for a purpose. One size fits on at least one of your ten.

:::

PS. My object? A thimble. Tell me you figured it out! [wink]