It's a Chick Thing. Ame Mahler Beanland
Читать онлайн книгу.
and a little girl in heavy makeup, just shook his head.
I was a nervous wreck, but was so busy keeping up with Detrice's brisk pace I had little time to think of anything besides not tripping. Detrice put her arm around Kay and swept into the lounge with a passing wink to the bartender and a sugar-coated, “She's just real petite, Honey.” Charmed, he grinned back and kept drying glasses. We tried to act sophisticated, but couldn't help but lapse into a few giggling fits as I sipped my greyhound, Detrice nursed a vodka tonic, and Kay stirred a cherry Coke.
All of a sudden, I became captivated by what seemed like an inordinate number of beautiful women sitting at the bar waiting for their husbands. They perched elegantly on their stools, hair perfectly coifed, with their hourglass figures brightly encased in daring fashions. Like exotic birds, they cooed and fussed over their mates as they joined them. My captivation turned to downright fascination when Detrice explained that they were not married to the men and that the warm reception was paid for, I'd never seen anything like that before. We took in the atmosphere, tapped our feet to the live music, and for a few hours tried our best to pretend like we were from Atlanta. Soon wed spent all our money, but Detrice insisted on staying until midnight, when they served complimentary popcorn and treated all the ladies to a free drink.
At 12:15, after a stop in the ladies' room to wash Kay's face, we could hardly walk for giggling as we headed back to the bruised station wagon and cruised home, laughing until our sides ached. Pete was in bed when we arrived home, so Detrice had all night to mentally formulate her Academy Award-caliber performance of how the car was dented in the parking lot after we came out of the store—which was really the truth, minus a few details.
—MARY “BOOTSIE” MAHLER
a Hair-RAising AdveNture
Let's just say I told Jody she didn't need a hair dryer in Africa, but she insisted. It was 1990, and Jody and I had just graduated from college, where we had been roommates for two of those formative years. We met on a hiking trip before freshman year and later bonded over cigarettes, boys, our mothers, and the answering machine. Jody was learning to play the guitar, and the only song she could really play was “Angie,” by the Rolling Stones. In an effort to expand her repertoire, we spent hours trying to record our rendition of James Taylor's “Fire and Rain” on our outgoing message. Life was sweet. After graduation, in the ongoing effort to delay reality, we decided to spend some time abroad. She went to Nairobi to build housing for poor families, and I went to Israel to kiss foreign boys.
Many huts and hotties later, we agreed to meet in the Frankfurt airport to backpack through newly opened Eastern Europe. How we found each other among the teeming throngs I'll never know; it must have been the hair dryer-shaped bulge protruding from Jody's pack that innately drew me to her. In an effort to stay light, Jody would rip out the pages of Moby Dick once she read them, but God forbid she should part with her 2,000-watt dryer. Despite Jody's moveable hair salon (lest we need to be glamorous at a moment's notice), we were actually on a budget. So we hitchhiked east, to Prague.
Our first ride was with Gerald, a terminator-glasses-wearing German truck driver who spoke no English. Our next ride was with two American soldiers driving a red sports car. Although travel-weary, grungy, and decidedly uncoifed, we agreed to go with them to a disco. We fell asleep in their car and awoke the next morning, only to be dropped off on some rural highway median. We must have looked quite a wreck with particularly bad hair, because two German nuns took pity on us only minutes later. (At least they wear habits to compensate for bad hair days.) They drove us to the Czech border, and although I highly doubt we looked malnourished, they even gave us some yogurt and bread for breakfast.
The perfectly coifed pair in Prague
We thanked them, got out, and walked the few hundred yards to the border. I must have had more of a spring in my step, or maybe it was just that my backpack was lighter without the hair dryer, but walking ahead, I noticed two cute guys in line standing near their car. We started chatting and learned they were officers in the U.S. Army (We love the military.) Maybe it was luck, maybe they too were feeling charitable, or maybe they had been in Europe so long that they figured that even an American girl suffering from a bad hair day shaves her armpits. Whatever it was, we got to Prague, cleaned ourselves up, and had an unforgettable romantic weekend with the majors.
Now, almost exactly ten years and many hairstyles later, Jody has a new hair dryer, a husband, and a baby boy named Max. And I have had the chance to kiss some real foreign boys. It must mean I am getting older (or have better luggage), but now when I travel, I bring a hair dryer and always think of my adventures with my dear sister-friend Jody
—JILL POLLACK
“If you see someone with a stunning haircut, grab her by the wrist and demand fiercely to know the name, address, and home phone number of her hairdresser. If she refuses to tell you, burst into tears.”
—Cynthia Heimel
B B B
Seventeen years ago, it started as a long weekend getaway to Myrtle Beach in South Carolina—a bridge group of eight women in their early forties, leaving husbands and families for some rest and relaxation. This trip quickly grew to a full week and now numbers ten women, including those who moved away and would not miss it for the world. A rented five-bedroom house right on the ocean is our retreat.
It is a collection of “all chiefs and no Indians,” The personalities and talents are diverse, but nothing is ever held back. If you want to say it, you say it, and we go on.
Our conversation topics have changed over the years, but certain ground rules were set and have remained constant. We do not discuss our husbands. For the week they are referred to only as “them,” Another essential to our beach vacation is that our peace is not interrupted by a ringing telephone. No one calls us unless it is a dire emergency. For goodness sake, it's seven days—stuff can wait. Other traditions include drawing for our rooms when we arrive, piña coladas on the beach at 11:00 A.M., and pimento cheese and tomato sandwiches for lunch. Our big midweek feast is steamed crab legs and shrimp served picnic-style on a large dining table covered in newspapers. Absolutely the best!
This is a no-holds-barred time for bonding. We share stories, laugh, act terribly silly, and sometimes become very serious. There are long walks on the beach, sunbathing, reading, and just relaxing on the porch in a big rocker. We play ail types of music. In the evenings, we turn it up loud and shag to that fabulous Motown music.
The BBBs sporting their signature T-shirt
One summer, I arrived by airplane a day later than the rest. They had taken all my stuff with them, and agreed to meet me at the airport. It was a typical hot humid August afternoon. Since I work for the airlines and was flying standby, I was very professionally dressed. I sat next to a very dapper-looking businessman and excitedly told him about my friends and all the fun we would have. He wanted to talk, and I kept him entertained during the whole flight with my chatter about our group and what a diverse, talented, and sophisticated group of friends I was joining. He got off the plane with me, curiously watching to see who would meet me.
This group of normally fashionably turned-out women were standing by the gate as I deplaned. What a shock! I felt my face turning red. Each one wore shorts and a fluorescent pink T-shirt with three words boldly emblazoned in glitter across their chests: Beach Bridge Bitches.
They were covered in oily suntan lotion, sporting outrageous sunglasses, and had necklaces fashioned from seaweed and other beach “treasures.” I was given a “Hawaiian” welcome, complete with a seaweed lei ceremoniously placed around my neck.
The