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Posts tagged ‘big hair’

Jun 7

35 Comments

Blow. It’s Cool.

This week, stories inspired by One Cool Blow. Because, there are so many possible meanings. If you think you know the origin of One Cool Blow, play along until the end of the week to let others draw their own conclusions. To follow the series from the first post, click here. Thanks for continuing to Click the Cootchie.

The way she angled her eyes at him, underneath all that hair……..he always let it build from a slow burn. Anyhow, he enjoyed building fires, was accomplished. The trick was how to put them out, because she never, ever delivered more than the bat of an eyelash or a lingering touch of her magenta-tipped fingers when she handed him his drink.

He fed the flame for a while, watching her and sipping. Scotch and her moves made for some good kindling. Until the explosion. It always came, sent him running out into the black night, the dim alley out behind the jazz place. The sensuous strains of the stuff bounced along the walls behind him as he fled for his usual walk. A ramble through this part of town cleared any head at two in the morning.

His footsteps shrieked to a halt when he rounded the corner, tried to pass through the side alley back to the street. Three beefy men were clustered there. Transacting. Yeah. That’s what it was called around there.

You here for some blow, man? One of them whispered like a gunshot through the bass line. It’s cool if you are. Got plenty on offer.

He eyed the partner to the white stuff, the sleek steel in his other hand. Coughing, he couldn’t string words together into a sentence.

Either you make a purchase, or you get on out of here and forget what you seen. Don’t stand there with your mouth open, catching flies. They ain’t good for your health, you know.

Back. He pretended he’d confronted royalty as he slowly backed away. Afraid they would shoot him if he showed them his backside, he crept around the corner and ran. Retracing his steps through the rising strains of sax and horn. Parting the mist of the smoky interior of the bar. He missed her wave in the wake of the slamming of the heavy front door.

Shame, really. He worked all those months to stoke her heat for some bigger acknowledgement, only to give her a cool blow-off the first time she flamed.

The sound of his retreat echoed in her ears as she tucked a stray amber strand of hair behind her ear. With fluttering heart, she whispered it to nobody.

Why do the hottest men blow cool?

Jun 6

37 Comments

A Tease and a Cool Blow

This week, stories inspired by One Cool Blow. Because, there are so many possible meanings. If you think you know the origin of One Cool Blow, play along until the end of the week to let others draw their own conclusions. To follow the series from the first post, click here. Thanks for continuing to Click the Cootchie.

A beehive was the biggest hair pic I could find.

She knew he watched her, how she made his drink real slow. Just so. He wasn’t the only thirsty man that pulled up at her watering hole, more to ogle her than to sample the middling booze on offer. Most times, she went through the motions, mechanical-like, hoping for an extra something in the cash and coins they left behind.

He was different. Never left her nasty notes, wanting her to meet him in a dark corner for some extra dough, slip outside on her break for a quickie. She liked that, appreciated the respect. Once she worked out his routine, she made sure to look real nice on the nights he showed up. Paid extra care when painting her face. Made sure her outfit flattered her rounded hips and narrow waist. Spent part of the day at the beauty parlor for a tease and a cool blow.

He liked big hair. He mentioned it. Once.

Every Thursday, she sat in that chair for three hours. Watched while poor Nellie wrangled her waist-length hair into gravity-defying skyscrapers. Teasing. Blowing. Shellacking. Sometimes, she had to scrunch down in the seat to drive the car, could barely see over the dash to navigate. It was then she imagined the desire behind the whites of his eyes, the way they lit up when he slipped into that vinyl seat, took a drink, and always said the same two words.

Nice hair.

May 18

63 Comments

A Hairy Situation

It is a fundamental truth of life that females deplore their hair. I’ve never met a woman who cited her tresses as her favorite feature. If our hair is straight, we complain that it’s limp and stringy, and we pine for the lush curls of our ringleted counterparts. Curly hair is simply too unruly, too frizzy, too big, too tangly, and stick-straight hair would solve all of those Nasty Dilemmas of Coiffure.

I am the spawn of a Proper Southern Woman. Just look at her down there, smiling from the aura of her Perfectly Executed Southern Female Beauty Regimen.

As often happens, I am the opposite of my Mother.

At the ripe young age of almost-two, my hair is already mousy brown, straight and stringy. My Mother tried to style it by throwing a portion of it on top of my head in a barrette, but that did little more than condition me to throw all of it up in clips and rubber bands to avoid fixing it as an adult.

In elementary school, stringy-hair-syndrome had fully set in. I suppose the gap in my bangs matched the gap in my front teeth……

At some point, like most females of a certain age, I decided my hair was too straight. I paid real cash to have someone make me look like an electrocution victim. Around this time (I was twenty-two in this picture), those nasty white strands also started appearing with horrifying regularity. For a while, I pulled them out. Then, I realized if I didn’t stop, I was going to look like this again……

And, bald isn’t a very fetching look for an adult female, regardless of how easy it might be to manage. After evaluating my options, I decided blonde was the way to go.

The highlights masked the white while giving my hair (SURPRISE!) the ideal amount of body and shine. Even after flying all night and not combing it, I loved my hair. Only, being hair, it rebelled against my worship of it, going into overdrive to produce more icky white follicles than the blonde could ever trick the eye into containing. Drastic measures of Hair Therapy were required…..

Red. It was the only thing my feeble, highlighted-into-malfunctioning mind could do. After two years as a red head, I still don’t like it. I often shriek when I see that woman in the mirror who turns out to be me.

What do you recommend I do with my hair, Dear Reader?

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