“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” The last words of The Great Gatsby   A Blast From The Past Part 1 By Ginger Collins

---

 
It started out as a relaxing morning at a highly recommended hair salon, Lana’s. Lana, by the way is actually, Syvetlana, a vivacious Russian lady who came to the United States about 10 years ago and after two successful divorces had the financial wherewithal to open her own retro style salon on Geary St in downtown San Francisco near Union Square. It’s a small shop, very cozy, and the various chairs, stations, and old-fashioned hair dryers are close together. As a result, gossiping among the clientele is the norm and essentially non-stop. You don’t come here expecting quiet contemplation while you are primped and pampered. Because this was my first visit to Lana’s, thankfully, a gal pal had given me a heads up.

I was there for a major up-do and was chatting gaily with a waitress from the Cliff House who was getting some highlights done. It was all very superficial and delicious. She was young and unabashed and was waxing forth on the joys of her new vibrator when I tensed slightly as I thought I recognized a familiar voice from across the cramped quarters complaining about the imperfections of men. Soon and to my instant discomfort, the voice joined a tall, slender body as the woman came into view to join me under an adjacent hair dryer. She was middle-aged, well maintained, and expensively dressed. I read her dress as a Vera Wang and I could clearly hear her Jimmy Choos as she elegantly weaved her way through traffic to join me. She was toned, buffed, and virtually wrinkle free.

It had been more than 15 years since we had last met and that had been in a lawyer’s office on Montgomery St. I knew there was not the slightest chance that she would recognize me so I relaxed a little and let memories overwhelm me. My silence was immediately noticed as my newly arrived companion commented, “Gee, Hon, you’re awfully quiet. This must be your first trip to Lana’s.”

“It is,” I murmured. To my immense relief, our hookups to the dryers prevented eye contact. She hadn’t introduced herself, but I knew that fate had just seated Sara next to me after an absence of a decade-and-a half. Truly, the gods were laughing!

Their laughter must have erupted into cheering as she launched into a self-serving monologue that seemed endless. Despite her updated version, I had heard a lot of it before. About the only new thing I learned was that after Lana’s, she was going to the Fairmont for a mid-afternoon cocktail. That would be preceded and followed by stops at charity events. Ah, the idle rich!

Understandably, then, I was not caught off guard when she launched into a diatribe against her first husband, Michael, whom she caught cross dressing one early afternoon in her posh Pacific Heights mansion. With great sarcasm and explicit detail she described his humiliation and remorse. She wrapped up this segment with obvious delight by saying, “Needless to say, I divorced the little fairy. Can you believe it? He said his femme name was Michelle. Give me a break!” Lana and other patrons were laughing. Fortunately, my dryer time was up so there was temporary refuge from this harridan as I was now whisked away to a new station where Lana worked her hair styling magic on me and I had new companions with which to share girl talk.

In an hour or so, Lana coaxed the last resisting strand of my usual blowsy hair into perfect place and I was left purring at my image in the mirror. Dog gone it, I looked good! My Macy’s dress and heels were not on a scale like Sara’s, but I was a happy woman and I could hear myself roar inside. I gave Lana a million-candle watt smile and a generous tip that she was not expecting. Then with an inner confidence and dignity I didn’t know I possessed, I walked up behind Sara who was at a hairdresser station two chairs removed from where I had been. “How do I look, babe,” I asked.

“Terrific, Honey. Your man is going to get it off tonight. By the way, what’s your name? Mine’s Sara.”

“I know,” I replied with a wry smile.

“How, dear?” I had gotten her attention as her nearly perfect brow furrowed and wrinkles appeared.

I leaned forward so that I could whisper in her ear, “Because my name is Michelle. Years ago before our divorce when you were balling me, it used to be Michael.” I pirouetted, did my best television commercial impression of a hair flip, and sauntered out the door like a runway model. My adrenaline was in overdrive and I was in the zone. I decided to hell with my afternoon return to work. Instead, I’d catch a cable car to Aquatic Park and sip an Irish Coffee at the Buena Vista Café. Life was good and getting better.

Finis