It would seem that in all my years of hairdressing, 29 to be exact, you'd have thought I’d seen everything. When you think of the flamboyant husband who was arrested for cruising young men in public toilets, the wife who set fire to her husband’s car in their garage as retribution for his indiscretions only to learn that gasoline left in the can does in fact explode and finally the son who wed his father’s mistress’ daughter to annoy his mother, nothing compares to one incident so memorable it lives on in infamy. On a searing summer day a single act, so outrageous, permeated the mind and the entire world in which I work.
As a young boy growing up my father brought home a book of jokes. One tickled my fancy and my friends and I would recount it time and again without ever tiring of it's absurdity. Withh each telling we’d fall down laughing as if we’d just heard it for the first time. It went something like this:
Muza Daibu was walking through the marketplace when suddenly he farted loudly. The entire market took notice and Muza, filled with shame, went into seclusion for a several months. He emerged from his home and went to the market. As he stood in line to buy a rug he overheard a man ask the clerk, “Can you tell me what day it is?” The clerk replied, “Why yes, it is four months and three days since Muza Daibu farted in the marketplace!”
Without attempting to minimize the vast impact of any major historical event, my co-workers and I use but one day to record the years’ events.
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Sure,” I reply,” It’s ten months and two days since the Perky Pawling event.”
Each of us knows the exact date Perky Pawling gave new meaning to the term “the shit hit the fan”. If so inclined I could base an entire calendar, holidays, holy days, even the lunar calendar, on one notorious moment in time. Since then I can’t help but notice the subtle changes in Perky Pawling. Once a sophisticated and much pampered woman, Perky is nothing more than a throwback to a generation neither I nor my contemporaries shall ever see again.
Esther (Perky) Pawling is a woman of great wealth. She graduated from college when only a handful of women had the gumption to further their education. As a child she was so driven and chock full of life which led her mother to nickname her “Perky”, a name that has followed her for generations.
Perky’s upbringing included several non negotiable items: to further her education and become a Wellesley graduate, to become the wife of a successful man and to play Mah Jong at the Country Club every Tuesday afternoon. Toss in a 2.6 children and a lavish second home in Pebble Beach and there you have it, the pampered touch. Should it surprise any of us that Perky, seated at the Steinway, can rival even the most accomplished pianist? Jack Pawling insisted and assured there be nothing but the best for his wife.
Perky’s fingers are perversely long and slender; if possible they could be described as anorexic. Though well manicured they no longer lusciously support the four carat diamond eternity ring Jack bought her for their twentieth wedding anniversary which is simply engraved, “To my pampered Perky”. Her being is rather emaciated now with her shoulder blades visible beneath tiny turtleneck sweaters.Her hip bones protrude from the impeccably pressed slacks she buys by the dozen from Nordstrom. If you touch her too hard it could leave an imprint which would take years to fill out. In days gone by she cut quite the figure in Chanel then moved to St. John Knits but now, since Jack died, her days aren’t worth the effort of fussing quite so much.
Of course over the years there has been some cosmetic work done though she claims to have been involved in a car accident while wintering in Pebble Beach. With her sing-song voice and a bit of an “upper crust” drawl she told the story time and again.
“It was an unthinkable accident. Three migrant workers in a pickup truck came bolting through a red light and why, they simply plowed into Jack and me. (Hand held against cheek) When I awoke the next day the doctor told me my face had been so injured he needed to perform immediate plastic surgery to repair it. (Hand held against side of head) I was unrecognizable, simply unrecognizable. (Hand held against heart) Thank God Jack was spared the need for surgery.”
“Yes,” I remarked inwardly, “thank God.” It was fascinating that she only required sutures along the hairline by her ears and both arches of her eyebrows. Yes indeed, thank God Jack was spared any surgery.
“Why Perky it’s amazing the doctor was able to salvage your face. In fact he made you look ten years younger. You should have gotten hit five years ago.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice doubting the genuine nature of my concern, “I suppose I should have.”
At any rate I can’t help but think that as we age there is an unyielding quest for the fountain of youth. But exactly how far back would a person venture to go? Personally I would be elated to return to my early thirties but any farther than that, well, no way. Perky, her lips now slightly askew from a collagen injection gone awry, had a burning desire to return to her glory days. Much to our sadness she has gone farther back than that.
After Jack died from an untimely stroke, the family called a meeting and determined it would be in Perky’s best interest to have a live in companion, someone to oversee her daily activities and ensure she was dressed and fed properly. She’d led a luxurious life and wasn’t accustomed to making major decisions; Jack always had someone make those choices for her.
“I’d rather die than have her live with me,” she condescendingly said as she pointed to the large woman seated in the lobby waiting for her. "I’m sure she thinks Saks are something you carry your trash out in.” Perky's voice travelled and she made no attempt to use a hushed tone.
“Now Perky, for heaven’s sake don’t be so cranky. She’ll probably turn out to be a blessing.” I caught a glimpse of the rotund woman with the flaming red hair clustered high on her head in a banana comb as she picked remnants of her breakfast from beneath her nails. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in the Pawling house.
As the days wore on Perky travelled off in her mind. Her children "suggested” she no longer make the trip to Pebble Beach and the house went on the market; she was outraged.
“What do they think? I’m a 70 year old woman. I’m not going to take a ride from a stranger or walk off into the ocean.” In fact she was approaching 86; it wasn’t a stretch to do the math. If she was 70 her son would have been born when she was 15 and the Admissions Board at Wellesley would have frowned upon such an “indiscretion”.
“Why the ladies at The Lodge simply won’t know what happened to me,” she said indicating the collapse of the entire social scene of her precious and venerable club.
Her once lustrous mind was now unexciting. She’d become forgetful as of late and her children, perhaps overly protective, were sure she’d wander off and never be heard from again. I couldn’t help but notice she repeated herself now and again and heard only every other word when spoken to. Her daughter confided in me that the doctor ordered she wear two hearing aids but she refused when out in public. Eventually the Pebble Beach home was sold to a Hedge Fund executive and Perky was now a full time Connecticut resident.
It was rumored she’d entertained Rock Hudson and Doris Day on several occasions in Pebble Beach and the Mediterranean styled house, though aging like it’s owner, was once featured in Architectural Digest for its’ impressive ocean views.
“He’ll probably turn my beautiful home into a gauche palazzo. What’s become of the world?”
“I don’t know,” I concurred, “No one seems to have any quality taste anymore.”
August 15th was a searing hot day. When I saw Perky, frail and wearing a jacket because she was now always chilly, rustle herself from the car I ran to the door to let her in. It was quite apparent that something was amiss. As she bolted past me the anorexic hand squeezed together the cheeks of her behind.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” her shrill voice said with urgency. As she hurriedly made her way to the rear of the salon I noticed a murky trail dripping from her rear end.
“Oh my God, she’s shitting as she’s running.” I turned, a co-worker’s wide eyed look caught my eye. No words were spoken but a complete story was being told. From behind the closed door of the tiny bathroom we heard nothing short of an explosion. Perky was losing whatever she may have ingested earlier rapidly. It was as though the gracious woman had reverted back to infancy. The fountain of youth was flowing from her slacks.
Only Perky could emerge from the bathroom and act with the utmost propriety as though nothing happened. You had to give her credit. She sat in my chair before I had a chance to cover the seat and I noticed droplets of diarrhea leaking from her pant leg. She noticed it too and swiftly wiped it on the sleeve of her shirt. I looked away before she saw me.
The stench permeated the salon. Nina, my coworker rushed to close off the bathroom and spray the room with air freshener. She scurried to me and whispered between clenched teeth away from Perky, who couldn’t have heard her anyway “It’s all over the bathroom.” I couldn’t understand a word she’d said.
“What,” I whispered from the corner of my mouth hoping we were being discreet, “I don’t understand.”
“She exploded all over the bathroom,” It was as if she were typing out the words so I could hear each letter; I caught every word and put my hand to my mouth. “Oh, shit.”
“Now you’ve got it,” Nina said shaking her head.
Perky wasn’t about to let a little thing like a gastrointestinal disorder interrupt her day. There was a hairstyle to be had and a card game at the country club. Certainly she could make it home for a quick shower before meeting the ladies though lunch would be out of the question. It was one thing to defecate throughout the hair salon but something like that could revoke her club membership or worse her place at the Mah Jong table!
Through it all I couldn’t help but feel Perky’s pain and humiliation. Here was a stunning woman who had achieved all she’d wanted in life without ever having to worry about anything greater than the shade of polish her nails would be. It took a team of plastic surgeons to keep the youthful image of the once flawless face alive, though now it was erring on the side of gaunt, her cheeks hollow and her skin clinging to her protruding cheekbones.
Perky had tempted fate and sought the fountain of youth when she felt she was losing her grip on the world as she knew it. It had been a world of privilege and prosperity where the husband was the bread winner and the wife stayed at home tending to household matters.
A college graduate, Perky was left to host snappy dinner parties for Jack’s clients and tasty luncheons for her friends. They made their way regularly to swanky Penthouse parties thrown by New York’s crème de la crème, once having met Andy Warhol and inviting him to spend time at Pebble Beach; she was nothing less than glamour at its’ finest.
In the solitude of her homes, as the children grew into their own right, she sat at the piano and played Bach, Brahms and Beethoven, being certain not to break a nail for fear there may be a call to a luncheon at one of her country clubs. On occasion the maid would catch her she’d sneaking a rumble of Joni Mitchell from her daughter’s song book and feeling quite decadent. Thoroughly pampered, Perky had the life she’d dreamed of without an ounce of regret.
Now there is a slight bulge in the back of her not so perfectly pressed slacks. When she sits in the chair for her weekly hair style the little turtleneck sweater slips up from her waist and the diaper, white and bunchy, protrudes slightly above the waistline. The day her digestive tract exploded was the day the fountain of youth caught up to her. She and her lady friends used the scalpel to remove decades from their physical appearance. They injected themselves turning back the clock so far that Perky apparently returned to her earliest days; the days of diapers. Perky, in all her radiant glory, is now being 'Pampered' in a far different light and we love her perhaps all the more.
Perky Pawling is a culmination of several illustrious women who have, over the years, visited the salon. She is in no way any single living soul and any resemblance to any one person is, in fact, a mere coincidence.
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