by Suzy Banks
My
Life as Plywood
I am the spokeswoman for the Do-It-Yourself Association of the Universe.
When I read about fellows who perform appendectomies on themselves with a
cordless drill in “News of the Weird,” I think, “What’s so weird about that?”
I’ll tackle anything around the house — framing, electrical, cabinet making,
painting, plumbing, if I must. This self-reliance trickles down to lesser tasks
as well, like taking care of my most personal house, my body. And frankly, I’ve
been a little lax over the years when it comes to the old beauty routines. I
whack away at my hair with dull scissors. I forget to wear deodorant. I wash my
face with Lava soap if that’s what’s handy. My girlfriends are constantly
giving me gift certificates for facials and manicures which I conveniently
misplace.
It took a shock for me to realize I needed professional help. Richard turned
49 years old last week and I had a hard time convincing people at his party
that we weren’t the same age. I am nowhere close to 49. I came home and pulled
and pushed on my face, envisioning the miracles a plastic surgeon could
perform, but I knew I could never go under the knife for beauty. But maybe it
was about time, however, I went under the scissors.
I impetuously walked into a salon called Bella one afternoon. Dirty jeans.
Dirty T-shirt. Greasy hair pulled back in a stunted pony-tail. “Do you take
walk-ins?” I asked. “Especially in an emergency?” They took one look at me and
whisked me into Sandra’s chair. In the beauty world, I was the trauma
equivalent of a woman with a severed artery. I might have hesitated or run out
the door as I sometimes do at institutes of higher hairdos if it hadn’t been
for the floors in Bella.
They had begun their humble life as bare plywood. But the salon owners had the
vision to transform them with jewel-toned aniline dyes and bold patterns and
multiple coats of urethane into a floor that dazzled. Maybe, just maybe, if
they could work that kind of magic on plywood, there was hope for me….
Besides, it was a great place to drink a beer, eat a bagel, and read a magazine
devoted entirely to gossip about runway models while I waited for someone else
to do all the work.
Isn’t the subject of this column proof I’m dying out here without your
questions? You don’t really want to read about my haircuts, do you? Write me
at: Suzebe@aol.com or The Austin Chronicle, PO Box 49066, Austin,TX
78765.
This article appears in November 3 • 1995 and November 3 • 1995 (Cover).