I sat at the free-standing bar by the beach today sipping an iced-tea, when a woman walked up beside me and ordered some lunch to go. Just an hour earlier, I had texted the details of this woman’s hair-do to my sister back in Seattle: from the front, she was unremarkable, but from the sides and back, her teased-and-ratted bouffant ballooned from her skull – flight seemed entirely possible, given the right wind.
I had an ideal view as she lounged beside me, prone sur la chaise. When my sister texted back (beep beep) Mrs. Bouffant jumped up, peered at me, then flopped back down again, with nary a ruffled lock. Hard to tell how old she was -- she had that perpetually-stuck-in-the-sixties look, so I felt as if I was looking with ten-year-old eyes at the mother of a childhood friend, which would put her at about 35, which was highly unlikely. So I guessed sixty, sixty-five maybe. Honestly, do women still do this to their hair? It was goofy fifty years ago and it’s still goofy.
My sister and I texted silliness back and forth, then I moved on to the subject of the older man on the other side of me who exhibited a very generous “B” cup in the flesh about twelve inches above his waistline. And saggy! Good god! Get a harness! Mr. Saggy Bosoms and I shared a polite conversation a few minutes after my text, but little did he know that the subject of his bared man-bosoms was zipping around in hyperspace, and that just moments ago a forty-something woman pushing a shopping cart at Costco in Seattle was visualizing his floppy chestal region.