Step Away From All Chariots (Burning Edition)

Antidote to road rage, oui?

Antidote to road rage, oui?

CONTENT WARNING: Vague to extreme silliness–and back again.

Since 1990 I’ve been visiting Ana S. every other month, less when I was younger and single and living on a leaky  sailboat and a semi-working actress with miracle hair never listing towards anything shy of chariot fire–an ancient Egyptian chariot, on fire–but here in the 21st Century, the Age when I come across as older than previously taken-for-granted (occasional hair strands glistening the gray of horror movie mist), I never miss an appointment, even though obtaining highlights means driving 75 miles. Because Ana S. won’t chop off my hair when I ask her not to and she listens to me when I describe side bangs, because she’s been helping my hair remain healthy since the ’90’s and so of course I trust her and will drive 75 miles to remain blonde-ish. You understand. Tiny pleasures–on a gargantuan scale.

Last Saturday I hit the road at 630a.m., stopped for gas, coffee and zoomed onto the freeway. After just getting on and switching lanes, I sensed the car on my right hovering. When I glanced over, an elderly gentleman shook his head at me with an exaggerated scowl, then focused on the road, dismissing me, I guess. Why??? I thought. What did I do??? What was my crime??? Did he despise Hyundai Sonatas with sunroofs and fantastic visibility? Did he think I was someone else? Was he following me and for how long? How long was he waiting for me to glance at him? It was early. There were hardly any cars at any of my stops, even the coffee place was practically empty. There was simply no one to offend. My joyous day of racing North to sit in a hairdressing chair was starting off with a rude stranger giving me his ugly scowl. And I wanted to honk my horn and flash my lights and drive inches from his slightly droopy bumper, I really did. That scowl worthy of retaliation on the scale of firebombed chariots.

But I took a breath and made myself laugh. Not unkindly–noise aimed at all the silliness so randomly rampant, silliness directed at me, in me. Oh, ho, I laughed. PB! You. Ohhh, ho…75 miles of forced laughter later I sat in the silly chair as foil was folded into my hair and I received my silly highlights and shine and it. Was. Great. And there is no poem in any of this, except possibly in the chocolates Ana S. offered me when I was under the dryer, but I did survive a potentially dangerous road rage incident. I am here, able to carry on as a mother and a wife and someone who sporadically has her poems published. Ah! It’s good to be grateful. Oui? Perhaps being grateful is the best revenge. That and highlights so shiny the gods must wear sunglasses—or maybe just Isis.

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About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, fortunate.
This entry was posted in Avoiding My Writing, Faction, Fiction, Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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