She had Big Hair, perched on the salon chair wrapped in black, and Bobby looked her over, holding scissors and a hair dryer like he couldn't decide.
Little shorter over the ears, I told Julie-Ann, my girl. In the mirror Bobby shifted his glance back and forth, the Big Hair broad going on about her 59 year old husband's three hour gym workouts; 'abs, mostly, yeah he's pretty serious about those abs' she was saying, Bobby finally clicking on the hair dryer like he was racking the chamber of his 12-Gauge. High powered, big recoil, I could feel the blast on the back of my head; hot, wet, Bobby wielding big fire-power in one hand and razor-sharp clip-clips in the other, fully loaded, and Julie-Ann buzzing my fading scalp like she'd done for the past fifteen years.
Bobby admitted he'd given up on Facebook, he was telling Big Hair, and then she shifted gears, revved up and took off.
She announced the title of her speech; 'Social Media', and she launched in.
'I Facebook, Twitter, I'm on Linked-In' she crowed, and I asked Julie-Ann for another buzz around my neck because it felt so good and might drown out revelations on Tweet info I really didn't need, and when the buzzing from my neck down my spine shriveled up she was still at it; 'Facebook Security? I don't know, everthing's just out there', she said, big-hair piled up loose, like Bobby would let it all down in a moment when he revealed why he'd given up social media. Big Hair called it that, its correct name, 'Social Media', like there was a new section in the newspaper with that title, replacing the old 'Social Scene' pics of deb balls and champagne receptions benefiting Zimbabwean pre-school or cloning colonies, protesting men and women landing on the moon, like drinking champagne and moon shots had more in common than maybe the phrase 'shots' and that's not all that much of a stretch when you get down to it.
I waited. Big Hair, Bobby with fire power and steel, more social media wisdom, while her old man crunched abs of steel for what? This big-haired broad?
Bobby says he's divorced, maybe the reason he'd lost so much weight, he revealed. 30 pounds in a year. He still looked kind of used up to me. Better maybe than Big Hair. Julie-Ann was using her scissors to clip my scalp, the thin stuff up top, surgically-honed snips thining my top-side like a hedge that was hiding old tennis balls and beer cans. She's a pro. No gossip, small talk when we need it, nothing too damning, nothing too gooey, she never misses a spot, always leaves me trimmed and happy. Everyone else coos and crows, dispensing gush and schmooze with rinse and highlights, perms and trims, last minute dos for late night cruise. No problem, I think. Big Hair needs a day off from crunchy abs and three hour workouts leading to sixty, and I know that need. I know that feeling.