• Bridge Ladies

    Bridge Ladies Sometimes I think a meteor could strike the earth and wipe out mankind with the exception of my mother’s Bridge club — Roz, Bea, Bette, Rhoda, and Jackie — five Jewish octogenarians who continue to gather for lunch and Bridge on Mondays as they have for over fifty years. When I set out to learn about the women behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, and most of all the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
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You Get What You Need


Just saw Joy. Oy. This movie suffers from the fallacy that lightening can strike twice. That you can make magic instead of respecting the fact that magic happens. That you can put Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper and Robert DeNiro in a bottle, shake, and voila: movie magic. The worst part for me was when Joy, out of despair, cuts her own hair. Then, a few days later, it looks like Frederic Fekkai cut and blow dried it. Friends, I am familiar with self hair cutting. My first attempt was in the third grade when I tried bangs. The year resulted in my plastering down the too short pangs with a parade of barrettes. Now, with the equivalent of a toe nail scissors, I take to my own locks when I’m stressed. It starts as snipping and ends up Bellevue. I do this a lot when I’m writing. Picking, snipping, jerking off. I love writing.

Any corroboration?

11 Responses

  1. You can’t always get what you want…

  2. Bellevue reference is killing me. Just cut my bangs again last night despite screwing it up EVERY time. It’s like some sort of sickness. Nice to know I’m in good company. However, I’m the only person on the planet who hated Silver Linings Playbook.

    • You’re not the only one, Bobbi. I didn’t like American Hustle either, and the only thing I’ve learned about my bangs is to cut the cow-licked side after it’s DRY, which I still occasionally forget.

      • I learned in my bang days to account for curl, otherwise….oy. In my post-bang days I cut my hair a lot. But that is when the curl saves me. Uneven? Who can tell?

      • Same thing here with American Hustle. All my friends raved about it. It just left me cold. Just odd, and not in a good way.

      • Oddly enough, the thing that bugged me about American Hustle was the costumes. Oh, they tried, they got more or less close, but I was both alive and awake in the late 70s and early 80s, and the clothes people wore then did not look quite like the costumes in American Hustle. Part of it was the fabrics. You could tell just by looking. It wasn’t that the costumes were terribly wrong; it was that they weren’t quite right.

  3. Can we talk hair color? That used to be my usual screw-up. I’ve never been one to take the scissors to my own hair, but I’ve had my share of color fiascos. Purple (unintentional purple) Black (unintentional black) and blonde. (yes that wasn’t meant to be either)

    We’ve all had the too short bangs – mine were thx to Mom – who swore she knew how to cut hair. Never trust your Mother with scissors near your head when you’re 12 is my motto. Also, never trust your mother to give you a perm when you’re 16 either. And you can’t wash it out – as I tried to do.

  4. I don’t know from bangs, but trimming my beard while drunk didn’t work well, and resulted in cuts.

  5. My hair, what’s left of it, is like the pointy hair boss in Dilbert. My beard is pretty much a rat’s nest mess. I cut my own hair, mostly in an attempt to tidy up before weddings or funerals. The result usually looks like someone gave me a trim using gardening shears. Smooth dome on top, like an egg, splotches and spikes on the sides. Trimming out of anxiety? No, but nail biting, especially on my left (guitar fretting) hand is entirely common place.

  6. Scratching, squeezing, jerking off. Yeah, I’m with you. We’re writers. (Wash your hands.)

    Recently I’ve taken to cutting my own hair, leaving my hair looking like the hair of a man who cuts his own hair. But I have not been able to find anyone in this particular quadrant of the continent who can cut my hair to look like anything other than a boy scout, a bus driver, or the managing partner of a large and respectable firm. Whatever it is I want to resemble, it is not they.

    Maybe I should try a pencil-thin mustache . . .

  7. I plucked the gray from my eyebrows, and ended up rifling through the make-up wall at CVS for a pencil on my way to a function. The next day I chewed my nails to the quick. So much for sparkling holiday polish.

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