Authors: Kate Bishop
On Halloween, I forced myself to get up early and meditate ceremoniously. It was the fifth or sixth time I had tried to do it, really do it. To set aside the time, turn off my phone, light the candles, the whole thing. I had to get it this time. With only twelve hours until Galen’s dinner party, it was like cramming for an exam. It was still dark outside. I sat on the floor atop my meditation cushion, legs folded into a meticulous half lotus. My hamstring was tight but not in pain. I placed my hands on my knees. A candle burned solemnly on the windowsill, and
Be Here Now
rested on the floor next to me.
Okay.
I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath.
Be here now.
I rolled my shoulders back.
Just be, be, be.
I opened one eye and looked at the clock. 6:22am. My appointment with Ferran was in two hours and thirty-eight minutes.
Now. Where was I?
I reached for the book at my side.
“When you meet a being who is centered, you always know it.”
I thought of Galen.
I wonder if
he’s
meditating right now?
I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and drew another deep breath, imagining that was just how Galen did it. A street sweeper rumbled past.
I’m a little chilly.
I opened my eyes and reached for the cashmere throw, pulling it off the bed with a big sweep of my arm that stirred the air and blew out the candle.
Shoot.
I crawled over to the windowsill and re-lit it before retreating back to the cushion and wrapping myself, swami-style, in the blanket.
Now I
really
look like a yogi.
I shifted my weight side to side.
“Clear the flesh from your sits bones . . . “ Why do they call them ‘sits’ bones? Why not just ‘sit’ bones? Or ‘sitting’ bones? Alright, alright, alright.
I rested one hand on top of the other in my lap and took another deep breath that was actually more like a sigh.
Andy.
I opened my eyes—6:28am—and slowly, I closed them again. Then, I just breathed.
In and out. In and out.
I was shocked when I opened my eyes and looked at the clock.
6:36am???
I sat still for almost ten minutes!
I felt deeply relaxed. Almost blissful. I couldn’t wait to tell Galen and Nancy. And Mom. They’d be so pleased and impressed (although I was fairly certain that wasn’t the point). I sat there for a minute longer with a goofy smile on my face. Finally I pushed myself up, using the edge of the bed for support.
“How ‘bout that, Bill? I think I actually meditated,” I said, and made a big, satisfying check on my mental To-Do list.
***
Sitting in Ferran’s chair two hours later, I felt energized.
“It’s amazing. They say you can start your day with it, or breathe through stress with it, or just watch your thoughts and let them flow by!” I sounded just like the yoga crazies I had mocked, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Wow.” He looked at me in the mirror. My hair was frizzy and ‘triangulating hardcore,’ as Haley and I used to say. “So you just, like, sit there? For how long?” He raised his shoulders and held up the wide-tooth comb like a question mark.
“I don’t know. For as long as you can, I guess. I mean, the gurus do it for days. This morning, it was like I had
stopped thinking
. Or I was thinking, but I wasn’t thinking about thinking. It was like it was happening, but I was outside of it. Or inside.” Did that make any sense? “I mean, my legs fell asleep. But still, it felt great.”
“Huh.” He stood there for a minute. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t think I could do that. My mind just won’t stop.”
“I think it takes years of practice.” For a first-time meditator, I sure was making myself sound like an expert. “Anyway, you should definitely try it.”
“For you, anything.” He air-kissed my cheek and went back to combing out the mess of dry, highlighted hair.
“Ugh, sorry. I haven’t been to see you in so long, and those roots are—”
“Good as gone.” Ferran smiled reassuringly. “I think this is a fabulous call . . .
Madge
,” he said, invoking Madonna’s British tabloid moniker. He swept my hair back in a ponytail and stood behind me. We gazed at my reflection together. “Let’s do it.”
The darkening process took half the time of highlights, a mere forty-five minutes. While I waited, I sat with my hands folded under the nylon cape and tried to recreate the feeling of calm I’d experienced that morning. Not wanting to call attention to myself though, I did not sit cross-legged, nor did I close my eyes and smile like the Buddha. I did, however, resist the fresh stack of magazines an arm’s reach from my dryer; and I withstood the urge think about Tripp and Louise and Haley, whose comments used to consume my thoughts when I sat in this chair. Instead, I let myself rest. And once again, the time went very fast.
“Oh my God . . . “ Ferran gasped while rinsing my hair in the shampoo basin.
“What? Ferran, what?” I demanded.
“Oh my God, girl, I can’t believe it . . . “
I felt light-headed and nauseous, instantly flashing back to every horrendous hair-coloring debacle I’d ever endured. Was it green? Yellow? Peach?
“Ferran, you’re scaring me. What
is
it?”
“It’s beautiful! You’re going to love it!”
My illusion of tranquility evaporated. I was shaking slightly as he wrapped a towel around my wet head and walked me back to his station. My heart beat fast as he spun me around to face the mirror. Then I, too, gasped.
“It’s amazing, right?” He had a gigantic smile on his face.
“I love it,” I stated.
“I know!” Ferran leaned forward to hug me around the shoulders. “I know!”
“I finally look like me again,” I laughed.
“Om shanti, baby,” he said with a snap, then plugged in the flat iron.
***
Jenny and Nancy didn’t recognize me as I walked toward them across the Berkeley Memorial Rose Garden for our henna date. I waved and called, but they looked right at me with zero sign of acquaintance. It wasn’t until I was standing directly in front of them that Jenny shrieked, “Alex!” Nancy turned to look at me, and we threw our arms around each other, laughing and squealing.
“It works, right?” I asked.
“It’s incredible!” Jenny exclaimed.
“You are ravishing.” Nancy stroked the side of my head. “It’s like silk!”
“Your eyes look so green—”
“And your complexion is positively golden—”
“Thanks, guys,” I said, tilting my head and smiling bashfully. I reached up and pulled my hair around to hang over one shoulder. It almost reached my elbow. “Ferran went a little nuts with the flat iron. He even pulled up the ‘Frozen’ video. There’s no way my hair will ever do this again.”
“Trust me, it’s going to look even more stunning when you
do it,” Jenny assured me, linking her arm through mine. “Andy is going to flip.”
“Either that, or he’ll have no idea who I am,” I said.
“Oh, he will,” declared Nancy, adjusting the turquoise Birkin bag on her shoulder. “Tonight will be magical.” Then she too looped her slender arm through mine. “Shall we, darlings? Padma is expecting us.”
***
It was a mad dash back to the Mission when I realized the time. At five-thirty on a Saturday night—Halloween, no less—traffic was a gridlock of cars. My artfully etched hands were gripping the wheel.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered impatiently.
The air was luscious and warm. On the upper deck of the Bay Bridge, fleets of convertibles were out in force. Wigs glistened, wings glimmered, and boas fluttered everywhere I looked. We were all crawling toward the San Francisco skyline, a parade of pagan revelry. I’d never experienced Halloween in the City. Last year, we were on a company cruise, and Tripp insisted we dress as Julie McCoy and Captain Stubing from
The Love Boat
, a show that I had never seen.
Finally, I was approaching my exit and felt myself exhale. Had I been holding my breath that whole time?
Not very Zen.
Galen was going to see right through me.
After circling my block eleven times, I found a parking spot at the farthest possible distance from my apartment. Grabbing the long bag that contained Jenny’s Jil Sander dress, I wrapped it around my arm and began to jog ungainly toward home. Fortunately, I only had to change, get a bottle of wine, and make it to dinner in—I looked at my watch—five minutes
. Shoot!
I began to limp-run past groups of half-clad ghouls and goblins like the victim of a horror movie.
Opening the heavy front door, I called up the stairwell to Billy.
“Here I come, buddy!”
The poor thing was scratching and whimpering as I galloped up the stairs with one straight leg. I fumbled for my key and resolved to take him with me. It was a presumptuous call, but there was no time to walk him. If my hosts turned me away at the door, well, then, it would be my out. I was starting to get cold feet, anyway. Besides, maybe the idea that this could be my redemption for last weekend’s bad behavior was a tad overblown. At the moment, I was hardly serene, wise, or balanced, although I had learned to meditate for the occasion.
I burst into the apartment, threw everything on the bed, kicked off my flip-flops, and slipped off my clothes.
“Okay. Deodorant. Brush teeth. Wine,” I said to Billy.
I was about to throw Jenny’s dress over my head when I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror and stopped dead in my tracks. My hair. The lacework of henna all over me. The last rays of sunlight filtering through the yellow leaves outside my window.
Wow.
I’d always been so critical of my appearance, wishing I were taller, thinner, curvier, less curvy, more like Haley, less like me. But at that moment, I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. I stretched out my arms and turned around, looking over my shoulder to absorb the extent of Padma’s work.
I reached for the dress and fumbled with the zipper, suddenly very excited. I stepped into the cool black silk and slid my arms through its wide kimono sleeves. The neckline plunged to reveal Padma’s glorious mandala radiating over my heart, and the back was a soft swag of silk that showed the entire length of my spine. Peeking out from the lowest possible point was the swirling symbol for “Om” etched on my lower back. I stood there, taking it in, feeling my pulse slow down and my breath return to normal. Standing in the sunlight, it all came back to me: who I was, what I loved, and where I wanted to go in life. It was as if Padma, in adorning me with henna, had draped me in a net of good wishes and prayers. I felt embraced and affirmed. And funnily enough (considering the costume), I really and truly felt like myself.
***
The Yoga Garden was just a mile from my house, but it took twenty minutes to get there because my poor, neglected dog had to stop at every tree and fire hydrant along the way. After leaving him alone all day, I didn’t have the heart to yank him along even though we were almost half an hour late. Andy had offered to pick me up, but it felt too much like another date. When we were a block away, my nerves hit overdrive. I started talking to Billy in an attempt to calm down.
“It’s just Galen and Marco, right? And Andy.” (Butterflies.) “I hope I’m not the only one who dressed up. Do I have the wine? I hope it’s not freezing tonight. Whoa, look at
that
costume. I’m starving. I feel sick. Come on, Billy,” I tugged his leash. “Shoot! Did I forget my wallet?” I dug around in my purse.
“Hey. Who are you talking to?”
I spun around to face Andy, and my stomach dropped like a roller coaster. I was flustered for about half a second until I realized what he was wearing: cutoff jeans, a long-sleeved thermal, Hawaiian shirt, Vans, and a wig—a blonde, tousled, shoulder-length wig. I burst out laughing.
“Jeff Spicoli?” I asked, guessing he was dressed as Sean Penn’s stoner hero from
Fast Times
.
“Right on!” he said, striking that famous pose from the movie poster.
I laughed even harder.
“That wig . . . is . . . “ I said, reaching out to touch it.
“Gnarly?” he prompted.
“Totally!” I nodded.
“And who are you supposed to be?”
I stood up straight and tried to look serious.
“Come on! I’m Madonna
.
“
“Ah, got it.”
I punched him lightly in the arm.
“Ouch. I thought it was Sean who threw all the punches.”
I blushed, suddenly remembering that Madonna and Sean Penn once had been a highly publicized couple.
“Have you seen Madonna’s biceps lately?” I recovered. He looked at my arms and laughed.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking Billy’s leash from my hand. “How’s the leg?”
“It’s fine. Much better,” I said, making an effort to conceal my limp.
“I had a feeling you were a quick healer,” he said as he held open the door for me.
“Either that or a wimp. Apparently it wasn’t a tear, just a pull. Do you think it’s okay for Billy to come in?” I hesitated.
“Are you kidding? These guys love everyone.”
As we walked through the lobby, I felt Andy’s warm hand on my bare back guiding me toward the carved wooden door. I couldn’t think. All I felt was his skin touching mine. I stood there and allowed myself to feel it, staring at the designs on the door, which resembled the henna etchings all over my body. I was a million miles away from that cold little French café.
“You going to knock?” he asked.
“Oh. Yes.” I rapped softly on the door.
We heard voices and music on the other side, and Andy said, “I think you’re going to have to try harder.”
He hadn’t moved his hand from my back. I remembered his words, “You lead,” and the way I’d pulled away the last time he was this close. This moment felt different. I felt different. Maybe it was the dress, the henna, or my breakfast with Tripp the day before. But right then, I felt brave, and I wanted his hand to stay where it was.
“I can’t find a smooth spot to knock on,” I said.