SPA SPASTIC SPA-SHTICK
Today I noticed that the ex-granite shop has a new shingle, QTicle. Is that another spa, or salon, or parlor? I haven’t got the definitions nailed down yet.
Spa spade space, oh, another space available? Take off the C and the E, and it’ll be a spa available! OK, this is my spa-shtick since I seem to live in spa-city while most of the world lives in spar-sity, of food, water, shelter, peace, probably even sparsity of spas, salons, and parlors.
Maybe once it opens I’ll go and get my Q tickled, for now I’ll have my I.Q- ticled. Is a nail salon a spa? I thought a spa has natural springs, and maybe mad baths, whoops, mud baths (I guess I let my fingers do the walking for me)! My first spa experience was in Mexico in 1953, hot springs that smelled like rotten eggs, mud baths, massages, and muscle men flexing.
What’s going on? How many spas along Capitol Drive, along Oakland Avenue? Is every person in town worried about his or her hair, or nails, or degree of tan? If you’re going bankrupt or being foreclosed, might as well be properly clipped.
That got me thinking about style and how little style means to me. I’m not the lemming type, no lemming aid for me. Whatever color hair I have is what it’s meant to be. Matches my skin, and I’m not going to bask under a sunlamp to adjust the shade, risk melanoma, or carcinoma (I’d have more fun with this, if Wis, were Oklahoma).
Style, fashion, ouch! Someone who wants my money tells me what to wear, no conflict of interest there. Most of the stuff I see on the runway you couldn’t pay me to put on. Of course not much is designed for women of a certain age, and I’m certain about my age. I’d rather be ON the runway, taking off for Africa or Asia. Well, maybe not. The world’s a hostile place these days, wherever you’re headed in your stylish dress, dyed hair, painted nails, cheeks, lids, lashes, lips.
And wherever I’m headed, I decide my own bottom line, hemline, that is, pants down to ankles or up to knees, skirt up or down to wherever I please, well, I please not to wear skirts at all. I decide my bottom line, tight pants or baggy, whatever suits me. And I’ll leave my hair shaggy. Comfort’s my thing, with how I look, how I feel, would I ever wear a spiked heel, with a potential twisted ankle rankling in my future? I’ll skip the haute couture.
What’s Shorewood up to? I’ll give an account of what I figured out we’re missing! A pla-stic surgery spa, a face lift salon, and we don’t even have a tattoo parlor. But the people who live here, that’s what makes this town great, even if some of my best friends use spas.
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