We country girls don’t often get a chance to go to the beauty shop, or any other of those places that provide personal nice looks (and smells) assistance.
Awhile back I finally got tired of looking like a homeless hag, and went to one of those joints. They cut and styled my hair, gave me a shoulder massage and even tended to my feet. What a deal.
Apparently, something in the human psyche compels folks to state the obvious because for the next three days everyone I knew said, “You cut your hair,” the intimation being maybe I hadn’t noticed and needed to be told.
One of the few times I saw my husband angry was when, after a big rain, our pickup slipped off the road and into the ditch on our way home. He gunned the engine and tried to lurch forward, then backward, trying to get us out. We ended up not forward or backward, but down, deeper into the mud.
I, Miss Observant, said “Oh no. We’re stuck.”
He informed me hotly that my comment was not only unnecessary, but totally stupid.
One day I was about to be late to a rodeo, and I couldn’t get the trailer and pickup lights to work together. Heck, they didn’t even acknowledge each other’s existence. So I went anyway. It was still daylight and I didn’t hit the brakes if another vehicle was behind me.
It worked. I got there on time. A couple of days later when the show was over, I re-hitched the trailer and tried again. They still didn’t like each other. It was a two-hour drive home but not on a busy road, so I decided to try it. I didn’t even get out of the rodeo grounds parking lot before three people drove up beside me and announced, “Your taillights aren’t working.”
In a barrel race once I lost one stirrup on the way around the first barrel, the other stirrup on the second barrel, and made it around the third barrel with no stirrup. As I rode into the pen behind the chutes a non-brilliant guy who was my boyfriend at the time said, “You lost your stirrups.” That boyfriend wasn’t around much longer.
When we were trying to finish college my husband and I had one vehicle. It ran all right, but the radiator leaked. We couldn’t afford to have it fixed so each morning before class he filled the radiator and we drove straight to school.
I’d take the vehicle back home, fill the radiator again and hurriedly do any in-town chores, like getting groceries. When it was almost time for him to get out of class — and his work after class — I’d fill it again.
Sometimes he was late getting out. The water dripped fairly fast as I waited, but I learned to carry a jug of water along just in case. Meanwhile, all our friends would come out of the building, look at our car with the telltale river coming out from under it, and say, “Glenda, your radiator seems to be leaking.”
Glenda Price has been a contributing editor to New Mexico Stockman magazine since 1982. Contact her at: firstname.lastname@example.org