Out, Damned Fly!
I was sitting at Mr. Gene's Salon having my hair clipped and shaded. Relaxed and chatting away, I was startled out of my wits when IT appeared! In the middle of the gold veneer panel that topped the cabinet of the styling station in which I sat, reflecting magnificently in the mirror, was this FLY!
"Oh, my stars and garters!!!" I screamed!
"Darling! What is it?" Mr. Gene (who, of course, cares for me personally) was almost beside himself.
"It's that damn fly! Gene Dear, don't you see that hideous fly, lurking there on your hammered gold leaf atop your alabaster box?" Well, honey, when I said that I thought Mr. Gene was going to faint right off the bat. He almost fell to the floor in a swoon, but then caught himself mid-stumble as he screamed to the top of his lungs.
"How did that damn thing get in here!? What are we going to do?!" It was more a statement of exasperation than a question.
"Well, darling, for starters could we get hold of a fly swatter?"
"Lana, darling! You know that I'd not have any fly swatter inside this salon. I forbid any cleaner to use anything besides feather brooms and electric vacuum cleaners."
By this time, a number of patrons and stylists were gathering at my station to learn what was going on because of the commotion. I thought Tuley Pettigru was going to faint when I told her we had spotted a fly inside the house, but Mr. Gene assisted her to a damask draped settee and handed her a very large gin and tonic to steady her nerves.
I must admit that I immediately became quite concerned for dear Tuley because she was turning pale before the gin could take any effect. It is rough on us ole girls who were born to the blue-actually purple because both Tuley and myself are traced back to a bunch of kings-but, as I said, it's rough on us to encounter any such monster as a fly.
At our homes we have two sets of doors at each entrance to be sure such varmints cannot get inside. Of course, I always keep my smelling salts handy whenever I'm outside. A girl never knows, honey, when she might see something that could cause her to go into a swoon.
By this time, I had already pulled my own gin and tonic flask from my big purse and was tilting it delicately toward my trembling lips. The diamonds encrusted on the hammered gold flask to form my monogram were catching the glitter from the heavy crystal chandeliers in Mr. Gene's Salon.
Several of the Salon employees had gathered to assist Tuley and me and to help Mr. Gene to a small couch where they put large silk pillows behind his back and lifted his legs onto the damask.
"Girl, you get a glass for Mr. Gene to have some gin and tonic from my flask!" I spoke rather sharply to one of the few female stylists because, unlike those darling men who were scurrying in every direction to assist us, she stood gawking.
She moved quickly at my command, however, and produced a leaded crystal gin glass in no time.
Very soon, the color was back in Mr. Gene's and Tuley Pettigru's faces, and I was feeling my gin enough to relax.
"Darlings, this reminds me of an Emily Dickinson poem I had to study when I was a prep school student at Chatham Hall," I began and then quoted the line, "I heard a fly buzz in the room as I lay dying."
"Ohhh, Lana!" Tuley broke into tears. Then Mr. Gene started weeping and honking his nose into a paisley design silk handkerchief. The next thing I knew I was weeping into my gin. Four hours later, I was able to leave the Salon because Mr. Gene finally was able to finish my hair. The color's a new highlight for me. I call it "gin blonde."
L