Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Heesham Hoosham Electra and Does it Say "Escort" on my Forehead?


I have a friend—a Girl! A Girl who’s a Friend—but not a ‘Girlfriend’. But YEAH! I have a Girlfriend.
For the sake of the anonymity of this Blog, I will call my girlfriend "Electra".
Odd but precise for she is truly Electric.
I adore her and love her as I would myself; probably that’s part of the point—it may be a narcissistic love—but not entirely. Go with me on this one.
And now I know you’re probably wondering, ‘what does Electra have to do with Heesham copping a feel of your breasts today?’


Oh so now, see? I’m lost on a thread. I’m babbling. I know. I babble when I’m excited and I’m excited because I don’t have many friends that are Girls so I’m excited about something that is unusual for me and therefore exciting but must seem a bit mundane to you. You’re NOT wondering, because as I read this over, I realize I haven’t mentioned the entire point of the story which is why Heesham took a long feel of my breasts today, or rather, being that he is my Hair Dresser and not a Client, why I allowed it. Had I mentioned this first it would have brought me easily on a slippery downslide as to why I mentioned Electra. Obviously, it has been a confusing day.
Week.
Day.
Day and Week.


Today first and then I’ll go back and if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to tie it all together and hopefully, when all is said and done, you can answer my final question at the end.
Sigh.
Breathe.


It all begins with the plague of my hair.
I have hair that is the antithesis of the Pantene commercials—although, because of the genius of my Hair Dressers, you would never suspect such a Horror thrived on my head.
But it’s true and I confess it openly. I have limp, do-nothing, not-good-for the-shape-of-my-face hair.
So then it really begins with an uncooperative face.
I have a very unsymmetrical face.
Combined with unflattering hair.
Which depending on how you look at it, (both literally and figuratively) can be ugly or beautiful.
But never ‘pretty’. Never cute.
And at worst: ‘Attractive.’
Ugh!
I hate that word. So f*cking beige!
This would not be such a tragedy if I were I Girl in ‘Real Life’ but being a Girl that makes her Livelihood partially by ‘Visual Statement’, well, it’s a definite obstacle.
That being the case, here’s the thing:
I get my hair blown out everyday of my life since 1996.


Everyday.


In 1996, I became Bi-Coastal working my Business in both NYC and LA.
In NYC, I was still a protegee of Ellen.
The Internet had not yet bloomed so at this time, Independent Ladies were still with Agencies.
That’s when I met Heesham and Hoosham.
Very handsome Lebanese brothers who opened a tiny walk-in Salon on the Upper West Side.
Their mother lives in Lebanon, still wears complete coverage including headpiece and veil—only eyes exposed and had given birth to eleven children. Ten of which are still alive.


At that time, my hair was shorter, cut in layers and needed a talented hand to whip it into an attractive du.
And talented, they were.
Heesham, a chronic hypochondriac and severely jealous of his younger brother, was my first, and Loyalist that I am, I stuck with him for years.
Also, because I came in everyday, they gave me the great rate of $20 a blow job.


NO.
(For my hair! Dirty minds!)


And the price has remained the same twelve years later.


At one point, Heesham went home to Lebanon for over a month, to pick a wife (as is their custom) and I was passed on to his younger brother Hoosham.


Hoosham was charming, easy-to-laugh, exuberant, and a consummate professional.
We saw one another every morning.
So much so that, if I hadn’t been in touch with my parents for a week or so, they would call the Hair Salon to see if I was still alive.
So much so that I wrote the Hair Salon number on the bland of any application that required: ‘in case of an emergency’.
That’s how much I was there.


Heesham returned a month or so later to New York with a stoic, non-English speaking wife twelve years younger than he, on his arm and in his life.
And I was caught in a dilemma. Who should do my hair?


Hair-Stylists, (as most women might concur) are very sensitive about this issue.
Either way, it was Heesham that was the major owner so even if Hoosham did my hair, Heesham would get a cut.
I stuck with Hoosham.


Heesham, however, taking this personally, decided never to speak to me again.


(Now I understand a little clearer why what happens, happens in the Middle East. There is no middle ground. Truly. Every day I would come into the Salon and even though I had been a friend and a customer for years, Hesham wouldn’t say ‘hello’, wouldn’t take my phone calls, wouldn’t look at me.)


Choosing not to leave the Salon, I continued on with Hoosham, doing my best not to let Heesham affect my emotions or my desperate hair needs.


Eventually, Hoosham and I became friends outside the Salon.
Ten years my junior and, devoutly religious (eventually he would need to marry a woman from his country and of his faith) it never occurred to me that there would be any romantic interests.
With this as a basis for our ‘friendship’, he and I explored the obscure All-Arab areas of New York and New Jersey.


After work, in his SUV, we drove over the Bridges and through the Tunnels to these hidden Restaurants and Bars.


He taught me bits and pieces of Arabic.
He made Arabic CD’s for me.
He taught me how to burn and smoke an ‘Argee-lee’ (a Hooka pipe).
He drove me to Arab groceries and stores.
He showed me the different foods and how to buy them.
He taught me what ‘good Tabooli’ really tasted like.
He instructed me on the difference between ‘Argee-lee’ tobaccos.
He schooled me in Arabic Dance.
As you probably know by now, anything that I don’t know or understand, enthralls me.
I was in Heaven.
When I was with him, I was no longer in America. I was in an exotic land, too dangerous to go to in ‘real life’ but hidden just in my backyard.
I loved not comprehending a literal word but understanding everything.
I adored getting up to dance in a seductive way that seemed to threaten all the staunchly Arabic men at the places we attended.
I knew I was safe because I was with Hoosham.


And then, I began to fall in love with him.
I tried not to.
I tried not to because he was now my friend for several years.
I tried not to because of his Religion and his obvious Destiny.
I tried not to because of our age difference.
And most importantly, I tried not to because he was the most important person in my livelihood—he was my blessed hairdresser, and if anything went awry—woe to my business and me.


On a particularly drunken, Hedonistic, dancing, feasting, Bacchanalian evening, he drove me home and it happened.
We made love and slept together.
It was nice. Quick. But had we more experience together, I could imagine it would get progressively better as our bodies and our energies seemed to match.


We fell asleep around two. (A.M.)
I set the alarm for 8. (A.M.)
He had to go up the street and open the Salon by 9 and had his first customer (Me) at 9:30.
I had to get up to shower and get to the Hair Salon for my 9:30 appointment.
It was sort of bizarre really.


He leaves. I shower.


On my way to the Salon, I pick him up (as a sweet joke) a Traveler’s-size toothbrush and toothpaste, stashing it discreetly in a Tiffany’s bag.
(That was the only difference between that day and all the others that came before. The toothbrush and the toothpaste.)
From my perspective.
It would soon become obvious, not in his.


The next day is a Saturday.
A Client calls and makes an unexpected appointment.
I call the Salon to for a blow-dry.
Hoosham is booked all day but offers that I can see Shanz (an Indian gal working there on the weekends.)
Having no choice (in my mind), I take the appointment.


9:14 (A.M.) my house phone rings. It’s Hoosham.
Now, after having been intimate with him, I’m tingling upon hearing his voice through the receiver—he’s never called me at home before.
But the voice is angry. The voice is hitting my ear in a tone I’ve never heard from him before.


"Are you mad at me? What’s wrong?"

I’m almost laughing. I can’t believe he’s upset. I can’t fathom what I’ve done to cause him to be out-of-sorts.


But he is.
Oh god, is he ever.


After many minutes of trying to assess what the issue is, he finally concludes without making it clear by saying,
"I don’t want you as my Client anymore. I don’t want you to come into the Salon anymore."


I’m shaking. I’m in tears. My voice is rattling.
"Why? Hoosham. What have I done? What happened? Just tell me. Whatever it was, I know—I absolutely know I didn’t mean it. I love you. You are my friend. I can’t imagine my life without you. I can’t imagine my life without seeing you every morning. What is it?"


"You betrayed me."

Shocked Silence.

Finally:
"I did? How? What did I do? What did I say? What happened?"

"You went to Shanz."


Silence.


He told me to.
He was booked all day.
I had to work.
I needed my hair done.
I needed my hair done or my face would have just run rampant.
So rampant I might have lost a Client.


"Hoosham." I am weeping. "Hoosham. Please don’t throw us away. I have been coming to you and Heesham for ten years. Even if you looked at it from just a strictly professional point of view, why throw me away?"


No Reply.
Breathing from both sides of the phone.


"Hoosham. Don’t discard our friendship. I’m begging you. I love you as you. I love you as my friend. You are the best Hair Stylist I have ever had. I only went to Shanz because you said you were booked and you-"


"You are not welcome."
Click.


To this day, Hoosham, who has now left the Salon and owns a Gas Station in Nashville has never forgiven me or spoken to me again.


Middle Eastern mentality is very tough.
Boy oh Boy.
Although I have never been there,
I’ve been there.


A week later, on a Monday, when I know Hoosham has his day off, I call the Salon and bravely speak, for the first time in years, to the disgruntled Heesham pleading with him to take me back.


Perhaps to spite his brother, whom he has always felt his veiled Mother favored, he agrees.


From that day ‘til now, Heesham is now the Maestro of my Hair.


Whew.
Long way to go to bring this up to today.


Heesham’s young bride blossomed into a devoted, loving, friendly Mother-of-his-only-child.
She is lovely, sweet, and smart and now speaks fairly good recognizable English.
Who says these arranged marriages can’t work?
Are they any better than Love dissolving into disappointment?
They choose. They commit. And eventually, they fall in love.
There is no disgruntlement as there were few expectations to begin with.
However.
However.
A dog is a dog. And a man is a man.
And Heesham is one or the other or both.
I think of him as the Artist of my unruly Hair.
And necessary to my Financial Security.


I am sitting in the chair today.
He has just finished ‘blowing me’.
His hand falls to my shoulders and begin rubbing.
Rubbing so firm yet focused that my eyes close as I let my body relax into the feeling.


No one massages me.
Rather, very few people massage me.


"Let me" he whispers a few minute later.


"Hmm?" My eyes are still shut.


"Let me. You know I want to. You know I need to. Don’t make me beg."


"Hmmm?" I open my eyes finding his gaze in the mirror in front of us.


"Perseph—I’ll pay you. What you want. I’ll pay you what you want."


I feel his hands on my back, my shoulders, delicious, soothing, relaxing, but can’t answer.


"I will pay you. What is it? 300? I’ll pay you."


I giggle coyly. Don’t want him to get mad at me again and forbid me from his Hair Services but—
"Heesham! C’mon. Stop now."


"Why? Why? You don’t want me to be happy?"
He takes a hair-cutting cloak, whisks it around covering the front of me, snapping it behind my neck.


"Heesham. What are you doing?"


"Just a little. Please. Pleeeeesssse. Just let me touch them a little. Just for a minute."


I toss him a ‘naughty boy’ look.


"Why not? Why not? How long have we known each other? You can’t do that for me?"
Taking a product off his nearby stand, he drips it on his hands, then rubs his palms together finally placing both hands back on my shoulders.


"No."


"Please?"


His fingers push into my tense muscles coaxing the stress away.


I am torn.
Across from us are the other Hair Dresser and his client watching us in the opposite mirror.
"There are people in here." I whisper.


"They can’t see." He whispers back into my ear, his hand leaving my back shoulder moving forward in circular motions to my pectoral muscles.


I know where he’s going.
He’s going down.
Down beneath the cloak that hides his hands.
Into my bra cup.
Finding my breasts.
Nagging my nipples.
I keep my eyes closed, my mouth shut, my breathing even.
I pretend, to all outer appearances that he’s still only massaging my shoulder blades.
But he is not.
And my nipples are happy, reacting, shooting messages down south to where the wetness begins.


"Stop." I smile. I giggle. I am coy. "No more."
I re-tuck my boobies back into their hiding place away from his fingers.


"Just a little more. No nipples. I promise. No nipples."


"No!"


"Just a little. Please? C’mon."


"Oh you are so bad. You are a very bad boy."

"C’mon. Since the baby my wife and me don’t have sex anymore."


"No! No more. That’s enough."


He relents.


I get up 'making light'. Laughing. Paying him for my ‘blowjob’.


From across the mirror on the other side of the room, I pick up on the whispered conversation between that Hair Dresser and his client, catching her phrase:
"…you guys…like a Bordello in here…"
My face is hot red.


Why did he do that?
Why did he need to do that?
Why did he feel he could do that?
With me.


I squash the round earpieces of my iPod headphones into my ears and head into the street.
It’s set on ‘Shuffle’.
Of course, what comes on?
"Layla" (Eric Clapton) and I remember from when I was young and the song first came out and my name was still Lane-a and men fell on their knees and sang to me from the lyrics,
"Lane-a, you got me on my knees Lane-a! I’m begging darlin’ Please! Lane-a."
And then I think of Electra.


Electra.
My new wonderful soul-mate sister girlfriend.
Electra is the only woman I’ve ever met in my life—Escorts and Civilians included—that just naturally exudes a vibe that pulsates SEX.


And I wonder if we’re friends partially because we recognize that aura around each other and therefore feel comfortable speaking and being together?


Or, I wonder, do others see me the same as I see her? Because if they do, I can understand how men could feel ‘the gate is open to come in and plow the fields’.


Or is it possible, that I have been doing what I’ve been doing for soooooo long, that I have a strange hologram on my forehead that reads: "Escort"


Finally, I toss the question around my brain of,
Why did I let him?


Ah, but that one is easy and can be answered with a question:


What, after all, is a Girl without her Hair Dresser?
















1 Comments:

At 5:44 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

As far a blogs go, THAT is nothing short of genius.
B

 

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