Adventures on 7 Mile: Part I – Getting Ready
One might say that living dangerously comes naturally to residents of Detroit. I personally pride myself on my reckless sense of adventure harmoniously coupled with my self-proclaimed unwavering bravado. Let’s, for the moment at least, gloss over the fact that both of these traits have landed me in some rather unsavory situations, at times with rather unfortunate consequences. Instead, we will focus on my penchant for being what we will call in the right place at the right time! My glass is half-full, or half-cocked, depending on whom you ask.
I had plans to go out with a friend in the evening and needed to find a hair salon. I decided to take a drive down the street and begin my search. As I made my way along Seven Mile past all the We Accept WIC grocery stores, graffiti proclaiming “D-Funk lives on! Soldiers don’t die”, burned out and broken down ruins of homes and businesses, ministries of all varieties, pharmacies loudly advertising liquor sales, steaming manholes (steaming what, I don’t want to know), I was nearly mowed down by a lady madly steering a land yacht traveling at top speed. I dared make neither sound nor gesture as I noticed what appeared to be shrunken heads hanging from the car ceiling, all bopping up and down as she made her way down the street. Prominently displayed at the rear of the yacht was a small blue and gold crown. A Louisiana voodoo queen, perhaps, and best not trifled with up here in the frigid North where we don’t understand such subtle crafts. I found myself gritting my teeth while trying to avoid the potholes relatively equal in size to a comet crater and other unexplained holes in the road loosely covered by plywood or steel or whatever happened to be handy.
I caught a flash of glitter on my left and there it was! Just the place I’d been looking for. I deftly parallel parked in the snow, a little crooked, but hey. I dashed across the street, narrowly missing an untimely demise at the wheels of what at first sight appeared to be an airport taxi bus, only painted matte black. I can only surmise that it was some kind of funeral pick-up service – running behind the clock, if its exaggerated speed was any indication. Using my hand-dandy collapsible stick, I pole-vaulted over the snow bank and neatly landed (practice makes perfect!) at the entrance of the salon, its tantalizing name boldly emblazoned above me in glittering neon: Beauty Salon – Jazz Social Lounge. As if on command, the door slowly opened revealing a massive attendant cloaked in black garb, his face partially concealed by his hoodie, which was rakishly topped by a Fedora. As he began his greeting, I was briefly blinded by the diamonds wedged among his teeth much like the remains of a hastily eaten ham sandwich. “Everything is everything!” Was this a prompt for some secret password, I wondered? What might the proper response be? Searching through my mind’s universal translator I replied, “True dat, true dat!” and entered the salon.
Warily, I made eye contact with the next attendant, a flamboyant and gushing lad of about 45. He gently prodded me along by the arm toward the cocktail bar and it was then that the swirling jazz fully registered. At the attendant’s suggestion, I ordered a Jazz Sunshine without having a clue what that might be. I took my hot pink drink rather timidly and turned to enter the salon. It was then I realized that this salon had no mirrors! Too late now, I thought, and truth be told, I had to find out what lie in store for me. The lighting was provided by long, slender chandeliers that jiggled and shimmied and sounded like wind chimes, happily accompanying the overlying jazz. The whole salon resembled nothing so much as a nightclub, with little tables and matching barstools scattered around. Incredibly, I seemed to be their only client of the evening. “Just relax, honey, we’ll take good care of you”, announced the attendant.