control

I rolled my hair in curlers today. For no apparent reason. Suddenly, I just found myself robotically rolling my hair in those old-fashioned spongy rollers that my mother used on me when I was a kid. I think these were my mother’s actual rollers once, from the 60s. And here they are, on my head again. Orange and pink and enduring, I guess. I’ve always liked their gentle sponginess, their unassuming way, but I almost never use them. Are they soothing somehow; is that it? I don’t know. Really. I don’t even know why I did this. I have nowhere to go. Not until later, when we meet with our potential landlord again. So I sit here and type with a head full of curlers and I wonder why I did this. I saw myself in the mirror just now, startled a bit and laughed; I’d forgotten they were there.

Maybe it’s control, trying to control something — tame my hair — because I feel out of control right now. Here I am, trying to be a businesswoman. Playing a role, really. Out of my league in so many ways. I don’t know how to be a “hard-nosed businesswoman.” I don’t know how negotiate a business lease. But I can curl my hair. Tame it. Make it do what I want.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m not sure I like him — Thee Olde Landlord. I liked him okay before, even though he seems a bit odd to me because he almost never blinks. He just stares. He has little chocolate chip eyes and he uses them mostly to stare. They are small and dark and expressionless, really. They may be actual chocolate chips for all I know. But I’ve learned that when he does blink, it means something. Something bad, usually. Someone else may furrow a brow; he just blinks … finally: I don’t think I like what you just said. Bllliinnnk. And it’s a slow blink. It’s not automatic. It seems conscious, deliberate. Some people remind themselves to breathe during yoga, he reminds himself to blink during life.

He bows a lot too. That Buddhist bow, the wai I saw in Thailand where it didn’t bother me. But in this context, I have no idea what it is. In one instant, he will approach you, all short and pigeon-toed, press his little palms together and bow. The next instant, he will straighten up and rattle off a stream of Spanish to one of his employees. In Thailand, it’s cultural. Here, it seems like affectation. He’s basically a very short, pigeon-toed Mexican man who stares and bows, but he’s Buddhist to match the decor.

At our recent Sunday meeting, he acted like a jerk, questioning our commitment after we’d spent thousands of (borrowed) dollars already. He lectured us. Pressured us. And he hadn’t been that way before. What is his problem? I sat there and wondered. Why am I letting myself be afraid of him? I wondered that too. My mind wandered, trying to figure out the vibe, obsessed with what his problem was. I said very little, cut the meeting short, lying that I didn’t feel well. He didn’t bow goodbye. I didn’t look at his chocolate chip eyes. And out on the sidewalk, I burst into businesslike tears of frustration.

We meet with him again tonight. So I’m psyching up. Maybe that’s what the curlers are about. Trying to dress the part I have to play tonight.

Here I come, Senor Buddha.