Don't You Dare Sneeze

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The other day, Captain and I decided to hike up on the Blue Ridge Parkway and see if we could find any rhododendrons in bloom.  Although our trek yielded only very few of the luscious fuchsia blossoms in their native environment, it reminded me that every year in June the Rhododendron Festival takes place in a small community called Bakersville, NC, nestled at the foot of Roan Mountain, one of the higher southern peaks along the Appalachian trail right at the NC/TN border.  A natural Rhododendron garden covers the top of Roan Mountain and when in full bloom its massive shrubs drenched in vibrant color create an incredible sight, especially against the backdrop of stunning distant vistas visible for miles in all directions. 

You probably don’t know this because the topic has never come up between us, but in 1967 your Meemaw was crowned the S.C. Peach Queen.  As such, I traveled around the state and surrounding area representing the peach industry at various functions.  There was the Watermelon Festival in Pageland, SC, and the Apple Festival in Hendersonville, NC, and the Water Festival in Beaufort, SC – festivals everywhere almost every weekend during the summer and early fall. 

That year, the Rhododendron Festival invited me to come as a guest queen which meant participating in all of the weekend activities and appearing at the competition for Rhododendron queen.   I had never been to Bakersville and, quite honestly, had never seen such a small town.  (Even though it is the county seat for Mitchell County, only 456 people live in Bakersville according to the 2010 census.)  It was the proverbial one-stop-light-Norman-Rockwell sort of place that lay dormant and lazy for 51 weeks out of the year.  But, during the 52^nd, the community hosted a huge festival that attracted tourists from all around in celebration of the native flower.

The opening event was a press photo shoot at the top of the mountain in the Rhododendron Garden.  All of the guest queens and the girls competing for the title of Rhododendron queen donned their evening gowns, crowns and banners and loaded up on a borrowed school bus to ride to the garden.  Base and blush covered every face, mascara weighted all eye lashes, and hairspray lacquered all of the dos of French twists with an upsweep of curls on the top of every head. 

Meemaw was no different.  I had visited the beauty parlor in Greenville just before the trip to have my belligerent naturally curly hair tamed into the fashionable style with several large, languid curls at the crown held in place with hair pins.  I supplemented my eyelashes with fake ones glued delicately on the lids.  In a fuchsia chiffon gown with a diamond broach gathering folds into an empire waist, I boarded the school bus feeling quite confident that I would represent peaches quite well.

As we made our way up Roan Mountain from Bakersville, a fog began to roll in.  It became so thick by the time we reached the Rhododendron garden that I literally could not see anything except a few feet in front of me. The moisture in the air was so heavy and wet that it began to meticulously undo my do.  The relaxed curls on the top of my head began to coil and frizz as the hairspray melted away and the natural state of my coif assumed power.  My fake eyelashes unhinged as the glue gave way – hanging down over my eyes like two black caterpillars.  I was a mess.

Thank heaven they cancelled the photo session.  Nobody could see – for which I was very grateful.

When we returned to Bakersville, I asked the chaperone assigned to the guest queens if there might be a salon in town.  I desperately needed to have my hair redone.  She noted that everything was closed because of the festival, but she would try to get the one stylist in town to open her shop and help me out.  After a quick phone call, I had an appointment for 2:00 PM.

The owner of the salon – let’s say her name was Maude - appeared to be in her 60’s with longish, mousy gray hair styled in a clumsy pageboy.  She wore a smock over a sweater and slacks.  Bedroom shoes adorned her feet.  My instincts quivered, but what could I do?  She had interrupted her day to help me out.

“Thank you so much for coming to meet me,” I said sincerely.

“My pleasure, little lady,” Maude responded.  “Now what is it you want me to do for you?”

“Well, I’d like to have the hair go up in the back into a French twist with curls on the top.  Do you think that’s possible?”

“Of course, darlin’, no problem at all.”

“Oh, and my hair’s really curly, so you’ll need to use hairpins.”

“Got it. Let’s go over here to the sink and let me wash your hair real good first.”

For the next two hours, Maude worked on me.  She managed the French twist without much effort, but then began to take small strands of hair and tediously wind them into a tight coil which she secured with two or three hairpins.  Over and over, she repeated this process working her way from back to front.  By the time she finished, I must have had fifty such meticulous helixes on my head.

“NOW!” she announced with a flourish at the last hairpin, “That’s what I call a hairdo!  Here…..let me give you the mirror so you can see for yourself.”

“Well, Maude, you can say that again,” was all I could muster as she whirled me around in the salon chair so I could check out her handy work.

I thanked her, paid her and left the salon weighing at least ten pounds more than when I had entered due to the hairpins.  Heaven knows, if I had sneezed, I would have killed somebody due to the shrapnel that would have flown out of my hair.

According to a billboard I saw the other day, the Rhododendron Festival is coming up soon.  Bakersville is only a short drive for us.  Maybe I should go over and see if anything’s changed since 1967.  Thank heaven, my hair style has!