THE REAL STEEL MAGNOLIAS

 By Cyla Allison

I was at the House of Style.  The title is the most pretentious part of the establishment.  After living on Long Island, NY, the décor of this House could be kindly termed, um, minimalist, maybe.  Two chairs, three dryers and a stand up box that has Tanning written on the outside.  I'm not sure what it does and I have not ventured to look inside.  I rather visualize drying turkeys or beef jerky.

  Regardless, the cuts and highlighting I get there are every bit as adequate to my needs as the four times as expensive scenarios I used to undergo in Huntington.  I am relieved not to be blasted with the latest pop music or whatever that noise was above the clanking and chatter I endured there.  And honestly, my head looks the same to me.

  Business at the H of S is full of kindly gossip and leads to this and that piece of knowledge about the community.  I can look out the window at the Marlinton Town Park across the street through the miniature Christmas bulbs that are left up year round.  I like those bulbs, bright and cheery in July, sprinkling quiet and unobtrusive “style” without neon.  The floor in the bathroom is an absolute creative, abstract prize.  I asked where they got the covering.  “Oh, we pulled up the crabby old vinyl tile and that was the black glue underneath.  We liked it, so we just left it.”

  I was there last Wednesday. Outside across the street, the town crew was putting up Christmas decorations.  They had been out all day.  Four men, dressed in WV finery—skull caps, dirty jackets, baggy pants, runny nose.  One climbed the ladder, one held a long stick to lift wire, one handed up decorations and the other supervised. 

   Inside, the place was hopping.  Old Mrs. Jones was there, 92, being hugged by spry Mrs. Smith who was probably about 70.  Eventually, they both left.  Then I noticed Edith Sharp.  And was she sharp!  Shapely, maybe about 72, dressed like she was ready for a fashion shoot at Elle magazine.  Great looking slacks, short fitted shearling jacket, earrings, perfect make up.  She turned to us girls (women in a “house of style” are always girls) and said, “Well, I better get a whistle when I go out.” 

  The girls laughed.  “They are all so cold, their whistles won't even work let alone anything else.  You'll get a holler from Jason, though.  He is always good for a holler.

  She flipped a gorgeous long scarf worthy of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel around her long neck and swept (the only right word) out the door.

  She glided across the street as if she were an elegant star in the Manhattan theater district.  I couldn't hear, but I saw her limousine.

  The most beat up, gray, rusted, pick-up truck with “parts” printed on the front left fender.  The chauffeur leaned over and pushed open the passenger door and she climbed in like an experienced co-pilot on yet another long flight. 

  My eyes wide, I turned to the other “girls” and said, “That's her ride?”  and they laughed and laughed.