Woody Allen – Sage Telling Your Story

“Greens” is the color of my green bucks. Last Friday in a fit of self indulgence I took some eight and a half of them and went to the movies.

Alright, I got around that subject matter and now with your indulgence, you get to try to survive some more of the results of my attempting to keep up with the rest of you, my storytellers. Not hardly literature, just the incidental “off the wall” stuff I usually come to this séance with.

I bet you’ve guessed already—a movie review instead of my favorite recipe for Caesar salad.

First, I will certainly understand should you wish to close your ears and eyes while I get on with this little essay. It won’t take long and not likely to enlighten you, unless you’re a Woody Allen movie freak. Yes, the local Esquire movie palace (somewhat diminished) is showing his latest effort CAFÉ SOCIETY. If you have followed Allen’s cinema career you might recognize his timeless and sometimes tired themes—but soldier on and you will discover a new and magic story-line with each of his many films.

Of course, he has continued to mine the nostalgia store with Café’s pre-WWII setting. Most of you are too young to relate to this time and will see this aspect as quaint and maybe “Was it really like that then?” Well, yes, only Hollywood always goes them one better. You know, bigger than life.

That said about the book drop, Allen has written a charmingly witty story that will catch your imagination and keep you waiting for the next curveball which he so adept at throwing or tossing in this case.

The ethnicity of the players, the reality of human nature and how it molds each of us in so many different ways is well portrayed. The voice-over, if not read by the author-director himself, could easily pass for him, as well as the actor who plays the lead. A 20-something mensch from New York turned loose in 1939 Hollywood.

Enough already! If you want some escape that isn’t mind-numbing violence or sci-fi, take the afternoon off for some off-the-wall Woody Allen time.

About the Author

The famous
essayist Nora Ephron once wrote a piece in which she denounced her neck. She
said simply that she did not like her neck. It was scrawny and too long and had
to be hidden with scarves and turtleneck sweaters. That’s how I feel about
hair. I don’t like my hair and I never have. It’s fine, soft, and thin and
getting thinner. It never was a color I liked—and gray did not improve over the
former brown. It never grew out into any shape or style that was appealing. It
grew long but not curly. It grew longer still but never full. It just sort of hung
there.

The standard
for beautiful hair, for me, is Danielle Grant, the woman who does the weather
on Channel 9. I watch the weather just to watch her hair. Her rich brown tresses
hang long over her shoulders in a lustrous waterfall of hair. Her hair shines
with a deep luster. I don’t care if it rains or snows or turns sunny, her hair
is a beauty to behold.

Hair has many
functions, none of them really all that important. It can be a thing of natural
beauty, a fashion statement, a political statement, a symbol and, of course, it
was even a musical. In the 1960s, we let our hair grow long and shaggy to show
our disdain for an oppressive establishment and our attachment to a new culture
of freedom that did not include barbershops. We let our “freak flag” fly, as
one song put it.

In the 1970s,
we returned to those few barbershops that survived the ‘60s, and got it cut
short—gay short—because we didn’t want to be seen as some kind of hippie longhair
redneck. Hair styles came full circle, I guess. What was once a protest of the
establishment, became the establishment. Long hair meant you were a right wing
crazy conservative. Short hair was the rebellion.

Of course, we
didn’t just go to barbershops. We went to stylists and had our hair styled. And
paid a lot more for that styling. When I was first coming out I even had my
hair permed once. I wanted curls and decided to torture my hair into curls even
if I had to wear a toxic waste dump on my head. It didn’t work. I got curls,
alright, but I looked like I had a nice dust mop on top of my head. I looked
like Woody Allen on a bad day. I realized that my hair just was not made for
fashion.

Now I just get
it mowed now and then, about once a month. It’s like the lawn. Doesn’t really
do anything or contribute anything but looks better if it’s kept under control.
The problem is that there is too much of it where I don’t need it, like ears
and nose, and not enough where I do want it. I go to the cheapest barber I know
and for $10 get whatever excess is there clipped to a reasonable shortness. I
like my hair best when I don’t have to think about it.

It would be
nice to keep up with fashion, but I’ve given up. I would love to die it blue or
purple, colors I really like in other people’s hair. But on me, it would just
look silly. Beyond the basic requirement of workable hair, I don’t have that
fashion persona to pull it off. You know how some people can walk down a street
like they’re walking across a stage. I’m just trying to get a bus home before
somebody stops and says, “God, what did you do to your hair?”

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland,
then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from
work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga,
writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Tag: Woody Allen

Greens, by Ray S

About the Author

I Hate My Hair, by Nicholas