“I’m a very, very nice person… except when I’m crossed like she did to me.” To add emphasis, she flipped her long blonde hair back over her shoulder on one side of her face. Her hair was forward on the other side. Playwrights and movie directors probably understand the paralanguage of hair. It’s like this whole international marine signal flag thing going on. I’ve noticed other women at other times in the jazz club doing all sorts of Alpha-Delta-Bravo stuff with their hair—flipping it back, pulling it into a faux pony tail and then releasing it, pushing it, fluffing it—communicating to others, I guess. Like the doofus guys that accompany these nonverbal adept women, I don’t get it. The club filled nicely and the guitar quartet’s magical tentacles enveloped all. The group was into its version of Jerome Kern’s “All the Things You Are,” when a couple entered, looked around, and sighed a contented “we are here.” I looked at the woman, who smiled her explanation: “I just got off from work.” I enquired and she said she’s a massage therapist at a local hotel’s spa. We talked further about the challenges and the problems of arthritis that most massage therapists seem to get in their hands. Then, she revealed a disheartening stat—three out of five of her male clients ask for more than a massage. Ugh! All I could say was, “Relax… in the jazz club, everyone is safe from expectations—except, to enjoy the music.”
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