Tuesday, May 07, 2002

A soap opera

"We've got a few minutes, don't we?" Jeff asks. "Pull into Schnuck's. I need to get a card."

We're on our way to have dinner at Yen Ching with my funny friend Jill, the lip-schtick lesbian, and her partner Jackie. (Yes, "Jack" and Jill. It's all very nursery rhyme campy; wisecracks about rolling down hills and breaking crowns were exhausted years ago.) Our Chinese repast is to be a belated birthday fete for Jill, 35 this year.

Executing the turn into the parking lot requires crossing two lanes of traffic at the last moment and, because this particular grocery is situated amidst no fewer than five "retirement communities", weaving through a slow crosswalk stampede of seniors. Inside, Jeff heads for a long aisle lined with racks of greeting cards.

"While you're doing that," I say, "I want to get some shampoo."

"You buy shampoo here?!" Jeff spins around and regards me dubiously.

"Yes."

"Oh, right," he says. "I forgot you work in the non-profit sector."

This I ignore and step one aisle over to confront a hundred cremes, conditioners and chemicals.

I grab a bottle of my usual and stand examining what must be three dozen different styling gels, trying to ascertain which likely comes closer to the consistency of concrete: Extra hold, extreme hold, or mega-hold? There should be some sort of chart, I think, or a relative scale like SPF numbers on tanning oils. "Gel Factor 95," it might advise, "will maintain your style in winds of up to 12 on the Beaufort scale, through having an iron anvil dropped upon your head, or a three-hour foam party."

Jeff rounds the corner and thrusts his selection into my hand. "How about this one?"

His shopping acumen never ceases to amaze me. Fewer than five minutes have passed and he's managed to find among thousands the one Shoebox birthday card that vaguely alludes to Sapphic love. "It's fine," I say.

He doesn't hear. "Johnson's Baby Shampoo?! You're buying Johnson's Baby Shampoo?"

Jeff is a shampoo snob. He orders his by mail, some sort of concoction with a name that sounds like an '80s arcade game and a list of ingredients that may or may not be Colonel Sanders' original blend of eleven secret herbs and spices. His grooming regimen seems to be balanced between blends of "organic" treatments and frightening brews that sound like SuperFund eligibility lists.

Once, when I was showering at his place after a workout, I picked up a tube of pricey skin scrub and scanned the label. From the contents, I couldn't be sure if it was a facial treatment or a flan. It sounded delicious. The rest of his collection looked like a salad bar, an assortment of vegetable extracts and fruity pomades.

"You really should use something that gives you more control over your hair," he says. "Herbal Essence, at the very least."

I point to the 1/8 inch crop on my head. "This," I say, "hardly needs control. Besides, it's just soap. It gets my hair clean. That's all I require."

"Sometimes I wonder how you survive on the circuit," Jeff says. "I really, really do." He sighs heavily. "Come on, I want to get a Twinkie to tide me over until we eat."

I follow, wondering idly if he means a snack cake or a bag boy.