The Chrysler Building.
It’s more than just one of New York City’s tallest skyscrapers. It’s also the nickname people gave to Cindy Tierney’s ridiculously big hair years ago. Cindy wasn’t born with big hair, of course; she achieved it, with a little help from the 80s.
It was the 80s that bestowed upon Cindy the greatest haircare product of her generation: mousse. By applying just a dab of mousse after her morning shower, Cindy’s baby fine hair magically develops the body of a surgically enhanced stripper faster than what it takes a sad and lonely man to pay for a lap dance. Is it any wonder then why she loves it so much? The only thing she loves more than mousse is hairspray. Not the type you spritz your hair with here and there, but the aerosol kind you circle around your head until not even a race car driver used to the demands of the Indy 500 can keep up with you. Sure aerosols are bad for the environment, but fuck the environment. There’s a woman’s beauty at stake here!
Naturally, Cindy would never dream of applying her hairspray until the very last second. There are things she has to do beforehand. First she has to dry her hair – in a bent over position, because as any hair architect will tell you – that’s the start of a solid foundation. Once dry, she must flip it back up with the precision of a gymnast, tease it, and then get out a ruler to make sure it’s the proper height. What’s that? You’ve never seen a woman measure the height of her hair before? Run away because she obviously doesn’t believe in taking proper care of herself. If she doesn’t care about herself, what makes you think she’ll give two hoots about you? Anyway, then she will run a clump of hair between her fingers and spray, spray, spray, spray, spray. Then she will run a second clump through her fingers and spray, spray, spray, spray, spray. Then she will run a third clump through her fingers and so on and so on, until there isn’t one molecule of clean air left to breathe.
That’s just her hair ritual. Her makeup ritual is just as elaborate, and very colourful. Like, did she just steal some kid’s box of crayons? colourful. Then there are her jeans – each pair victimized by a cruel acid attack. Her earrings – longer than a four-year-old’s violin recital. Last, but not least, her Peter Pan boots – cute, but totally impractical in the difficult Northern climate she calls home.
Getting ready for tonight was worth all the trouble, though. For tonight, Cindy, her gal pals, and their husbands had tickets to a Guns ‘N Roses concert. No one ever thought they’d see Axl and the gang perform together again, but if Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono were able to find a way to tolerate each other, why not Axl and Slash? Every second of the show was glorious in their minds, from the pyrotechnics to the songs. Cindy and the crowd were so busy taking a trip down memory lane, they failed to notice the young ushers laughing behind their backs.
“Someone needs to tell these old farts the 80s are over ,” one said between chuckles.
“Yeah, really,” laughed another. “And if Mr. All Business in the Front, Party in the Back over there doesn’t start laying off the brewskies, his beer belly is going to grow to the size of a beer vat.”
“Please promise me you’ll shoot me before I get that old or trapped in time,” the first one implored his fellow usher.
“Sure, although you might want arrange for a back-up because I plan on shooting myself the second our music ends up on an oldies station.”
Cindy and the others wished that the night didn’t have to end, or at the very least could have happened on a Friday instead of a Tuesday. Then they might have been able to go out for more beers afterwards. But they had work in the morning, plus it was already ten o’clock. They hadn’t stayed up that long in ages. Time to get home and go to bed.