Smiley has historically owned being an interesting human as well as knowing many others. When I saw him this last week he said, for the first time ever, "I live a multifaceted life." Sure, the context for this statement was really his way of rationalizing oversleeping and arriving 15 minutes late to open his business. Certainly forgivable, as was my tardiness, and nonetheless it's an uber true statement.
Some of his celebrity clientele have included Iceland's most famous human Bjork, the Indonesian Consulate in San Francisco's exclusive Pacific Heights, which hired him to style hair for a group of cultural dancers, and even the first sister. I digress ...
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| Smiley seen top right styling President Barack Obama's sister's hair at Blair House in preparation for the first inaugural ball in January 2009. They met through a mutual friend in Hawaii. At the time they met, Smiley was unaware of her relationship to the man who is our first person of color to become leader of the "free" world. |
Smiley mostly works out of his salon in the CD. He also cuts hair in San Francisco once a month. When I saw him on the 12th of February, he had just returned from a very adventurous "trip" in The City.
Many of Smiley's stories begin with "I know this guy (blank), he's one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen." Then comes the interest-piquing description followed by the story of what occurred. In this case I already feel like I've over shared about my long time friend and stylist. Suffice to say after Smiley indulged me in his psychedelic interlude, I was reminded of a "trip" I took back in college, June 1995. So I indulged him in the following tale ...
My pal Mark phones me up out of the blue one day, asking if I want to go see a Grateful Dead concert with he and a couple of his buddies. I had never been to a Dead show before. Had only heard legends. So I say, "sure! When is it?" Tomorrow. Of course I'm going.
I hadn't met Mark's buds Jesse and Caleb before. They were decent enough guys, funny even. The three of them picked me up in some older two-door Japanese import hatch-back thing-a-ma-giggy. Soon after I piled in the back, a thick fog filled the car. As well as, fog clung to the coast, enshrouding San Luis Obispo under a soft, fluffy gray duvet. The fog remained along the California coastal interior during the three and some odd hour drive north to Mountain View.
We arrived to Shoreline Amphitheatre sometime in the middle of a gray, overcast afternoon. A huge area of the parking lot was somewhat of a renaissance festival-looking mecca. Like this medieval village of hippies and such frolicking around, selling goods, bartering and what not.
We're sitting in the car, taking it all in. Mark pulls out four plastic ziploc baggies with equal amounts of some dry, organic matter. Each weighing about a quarter ounce. The plan was to imbibe, get tickets, enter amphitheatre, enjoy concert. The first part of the plan was flawlessly executed, sort of. The organics were dry, chewy and tasted terrible like 1,000 year old moldy dirt. So flawless is all relative, we choked down our goal of finishing the organics.
It didn't take long for the organics to kick in. Somehow, between leaving the car in the parking lot and entering the ampitheatre Mark and I took an unexpected detour. We thought the four of us were wandering through the hippie village. It was so incredibly fun and festive. Makeshift tents, people all about with kind expressions on their faces. Whiffs of marijuana smoke. Edibles with a crystal, sugary finish. Vibrant paintings and other various artisan crafts. People playing music; guitars, flutes, harps. We took it all in, the colors, flavors - the incredible magic of it all. Suddenly we realize it's just the two of us, Mark and I. Neither Jesse nor Caleb are anywhere to be seen. They're our tickets into the show and our purpose for being there.
Suddenly our mood shifts as does the crowd of people passing by us. There's neediness in the air. People are talking to us, begging, hands outstretched to us. "Miracle me!" they said. They were on the same path as us, no ticket in and looking for help.
I'm not entirely sure why, Mark had left the car wearing a very native American looking blanket. I hadn't noticed this until I followed him up to the top of this hill on the far side of the hippie village. He stood there so purposefully, spread his arms out to each side such that the blanket was near fully deployed. It was almost as if he took the majestic form of an eagle. His eyes were in full focus and all his energy was now being honed in on one task; find Jesse and Caleb.
His gaze roamed slowly and then stopped. Mark was still like a statue. Then he drew his right wing, er, arm out in front of him and pointed. "There they are." We must have been a couple football fields away from the amphitheatre at this point. Even so, I looked right where he was pointing and saw them both standing near the entrance. We looked at one another and without uttering a word between us, we high-tailed it down the hill, across the hippie village and to a ticket booth area. Sure as the day was cloudy the two of them were standing there, looking as if they also had been searching for us.
Our reunion was a happy one. They had our tickets. We didn't need to join the hippie zombies wandering about asking for a miracle.
I don't recall whether there was an opening act. If there was, we missed it. Daylight was fading. Stage lights were raising. Shoreline Amphitheatre is general "seating." It's a bowl-like stadium of rolling lawn and a big stage. The Grateful Dead was jamming away when we entered, a sea of silhouette bobbing heads stretched out before us and on either side. It was like peering through a wide angle lens that blurred colors. You could see vibrations emanating from the crowd and the musicians. It was one of the most glorious, joyful experiences I've ever had.
We moved in closer to the crowd. I nearly felt hypnotized. The only thing that occasionally snapped me out of my stupor was the four of us exchanging glances from time-to-time with shit-eating grins etched into our faces. Time either sped up or at times no longer existed.
In the middle of the show, the band abandoned the stage. What appeared to be dozens of bald, red-robed monks lined up across the stage. They began a deep, guttural chant. If I felt hypnotized before, this was one of the most divine and soothing melodies my ears had ever known. The crowd started to sporadically gasp and point up to the sky. I drew my gaze heavenward. I couldn't believe what I saw.
Directly above the center of the amphitheatre, which had been blanketed by marine layer the entire day, a small opening to the night sky pierced through the clouds. I continued looking skyward as the hole opened wider and wider. The chanting continued steady, rhythmic, ancient and mystical. This continued for an unknown period of time. When the monks' chanting ended, a circle of clear, night sky just above and within the amphitheatre perimeter sparkled with stars. In every direction outside the amphitheatre perimeter, as far as the eye could see, the sky was a smokey orange reflection of Bay Area city light on overcast skies. Perhaps this was the miracle all those dirty hippies were asking for? In my all of barely being 21 years old, all I could manage to think about what we were seeing was "holy shit!"
Back at university the following Monday, I had spoken with some classmates who had also been to the concert. They had only had a few beers. They, too, saw what we did during the monks' chanting.
Smiley seemed to really enjoy my story. It's only taken till the end of the third retrograde cycle this year for me to jot this note about it. No matter what has become of me or my body during the past couple years that has restrained my ability to live life as fully as I once did, I know I have lived and lived more wholly than most. This is not a bragging right, or maybe in some metaphysical way it is (doubt it). I just feel so incredible grateful to have had such a truly remarkable experience in my life.
Each one of my amazing life experiences is somewhere in my mind waiting for me to mine it like a diamond. Maybe that's what my dearly departed Grandma was referring to a few nights ago in my dream, about waking up with a string of diamonds. Perhaps she intended it was me who would awaken and begin wordsmithing again.
As well, I really dug the painting that hung on the wall behind his workstation. Something about it also brought me way back to that gray June day in 1995 ...
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