Estaleen
The first time fifteen-year-old Jay saw eighteen-year-old
Estaleen Renee Porter, who haunted his dreams for the
rest of his life, she was standing in the driveway outside
his grandmother’s beauty shop, flicking ashes from a Pall
Mall smoked down to a nub, into an empty bottle of Fresca.
Hey there, she said, and he said Hey just like a parrot, he
thought to himself, looking for a cracker. So, when the
door to the beauty shop swung open and his grandmother
shouted, Jaybird, you get on in here and help Nana with
Grandmaw Porter’s permanent, Jay was both relieved
and humiliated. His grandmother was the worst hair-
dresser in town since she had no training and opened
the shop because she was bored after retiring from the
phone company, and Papaw left her what she referred to
as his nest egg when he drowned in the dog’s water bowl.
How he passed out face-down in that precise spot remains
an unsolved mystery, yet it definitely wasn’t suicide so
the life insurance people had to pay up, too. But as bad as
Nana was at cutting hair, her inability to properly mix the
ingredients for dye jobs and perms had already rendered
at least a dozen customers as bald as the day they were
born. She had her regulars all the same because she was
cheaper than anybody else and a good listener. And when
her grandson stayed with her for a week or two in the
summer, he did all the mixing and she usually got much
better results. Still swooning, however, from his first
glimpse of the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen outside
a movie theater, Jay mixed a little too much of this and
not enough of that, and half of Miz Porter’s curls fell out
on the way home, the shock causing Estaleen to crash her
1955 Dodge Dart into a water hydrant, which launched
her singing career in Nashville when a record producer
in town to visit his older brother heard her melodic cries
for help as she dragged her unharmed, partially bald,
hysterical grandparent from the twisted wreckage and he
signed Estaleen Renee to her first record deal on the spot.