Blood on the Tracks

Beth Oldfield

Word Count 1728

The hairdresser’s chair spins effortlessly as I take a seat and hang my purse on the armrest. Along the seams, the leather is starting to split, showing its age. An old-fashioned hood hair dryer stands idle in the corner. I put my cell phone down on the shelf among the brushes, combs, and scissors. I’m the only one in Stella’s Salon today, and she has just discovered that we have a connection.

“Ohhh, Nellie was your aunt? She used to cut hair out of her home, right? She was the one who sat on a chair, on the train tracks!”

Stella seems a bit too pleased to have found someone related to my aunt. I knew she had committed suicide forty years earlier, but the detail about the chair is a new one for me. I cover my mouth and pretend to cough so I can hide my reaction.

Maybe it’s just a rumor. Small towns are known for gossip that strays far from the truth. Nevertheless, my mind strays to the details– she carried a chair that many blocks? Was it a heavy mahogany dining room chair or a cheap kitchen chair? I wonder if the train tracks were protected by a fence in 1975 like they are now. Was it the chair that her husband sat on every night or her own? Each would carry its own message.

Stella tugs at the knots in the back of my head as she prepares to style my hair for the first time.

“ My family doesn’t like to talk about it,” I said.

“Living near the tracks,” she assured me, “I have heard of many sad endings.”

Stella attends my dance class at the local senior’s center, where I work as a fitness trainer. I’ve come to support her beauty salon, but now I’m even more uncomfortable than when I first sat down. Sitting in the chair of a new hairdresser is already nerve-racking. It takes courage to put your “look” into the hands of someone you don’t know. When I decide to cut my hair, everything must be right in my world. This is not the time or place to be thinking about Nellie’s final moments. I wish I could run away.

Stella continued. “I’ve been cutting hair in this same spot for forty years, and people still talk about her and how she was the nicest hairdresser!”

“Well, we don’t always know what people are going through,” I replied.

“That’s so true, Beth. Just the other day, I was saying that we should tell you what an excellent job you are doing leading us through the new dances.”

I’m a bit embarrassed because I wasn’t fishing for compliments though my therapist says I need to accept them when they come my way. You never know if people are just blowing smoke up your ass. Some students will tell you that your class was great and then never return, which leaves you questioning yourself. Wasn’t I good enough? Maybe I need those new Lululemon pants?

Stella tells me to look down so she can cut the hair at the neckline more precisely. It’s amazing how ladies of a certain age stop caring what the back of their head looks like. You wouldn’t believe how many women I see at the gym, who arrive with pillowhead. This is a sure sign that they are starting to slip, or perhaps they live alone and have no one to tell them what is happening on the back of their head. Worse, still, are the ladies whose bathing suits are completely sheer in the rear end from lots of use during aquafit class. They strut around the poolside of our facility with no idea they are giving everyone a show…or maybe they know and don’t care. Either way, I’m terrified of looking like this, so I regularly check that my birthday suit is not showing through the swimwear, and I sleep on a silk pillow which apparently reduces bedhead. I happily lower my head to help Stella cut an even line.

I see that my training shoes are worn out. Last week, I had to hold back the tears when the shrink insulted them. She was trying to make the point that what other people think about you, says more about them than it does about you.

“You see Beth, how would you feel if I told you that I don’t like your shoes?”

I tried to hide my shock, but I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. The shrink had no idea that it had taken me an hour to choose my clothes that day. The little black dress that I picked hid the features of my body that I like the least, but when it comes to footwear, I have no choice but to go with comfort over style. Twenty years of teaching fitness has left my dancing feet arthritic and sore.

After the footwear comment, Maria, my therapist, could see that she had touched a sore spot. “Telling you that I don’t like your shoes, doesn’t mean I don’t like you. The comment is about my preferences. It says nothing about you.”

I hear what she is saying, but I find myself looking down at her shoes, planning some sort of insult. That’s the way I was raised. My mother was tough and if anyone insulted her, or any member of her family, she was ready to always fight back. Trying to be like her has only gotten me into trouble over the years because when I’m too emotional, I say all the wrong things.

Sitting with the shrink over the last few weeks has helped me to sort out my thoughts, and the day that she insulted my shoes, I had a breakthrough.

Ahhhh, I get it now! I need to stop taking things so personally.

Now Stella has all my hair pulled on the top of my head. I watch as she cuts the ponytail off willy-nilly. I’ve never seen my regular hairdresser do this. I start to question her credentials in my mind—I’ve made a big mistake. I’m going to look terrible. People will stop attending my classes. I will lose my job and end up on the street.

I take a deep breath. My therapist says I need to commit to not hurting myself in any way, which includes my thoughts. I made this commitment during our third session. She has taught me to recognize negative thinking and switch it off by focusing on the facts.

It’s just a haircut. I’ll be fine. If I don’t like it, I can fix it. Trust in yourself and your ability to manage situations.

In a weird way, I feel better knowing that Nellie carried a chair to her date with the train that morning. She had a plan. Left to my own imagination, I have always pictured a woman throwing herself in front of the train in an act of desperation that might have been prevented had someone known the depths of her despair. I have secretly blamed her husband for not recognizing that she needed help.

Maybe Nellie didn’t have anyone to talk to about her feelings. Maybe Nellie was burdened by the local gossip laid upon her shoulders by her patrons as she cut and trimmed away their troubles. Maybe she never revealed how sad she was feeling.

“Enough about me,” I change the subject. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. I’m trying to stay positive. My husband is extremely sick, so I’m the breadwinner now. I’m not sure what I’ll do if he dies. I’m working as much as I can to keep things afloat.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” I tell her. “I’m here for you.”

We never really know where we stand or how we measure up until we sit and really listen to one another.

Beth is a fitness professional and emerging creative non-fiction writer who uses her passion for music, movement, and the written word to inspire others into action. She has published three self-help books, the most recent in 2021, You Are the Spark – Motivational Essays to Support Your Fitness Journey. Beth lives in the country near Rigaud, Quebec in Canada.