Perms and Plaid

They were everywhere. If it wasn’t a perm, it was hair damaged by bleaching to blonde. Either way, most of the women at the country music cover band show had brittle hair. And if it wasn’t long hair, Karen-haircuts were insanely popular as well. I don’t know how or why I suddenly became a token hair stylist, but there I was. The white-headed women were swooning to the crooning of the singer. No one with scrunchies or hair otherwise tied up on the dance floor.

These observations are not meant to be stereotypical judgments at all. I was the designated driver that night, so I had time to kill simply observing the space around me. This was not a country bar; the band that night happened to be playing modern country hits. I am not a country music aficionado at all; the only country I heard growing up was listening to a couple records my mom had: Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings. I grew up in New York. I think that’s why you don’t hear many country singers with a New York accent.

Denim. Everyone had denim jeans. There was also a coterie of denim blouses and jackets. I capitulated with jean shorts (jorts?). On many of these pieces of blue material were embroidered patches or decorations of stars, books, or hats. Rhinestones were bedazzled everywhere. One woman had on a pair of wedding boots completely covered in shiny rhinestones. Giant hoop earrings, sparkly watch bands, bandanas as neckwear. And of course, there were cowboy hats and boots aplenty. Baseball caps, however, seemed to be more popular. I never understood the need for these things inside a dark bar environment. Those hats were made to keep the sun out of your eyes, right? Or are they hiding un-manly bald spots?

And so I remembered that country is not just about the music. Oh, no. It’s much more a lifestyle than that. For example, frou-frou drinks with umbrellas weren’t being ordered. It was bourbon or beer. Buckets of beer, mostly long-neck Budweisers. The taps were flowing, and the smell of beer breath was everywhere. Somehow the lyrics in the songs were coming true: bourbon, beer, pick-up trucks, cowboy hats, stars and bars, slapping your grandma, saving horses, being lonely, thinking of you. The only thing missing were the dogs under the porch steps.

The five-piece band had a huge following in this area. Wherever they played, their groupies were there, cheering them on, wearing their merch – conveniently sold at a table over there in the corner. It’s good for marketing. So was mentioning to ‘like’ them on “Facebook, TikTok, Twitter, Snapchat, Insta-gram, and Linked-in” several times throughout the four hours they were on stage. I get it; they need to advertise. A sign or two in the background or on the doors with a QR code for information would be less intrusive.

I can fully understand why they had so many groupies, most of them female. The lead singer had a muscular body that jumped and gyrated all over that stage, and he’d point out at people throughout the crowd while singing to include them all. The dance floor was mostly women, dancing with their drinks and slopping wetness all over the floor. Facing the stage, they bounced and danced, two-stepping sideways to the music, belting out the chorus to their favorite songs.

Yes, they were having fun. I’m not faulting anyone for that. I did notice, however, a lot of people started drinking two hours before the show, and they were feeling really good when the band started playing. We had gotten there early as well to snag bar stools because this would be a standing-room-only event by the time the band started playing. And I protected my seat fiercely.

I must give off a certain aura that says, “Sure, you need to cross this queue? Cross in front of me. You need to order a beer? Wedge yourself right next to me.” I just happen not to like being touched by strangers. I had to move over from my barstool and stood in front of my husband so that this random couple wouldn’t be in my face, but I kept my hand on my stool. That was not up for grabs. If you saw my hand, it was gripping the seat, veins in my arm on edge, claws in the faux leather. At one point, the woman set her purse down on the seat, ostensibly to get her credit card. My head swiveled toward her like a possessed doll and all I could think was, “You try to take my seat, and I will cut you. I will take you down.” At one point I whispered to my husband, “This guy’s butt is on my knee.” I tried to become two-dimensional to avoid physical contact. Eventually my stare must have made her uncomfortable, and they traipsed over to the other side of the room.

Watching the crowd, I saw many couples together, with the men protectively hovering over their drunk girlfriend/wives with enhanced boobs or butts (yes, the difference is noticeable). I also noticed that country-loving men tend to be insanely taller than normal, and the women shorter. Together it was like a bar graph of disparate quantities. Most of the dance floor ladies didn’t have tables or any “home base,” so they danced with their purses. These were heavy duty, solid-state purses with sharp corners. I know this because many women dancing freely hit me in the leg several times. These were not the boho bags found at indie concerts. These were no-nonsense handbags that doubled as carry-ons. All I had was my phone and license in my pocket. With the woman constituting 98% of the dance floor at any given time, that’s a lot of purses.

By this time, I couldn’t see the band because the space in front of the band was jam packed. I mentally added the number of people in the room that night, and I’m sure it was beyond fire-code regulations. Women had a drink in each hand, chugging away; their partners had seemingly never-empty beer glasses in their hands. I gotta give a shout-out to the service staff. They were working their tail feathers off getting drinks and food to the tables, walking like Egyptians through the throngs of devotees. Behind the bar they were practically running back and forth to get patrons’ orders in a timely matter. Tip your servers – they deserve it.

At one point, I noticed a woman had brought her son or grandson of 12 or 13. It’s a bar. There was no one at the doors checking IDs, but you don’t bring a kid to a bar with people drinking. Get a babysitter or sit outside. A few women were scantily clad, tiny tank tops and a plaid shirt wrapped around their waists making them look like Catholic school girls. After short breaks, a few barflies came back to the bar reeking in a cloud of weed like Pig-pen from the Peanuts comics. Weed may be medicinal, but bringing a youngin’ into this atmosphere is never OK.

I suppose if I were drinking, too, I may have had more fun. However, teetotaling allowed me to analyze a multitude of minutiae. One song had women dancing as if they were riding little ponies. Another song talked about a date night at Applebee’s and the Oreo dessert. The song implied it was the country version of “fancy,” but I happen to like Applebee’s and that Oreo dessert. My husband knew most of the lyrics to the songs; the whole night I recognized a total of maybe six songs, the familiar ones you hear at most weddings.

After the second band break, most of the white-hairs were gone, leaving a little more breathing room for me and my agoraphobic disposition. There was room on the dance floor, the service staff seemed to come down from the adrenaline rush earlier in the night, and energy level had significantly dissipated. Cue the line dancers. Since there was more room, a group of three young women line danced hard to some songs. Hard like trying-to-make-the-cheerleading-squad hard. My husband seemed impressed by the third song they were dancing to, but I had to point out they were one-trick ponies, repeating the steps from the Foot-loose movie dance sequence over and over. While they were dancing, the other people trying to dance had no choice but to watch them – the attention they were getting was a little out of place. Do a simple line dance that everyone can learn or stop the organized choreography.

The night wore down, and people began to leave the place, leaving tips in the giant bucket lit with Christmas lights. I was obsessively haunted by a few prejudices floating around in my pea brain, like whom did these people vote for? Did they have obscenity-laced flags or bumper stickers on their cars? These intrusive thoughts had no business being in my skull; it was just a band with a bunch of people drinking and dancing, things I typically enjoy as well. I should remember that there was the common ground, everybody at the bar getting tipsy and having a good time.