It began innocently enough, a call to room service, “Hi...er-r-r aloha...we’d like to have a club sandwich with fries, a tuna on rye...um-m-m honey...”

“Yeah?”

“Do we want the steamed mini-dumplings?”  

Oh god, yes...the ever-elusive manapua mini-dumpling was a part of the package. “YES!”

“...okay, sorry, and we’ll have the mini-dumplings, and how about the cookie plate....okay, mahalo.”

We’d been drinking downstairs in the bar, and I was attempting to sober up some...though I am not exactly sure why, except I seem to have been slurring.   The manta rays began their graceful dance under the searingly bright spotlights placed on the point to attract them into view.  I guess they needed to justify the name of the outdoor dining room, “Manta”.   Tonight a few souls had ventured out into the water with them, while a few more perched precariously on the black, lava rocks, cameras at the ready.  I wondered why I had been unable to capture photos of them, other than the dark grainy shadow which miraculously appeared as a green blob when I tried manipulating the darkened frames.  Oh well, they obviously knew more about photography than I do, or had some kind of fancy camera, unlike my most basic of digital.  Still, it was somewhat sober thinking now.

Knock. Knock.  Room service.  That was fast.  I leave the warmth of the night breeze and open the door.  “Aloha”.

“Could you put it outside on the balcony?”  I said to the woman who appeared to be around my age.  Her name tag read, “Cynthia”.  I was kind of hoping for something more exotic, but just like the lovely hula dancer who came over to talk to us a few nights ago, she may look exotic, but close up she had freckles and her name was Summer.  Not exactly sweet Leilani, but hey, what if the child needs to get work on the mainland some day, you really need a name that “fits in”.  I know when it came time to name my son I chose Michael, but at least gave him a Hawaiian middle name, Kelé...which is the name of the King of the Menehunes (kind of like Hawaiian leprochans).  Translated it is not exotic either, Jerry.  

Cynthia meanwhile was setting the table with flowers and a candle.  I stepped out on the balcony and she turned to me and said, “I like your hair.”  Well that did it...I was fully in hair mode then.  “Thanks.”

“Everyone else has streaks, those little bits of blonde woven in, but yours is different, I really like it.”

“Look through some magazines and take a picture of one like it to your hairdresser.”  

“My daughter-in-law is my hairdresser.”

“Oh, I went to beauty school in Hawaii...Hollywood Beauty School.”  I said.

“Me too!  Near Ala Moana yeah?”   By then my husband has pulled his electric cart outside and his mouth is agape, listening to us talk stories.  “You are kaimaina no?”

“Exactly, Kailua High on Oahu.  What year did you go to beauty school?” 

Cynthia eyeballs me and I knew exactly what she was thinking...’if I tell her she will know how old I am’. Finally she says, “Nineteen-sixty-five.”

I squeal, “Nineteen-sixty-six for me!”  I heard her audible sigh of relief.  Then she flashed a big old smile.

We both look over at my husband who is laughing, and Cynthia pats the back of her hair and says to him, “Look how nice we both keep our hair yeah?”  I grin, knowing he has been subjected to my hair obsession for about thirty years now.

“Yes, you both do really well.”  He grabs a french fry and scarfs it down.

“I know how I like my hair...” she continues on with me, “...so I know how to fix it just right.”

“Oh I know, I finally found a great hairdresser, but it took years.”  We appraise each other’s hairdo with approving nods.   "Too bad about Farrah huh?" 

"Ohhhh, da poor woman, such nice hair too.  Michael Jackson, not so much."

I nod.  His hair was all over the map, I suppose like he was.  "May they rest in peace...aloha."

Cynthia nods and finishes up emptying out the cart and tells us to give her a call when we are done an she’ll come pick up the dishes for us.  My husband signs the check for her and she’s gone.

As soon as I hear the door closed we both bust up...”That was amazing.”  He says.  “Can’t you hear her when she gets back to the room service area with her friends...you won’t believe who is in room 618...”  

“Honey...” I interrupt, “...how much tip did you give her?”

“Enough that you won’t be embarrassed...$30.”  He’s right as far as the check goes...but I still have the proof of my Farrah hair.