My friend Christine Jeansonne is the only potter I’ve ever known. A while ago, she made me a Ruth Bader Ginsburg mug, bright red. When I drink from it, I feel powerful and righteous, like Samson with his long hair.
It didn’t occur to me that all artists, too, feel the pandemic. You cannot escape, O mortals!
Christine has very long hair, which tabloids would call a “mane.” Naturally it grows, as all living things do, and it intercepts her easy progress from, say, home to anywhere else (when there’s anywhere else to go). To be more specific, and to name the guilty . . . car doors like to attack, clutch and eat her hair.
Sure, it’s not as big an issue as, say, Afghanistan. Most likely, she’ll never be so famous as such hair goddesses as Rapunzel, Veronica Lake or Crystal Gayle. She’ll never be so foolhardy as Samson, allowing an unlicensed hairdresser to butcher his bob.
But she is the only hair goddess I know. I hope she will be flattered when I call her Hairy Potter.
That is some mane! Like a cape that must be dealt with when sitting!