A visit encompassing superstitions, orchids, shampoo, Donald Trump and a houseboat.

My friend since third grade came for a visit. Things went well until we tangled over shampoo, not an inconsequential subject. She returned, against spirited advice, to Ohio's cold and snow.

We did some nice things, including see "Showboat" at the Broadway Palm, a show with wonderful songs and people to sing them. As is usually true, the other people at our table, here all the way from Montana, were delightful. We have been very fortunate that way.

We explored the plant nursery at the Edison Home, where we found some gorgeous orchids. They even impressed me, a non-horticulturist ever since I struggled to fertilize 611 avocado trees by hand, and have never stopped complaining. I'm faithful to my antipathies, which fidelity I consider important, a sign of a gentleman.

We visited friends in Venice and Pompano Beach, as I told you last week, and we stayed in high-rise buildings. I noticed in the elevators that they had no 13th floor, and I wondered how a country afraid of 13th floors could consider sending people to Mars. That seems a contradiction. You may remember how a rocket to Mars crashed because the scientists mixed metric measurements with English, with disastrous results. What if there were people aboard and they made the same mistake? Would they say "Whoops, my bad?" I suggest we stick with robots.

I wondered if Donald Trump's buildings had 13th floors. They would if he wanted them, and I know he wouldn't consult with anyone about it, either. That's one nice thing about being Donald Trump — you don't get any chitchat.

After we returned from that trip, my friend reported that she needed to wash her hair, which was getting clumpy from hairspray, and she had neglected to bring shampoo. We rummaged around and found an unlabeled bottle with some blue stuff that smelled good, but we couldn't determine if this was shampoo. I offered Johnson's Baby Shampoo and Selsun Blue, both of which she rejected. (Pretty picky for a woman out of shampoo, I thought.)

We agreed to try Dawn Dishwashing liquid, as I had a big bottle and it looked promising. She put a bunch of towels on the kitchen counter and proposed to climb up on the counter and lie on her back while dangling her head in the sink. I thought we were both too creaky for that; she had no credible argument so she stood at the sink as I poured water from a Snoopy glass and rubbed in Dawn. She complained that I wasn't doing it right, which I had heard before, so I persevered. Her hair was squeaky- clean, I proclaimed when finished.

The next day we went to Rumours, a beauty parlor-houseboat at the yacht basin, that was recommended by my daughter-in-law. There, we met Mary Frances, a cheerful lady who goes by Mary, because her elementary school only let her use one name. (I wouldn't be surprised if that school tried to convert left-handers, too.)  We told Mary about the Dawn shampoo, my friend commenting that it got her hair really clean. "I'LL BET," she commented. Beauticians meet all kinds.

The next day my friend looked like Cindy Lauper, although that phase soon passed. I didn't say anything because I doubted she would recognize the name, her idea of music being Mozart and Bach, not Motown and Bacharach.

On the day she left we struggled to get her cargo in and out of the car.  She travels with a mountain of baggage, I thought,  but has no room for shampoo.

All kinds, indeed.


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