Bald
Years ago, I was the bonfire storyteller at an expensive luxury resort outside Tucson, Arizona. I would tell the tourists' tales of the southwest ghost towns, stagecoach bandits, wild mustangs, painted ladies, gold rushes and Native American lore. I practiced my craft two shows a week at a small stone amphitheatre with a large fire pit in the center.
The stone amphitheatre was a complete circle with five rows of stone benches and held maybe 70 people. The nights I did not perform the small stone fire pit was used by others such as the astronomer and his telescopes, or Gordon, who led the drum circle on Thursday nights.
The resort had something of New Age spiritual feel to it and some weeks were special event weeks. For instance, for one week every guest at the resort might be a CEO or doctor and the resort would host a series of seminars and events related to that week's guests.
One week, all the guests were female cancer survivors. Some were in remission and others were currently in treatment. The resort asked Gordon and I to collaborate and provide a special drumming/ storytelling night. We were hoping for a good crowd, and I had stocked a large supply of wood for the bonfire in anticipation. Gordon and I suspected we were in for a magic night as the sun began to set and people started streaming into the stone amphitheatre in a steady flow. By the time the full moon rose above the mountains the amphitheatre was overflowing with well over a hundred people swarming about.
Gordon and I performed the pieces we had rehearsed. There was a little drumming, a little storytelling, and a few pieces that combined both. Fairly early in our set list we lost control of the event.
A woman stepped forward and asked if she could teach the other woman a healing chant. While she taught the crowd the chant, Gordon drummed a steady beat. Other women took the extra drums and began to pound along. She chanted along with the audience as she circled around the fire, starting to dance.
Her perspiration glistened atop the skin of her bald scalp as she danced. Her hands writhed like snakes as her naked bare feet stomped upon the earth. Stomping, stomping, stomping she kept the rhythm of the beat, feet shuffling up the dust of the earth as she swirled around the fire — big, bald, and beautiful.
This night the stone amphitheatre seated well over a hundred woman, nothing but women. Imagine a hundred pairs of female hands clapping and drumming to keep the beat while chanting songs of healing.
One by one, other women joined the first, dancing around the fire. Some of them were bald, and some were not, but all of them were cancer survivors. Forty bald women were now dancing around the fire, perspiration glistening atop hairless scalps. They twirled and stomped while the drums beat.
Gordon and I were reduced to feeding the fire, adding fuel until the flames leapt to the heavens, sparks floating amidst the ceiling of stars. We were no longer the stars of the show, we were the keepers of the fire. We were here to witness.
Her hands writhed like snakes as she moved, swirling and stomping. She tossed her head back, wailing in orgasmic prayer.
The drums beat and beat and beat, hundreds of female hands clapping together while their voices rose in sisterly song, chanting songs of healing. Forty bald women danced, wailing like banshees, as they circled the blazing bonfire. The perspiration atop their bald heads reflected the flames and moon, corona of their skulls glowing faintly.
I have heard the power of their song, felt the earth tremble beneath the rhythmic stomping of their feet. I warn you God, and I warn you good, heal these women only if you dare.