Fingeled feelings-Sting, Wim, Herbert and me

I stand on a horse farm in the Uckermark and watch Marie as she rides department. Step, trot, step, light trott, gallop. Step, trot, step, light trott, gallop. The sand dusts under the hooves. You can hear the trouble commands.

What life does with you, I think. If Marie were enthusiastic about football instead of horses, I would not be here. Johanna is at the weekly market in Templin and Flora Stromert with another girl through the horse stables. You want to catch the court cat.

Cats, horses, children. I like the weekends in the Uckermark. A few meters next to me is a woman who obviously feels the same way. With a grin she watches the world and daughter to ride. We two are the only faders.

After a while we get into conversation. It is called Henriette, her daughters Elisa and Ava. Elisa rides in the department and Ava is the girl who is hunting with a cat with flora. Henriette is telling me that she is a hair and make-up artist when Flora and Ava come to us.

“The cat is fast,” says Flora.

“Horses can sleep while standing,” says Ava.

I see up close that AVA has a beautifully ornate braided hairstyle. They are braids that nestle their heads like a poem in gentle waves. It is a real little work of art that carries it for a walk.

“Wow,” I say. “I would also like to have such a hairstyle.”

“Mom did.”

Ava and flora dash off again.

Henriette is pushing my hair. My hair is long and crunched together in the hint of a dutts on the back of the head.

“We have time,” she says. She reaches into her pocket and holds up a handful of hair ties. And she pulls a comb out of her back pocket, just like cowboys pull her revolver in Western. It points to a tree stump. “There would be a hairdressing chair there.”

Did I mean that seriously? In any case, Henriette took it seriously.

I sit on the tree stump. “You seem to love your job.”

“Definitely.” She stands behind me, loosens my hair from the would-be dutt and fan it with her fingers. We can continue to watch our daughters riding.

“Sometimes do you have a sparkling case?” I ask.

“Actually mainly. So if you add models. I make Celebrity’s chic for the flash of lightning. “

Flash of lightning. A nice word. And celebrity too. It sounds like red carpets, cheering fans and glittering crystal crown candles on exclusive receptions.

“What celebrities did you already have under your comb?”

“Stings Bart and I, we were a team. For a good four weeks. “

“Oh, a lot,” says Henriette. »Herbert Grönemeyer, Franziska Knuppe, Roger Federer, Regina Halmich, Wim Wenders and Sting, for example. I have the whole alphabet. A-, B and C-Promis. «She says that she is in use on film sets, fashion shootings, fashion Weeks and charity galas. A world unknown to me.

“Working together was one of my loved ones with a Sting. Or with his beard. “

“With his beard?” I say in astonishment.

“Yes. Stings Bart and I, we were a team. For a good four weeks. “

“What did you do? Did you smear honey around his mouth? “

Henriette laughs. “Not quite, but almost. Sting had a show in Paris. He performed several times there for a month. That was a few years ago. His beard was slightly gray at the time. Which can be very sexy, this Poivre-E-Sel-Look. But his beard had white -gray spots in the corners of the mouth. In the spotlight on the stage, it looked as if he still had toothpaste there. My job was to make the stain disappear. “

One of the horses. The department comes briefly and has to sort up.

“A beard, especially when he is briefly trimmed, grows very quickly,” says Henriette. “I had to dye once a week.”

“Bearders,” I say. “Sounds like a job that already existed in the Middle Ages.”

“That sounds so easy when I tell. But at the first appointment I sweated quite a bit. I was not sure if the whiskers accept the color I had worried. I also had worry, accidentally lip, corners of the mouth or the skin under the beard. I applied Vaseline very carefully. Everything went well. At our third meeting I not only colored his beard, but also his hair. That was in his hotel room. I applied the color in the bathroom. Then we sat on the edge of the bathtub and waited. The color had to work. Sting suddenly had a tiny guitar in his hand. And to bridge the time, gave me a small concert. Unplugged.”

With her revolver ridge, Henriette verses my hair and sorted it out using the hair tie. Then she begins with the lichen. Right in the middle when I don’t mistake. I don’t see it, I just feel it. My scalp tenses and tingles. Braids also automatically bring a facelifting with it. Madness, it suddenly turns through me: my head touching hands that have already touched Sting. I am very excited. Actually stupid. But there is the idea of ​​being associated with something larger, significant. As if Sting and I know each other privately. As if I had written on his songs and stood on stage with him.

“Is you cold?” Asks Henriette.

“Why?”

“Because you have goose bumps on your head.”

“Oh,” I say. “That …, well.”

»Was?«

I clear my throat. “It feels like you put sting’s songs into my head. ›Every Breath You Take‹. ›Englishman in New York‹. ›Message in a Bottle‹. ›Roxanne‹. ›Walking on the Moon‹. Every braid has its own song. “

The coach’s snorting and a “te-rab” of the trainer can be heard.

“Sounds stupid, I know,” I say to Henriette.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s a sloping. But somehow nice, the idea. ”She continues.

Peter Becker comes to mind. Peter Becker is a literary autograph hunter. A friend of friends with whom I talked at a party for one evening. The story he told about Hilde Domin. After a reading he went to her and asked for autographs. He had previously selected ten pictures of her on the Internet and had her printed on photo paper in the 13 x 18 format. “So nice photos,” said Hilde Domin. It signed on the white border at the bottom. “Where did you get them from?” Peter explained it to her. She asked if she could have one of the pictures. “Of course,” said Peter.

She was dead a month later. It was her last reading. “I wonder what she did with the photo,” Peter said to me at the party. “Where she put it. Whether she thought of me when she looked at it. “

I wonder if Sting sometimes thinks of the woman who colored him in Paris and just leaking my hair. In the meantime, he no longer wears a beard. All the effort would no longer be necessary.

“Done,” says Henriette and gets me back from my thoughts back to the horse farm.

She holds out her cell phone that she put on the front camera so that I can look at myself. At that moment, Johanna comes around the corner with the purchases.

“Old Swede,” she says, decreasing her sunglasses. “You look like the Scandinavian twin of Snoop Doggy Dogg. You could take autographs on the Templin marketplace. “

I look into the camera and have to grin. Well, if she thinks. The riding lesson is over. The girls on their horses look over to us and stretch their thumbs up synchronously. The trainer too. As if they had agreed.

Flash thunderstorms, I think and feel a bit like a star, even if there is no red carpet far and wide.

»Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic«, summen meine Braids.