Elvis Presley's Death - The Last Time I Styled His Hair

August 17, 8 am, 1977 - Memphis Funeral Home; I'm about to style Elvis Presley's hair for the last time. Since 1964, I've done this thousands of times: for ten movies, hundreds of concert dates, Las Vegas shows - but nothing like this...nothing.

The only sound I hear is a pounding "ba-bam, ba-bam," with the counterpoint of "click-clack, click-clack," as if someone has turned the bass up so loud that I can't hear anything but the rhythm section. The beauty of the song, the melody, the lyrics, they're nowhere to be heard. But I know where they are: they're waiting in the cold silence in the room at the end of this dark corridor, under the stark white sheet that covers the earthly remains of Elvis Presley. The sounds that echo in the long passageway are my furiously beating heart and my heavy footsteps reverberating against the stone walls as I prepare to get him ready for his final public appearance.

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I enter the grim, sterile room, the foul odor of chemicals assaulting my nostrils with their ungodly smell. All I can see is Elvis' lifeless body lying under the sheet on the autopsy table. I slowly make my way to stand at his side, my aching eyes staring into his face as I choke back a wave of chaotic emotions. I suddenly feel dazed, clutching the table to maintain my balance. The reality of his lifeless presence forces me to accept the inevitable, and yet...how is this possible, and my own heart goes on beating?

As I look at that perfect aquiline nose, those famous curled lips-the visage of an Adonis-the unnatural stillness of his face reminds me of the unthinkable: that his voice will never sing again. Now, my friend, you have passed through the gates of the immortality of the soul, whose inviolable secret only death itself possesses. No, this is not possible, this is not happening, this can't be real.

My heart is overflowing with unbearable pain but no matter what, I have to prepare Elvis' hair for his funeral. I'm struck by the intimacy of the attendant cosmeticians as they apply a pasty makeup to his hands. Suddenly he has no entourage, no management to keep strangers at bay.

I do my best to appear calm and professional, as I prepare to do the job his father asked me to do. My quiet exterior belies the confluence of emotions within. I hear my own angry voice in my head, but no sound emerges as I scream, "Damn it, Elvis! Why didn't we just stay in Hawaii? You knew exactly what you had to do: just call the Colonel and tell him to cancel the next two tours, tell him what you've decided about the future. Damn! You were so concerned about disappointing your fans. Now it's too late; they'll be disappointed forever. They'll never see you again!"

Elvis Presley's Death - The Last Time I Styled His Hair

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