The death of Elvis Presley – The last time I combed his hair

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

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

I walk into the gloomy, sterile room, the foul smell of chemicals assaulting my nostrils with their ungodly odor. All I can see is Elvis’s lifeless body under the sheet on the autopsy table. I slowly make my way to stand next to him, my aching eyes staring into his face as I fight back a wave of chaotic emotions. Suddenly I’m in a daze, clutching the table for balance. The reality of his lifeless presence forces me to accept the inevitable, and yet…how is this possible, and my own heart still beating?

As I look at that perfect aquiline nose, those famous curled lips, the face 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 cannot be real.

My heart overflows with excruciating pain, but no matter what happens, I have to prepare Elvis’s hair for his funeral. I am struck by the intimacy of the assistant beauticians as they apply pasty makeup to her 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 your father asked me to do. My calm exterior belies the confluence of inner emotions. I hear my own angry voice in my head, but no sound comes out as I yell, “Damn it, Elvis! Why don’t we stay in Hawaii? You knew exactly what you had to do: just call the Colonel and tell him to cancel the calls.” next two tours, tell him what you’ve decided about the future. Damn! You were so worried about disappointing your fans. Now it’s too late; they’ll be disappointed forever. They’ll never see you again!