A Salon Story

After postponing my visit to the hairdresser for several weeks, I finally made the trip last evening. Historically no hairdresser has understood what I want done, so of late I pick salons at random, the cheaper the better. A male with waxed arms, nail color and lipstick welcomes me.

A little dazzled by that classy touch I quickly scan the rate charts to make sure things were within my ball park. J and I wait my turn flipping through magazines trying to spot J's "most special favorite" (pink), "special favorite"(yellow) a slew of just "favorite" colors. This is usually how we spend the lobby-wait-time of our lives.

The gentleman with waxed arms is talking to a blonde who is doing almost an interpretational dance trying to explain the magic she wants him to work on her hair. He is leaning back with his arms crossed, a half smile on his face, making appropriate noises to indicate comprehension and agreement. If that is what takes to get the message across I know I will not be able to do it.

In the chair next to the blond is a guy getting a buzz. The hairdresser is petite woman lip synching and swaying to a Roberta Flack number playing the background as she snips, clips and razes. I get a sinking feeling as buzz tends dangerously close to bald. Blonde is faring quite okay but then I have no idea what her stated expectations were.

I know what will happen next and am willing to bolt out of the door. Buzz will be done sooner than Blonde and I will be on the hot seat with Roberta Flack karaoke. Almost on cue J starts to whine "Mommy my tummy hurts. I am very hungry. I want my dinner right now". I know that is a sign of absolute boredom but right now it is a means of escape for me.

I could sneak out saying the baby is hungry. Before I can act on my thoughts, Buzz is paying for his scalping and walking out. She announces my name and motions me over for my turn.

I sneak a look at Blonde, she is glowing from her soul communion with the hairdresser. J and my handbag are perched on a chair behind me. She watches me quizzically through the mirror. Karaoke is all done even before I know it. She holds up the mirror for me to admire her artwork. I commit the ultimate faux pas. I tell her to go at it again and fix the many problems I see. I even forget to smile.

She returns to my hair with gusto. Her scissors work like gardening shears through the bramble of my hair. J is looking rather concerned at this point. I assume the back view is much worse than the front. The woman is now crooning along with Flack savoring every minute of her vengeance. I look in the mirror when we get in the car and gasp in horror. J restates the obvious "Mommy, you look yucky"