I’m actually pretty annoyed with my ex-stylist for answering
the inner voice that told her she should pursue a new career as a credit card call
center customer service rep. I don’t get how informing people that their accounts
are in arrears could be fulfilling; although “arrears” is a funny word and I
can see how that could make your day. At least she can work sitting down and
her hands won’t be wet all the time.
But did she think about me!?! I have seen this woman every
four weeks for three years and she cut my hair just the way I like it! Besides
that, I thought we had a pretty good rapport going. I could count on an
enjoyable salon visit every fourth Tuesday chatting away with her about things women
of a certain age find interesting. Kids coming up in salons today just aren’t that
interested in conversing about Weight Watchers, orthopedic flip-flops and colonoscopies.
Besides, she understood
me. She knew that I’d get a slipped disk if she didn’t put up the footrest on
the shampoo sink chair before she tilted me back. Now I have to train a rookie.
The first was a vivacious young lady who asked me things like “Do you watch The Bachelorette?” She was sweet enough, but I could tell she thought I was her grandma’s age as she held my elbow to help me get out of the chair and talked loudly at me, “WE’RE GOING TO THE SINK NOW!” I brought my dog-eared photo of British actress, Judi Dench to show her: “This. I want this.” The Young Thing didn’t know who Judi Dench is but thought she could replicate the hair cut. She couldn’t. For the last four weeks I have looked like a Schnauzer that had been groomed with pinking shears.
Yesterday I gave a nice young man an opportunity to
apprentice on my hair. The kid is maybe pushing 20 and quite tall, so he had to bump the
chair up quite high in order to reach my head comfortably. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk,
ka-chunk, ka-chunk. I bounced on each ka-chunk and started to laugh.
“Ha, ha,” I chortled, “This reminds me of being a kid, I’m
up so high. Whee!” Awkward silence. After that I had nothing to lose so I
thought I’d tell him my childhood hair cut story, which goes like this:
When I was a little kid, my mother got her hair set and
permed every week by a hair dresser named Pauline to whom she’d gone for years.
The salon was downtown on the second floor of an office building and was one of
those places with hospital-green painted walls, stale-dated Look magazines and a hundred potted
plants – mostly Mother-in-Law’s Tongue. The resident barber was named Mr.
Billings. He cut my hair while mother was under the dryer. I hated him. He lifted
me and plunked me on a booster seat and snapped his scissors in the air all
around my head. Then Mr. B would cut my bangs straight across about a half inch
from my hairline. He parted my hair in the middle and gave me bunchy curls at
my ears that made me look like a miniature version of Bozo, the Clown. My mother
thought I was adorable. “Oh, you look like a little pixie!” she said. Even at
the age of 5, I can remember scowling in the mirror and thinking, “This isn’t
glamorous! I don’t want to look like a pixie! I want to be glamorous! I want
long hair!” I told Mr. Billings so. He snapped his scissors at my nose and shouted,
“Well, you can’t!” Sheesh. Talk about
your sensitive artist type!
Many haircuts later, I can still see that kid, miserable in the mirror. I keep hoping for glamorous.
My rookie stylist didn’t know who Judi Dench is either. He didn’t get the hair exactly right, but he did o.k. and I think I’ll give him a second chance next month — mostly just because he laughed politely at my story and didn’t hold my elbow when I got out of the chair.
Dame Judi Dench
.JPG)
Me with an almost Judi Dench hair cut
No comments:
Post a Comment