I got a haircut the other day at a real chi-chi salon that was recommended to me by a great chi- chi lady. I don’t know exactly why, but finding a place to get my hair done remains to be the bane of my existence. One of.
I had to find a new hair salon, as driving down to New Jersey (where I used to live) to see doctors, get my teeth cleaned, and cut my hair, was no longer an option.
This is the thing about a personal break up, that also involves a geographical break up. It’s not only about finding a new place to live, and moving all of your belongings, but, as in my case, there was also a professional, personal, and medical network shake-up. My beauty parlor, as my grandmothers used to call them, was the last hold out.
My new hairstylist was 35 minutes late due to the rain. Okay, lady, I thought, you best be better than good for making me sit on my ass far longer than necessary.
When she arrived, we talked about what needed to be done, (a lot) and she got down to business. The clientele in this establishment ran the gamut from fashion model to Palm Beach octogenarian. Oh, yeah, and Susan Sarandon.
I recognized her voice before I even saw her. And yes, she’s a beautiful woman. She brought her tiny dog with her, that laid on her lap while she got her hair washed. I have never understood the allure of carrying your pet around in your purse.
Moments later, she was gone. She must have been whisked away to the celebrity room. I’m guessing. I don’t know if such a room exists.
It reminded me of when I was studying at the Kabbalah Center in Los Angeles and Madonna (Esther) would attend Friday night services. She sat on the side of the stage behind a curtain. What? Kabbalah is about removing the veils (or curtains) of uncertainly and doubt and letting the light in. What the hell was Madge doing?
When my color was done, I was escorted to the person who was going to cut my hair. We chatted briefly and he got down to business.
He asked me to stand and face away from him, so he could cut the length in the back, as he was quite tall, and it was easier this way. When he was done, he asked me to turn around and face him. I’m 5’3, he was at least six feet. This meant that I was staring at his hairy chest, courtesy of his unbuttoned, button down shirt.
My eyes darted left and right. I didn’t know where to look and I felt self conscious. And then— he took a piece of hair from either side of my head in his hands and brought the pieces together in front, just below my chin, measuring the evenness.
He did this several times; each time brushing against my bosom. I wasn’t sure if it was intentional or professional, either way I didn’t say a word.
My hairdresser’s assistant walked over just in the nick of time; what else was going to brush against my bosom? She was telling the woman seated next to me that she was moving back home. I asked the assistant where home was. Yes, I was eavesdropping.
The assistant said that she was going back to Sri Lanka. “Oh,” I said, “that’s nice.” And then I remembered another one of my adorable tales.
I asked Hair Shirt if he’d like to hear my Sri Lanka story. I told him it was short. He said sure. I began to speak, and noticed that I had the ears of the woman next to me, and the assistant.
“I was on a date once with this guy and I asked him where he was from. He said, Sri Lanka, to which I replied, cool, my best friend is from India. He stared at me. I continued. “Yeah, her family’s from Madras.”
Everyone laughed at my geographically challenged remark. I brought the story to a close with a succinct,“I don’t know why he never called me again.”