Back in Chicago, it was dash without an appointment into a storefront with that pair of neon purple scissors in the window, past the sweet little red and gold altar to a god fond of grapefruit, snip snip, a little Ellen on the corner TV, and then maybe a fast and brutal brow wax in a rear storeroom where the holiday decorations were stashed.
Today was different. I don't enjoy salons because I'm not in them much and I always expect the stylists to look at me and think, with grateful pleasure, "Now there's somebody I can really work on," but no, they usually seem to sense that any improvements they make will be lost within a day or two, and sigh. (I remember one manicurist in Saint Louis sort of snort-chuckling over my hands and saying, without looking up, "A real low-maintenance girl, aren't you?") And the long awkward silences. Today the stylist and I waited forever, without speaking, for my shampoo chair to recline mechanically to a full horizontal position. And I have to remember to drink the mineral water they give very fast before the combing starts, or stare longingly at it on the counter until the end. The best part was the forty-minute rosemary-scented brow wax -- each hair apparently received personal attention -- I went in steeled but it felt like a little flock of birds around my forehead, mostly fluttering, with occasional gentle pecks. I might go again before Christmas!
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