
Disengaged. Warm spring air and sunlight on fresh cut lawns. From my seat in my English class, I looked through the window at the world outside. Thinking. We were discussing Thoreau's "Walden" and "Civil Disobedience." Leaving society and rebelling against it, I thought. That wouldn't be so hard to do. It was a different sort of heroism.
I'd been caught. The V.P. saw me and took me to his office. He sent me home to get a haircut. "Why don't you just do everybody a favor and quit school?" he said to me. I did not like that guy at all. I just looked at his own thinning hair through which his head was beginning to shine. His face was a twisted ball of rage and disgust. Why was he so angry, I wondered? What had I done to make him say such a thing to me?
All my life, I had gotten my hair cut at barber shops. I would go in and take a number and sit in a line of chairs until the next barber was ready. I liked getting one old guy who seemed to listen to me when he asked me what kind of haircut I wanted, and he made small talk that made the time go by.
But I had heard about a place that wasn't a barber shop, where the barbers were called stylists and the shop was called a salon. They were something new as far as I knew, but I decided to try it.
The salon was in a part of town I didn't go to much, but I spotted a small sign with the name on it. The entrance didn't have a barber's pole or big panel windows. It looked more like a house. I walked through a dark, wooden door into a smallish room with potted plants and mirrors and a reception desk. Two stylishly dressed men sat in chairs talking.
"What can I do for you?"
"I was kicked out of school. I have to get a haircut."
"Well, let's look at you."
I took in the room. There were tables with slick magazines and books about hairstyles. No sports magazines. No posters on the wall. Before I knew it, the man had seated me in a chair that tilted to a sink. I'd never had anyone wash my hair before. When he was finished, he massaged my neck and temples. I was a little dizzy with it all.
"I'm going to give you a razor cut," he said, and he took out a straight razor like the one a barber used to give a shave. I could feel the tug of the razor passing over my hair as the stylist began to talk to me and the other fellow watching me. As he leaned close, I got a whiff of a strong, sweetish smell. It was not after shave, I thought. He was wearing some musky, foreign smelling cologne.
I had entered another world, I kept thinking. I had no friends who did this. I wanted somebody I knew to see me. Where had all this come from? How long did it exist? I thought of all the Playboy articles I had read. When he was done, he turned me toward the mirror. I couldn't believe it. I felt like a movie star.
I had to check in at the office when I got back to school. The V.P. was to see me before I could go back to class.
"It's not short enough," he barked. "It's still touching your collar."
You could hear the hatred in his voice. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes. I clenched my fist and swallowed hard. Goddamn him! He was going to ruin this.
My eyes drifted around the room. I could see the office assistants, women in nondescript dresses, their hair pulled into buns. There was the brief sound of a typewriter. A phone rang, then the the loud, metallic bell that marked the end of the class period. I looked at the clock. It was lunch time. Doors opened. The scuffling of a thousand feet. I thought I could smell the rolls baking in the cafeteria.
remember typing pools? rows and rows of ladies at desks -- typing on typewriters?
ReplyDeleteatmospheric shit you laid down this morning C.S. --
i shall steal whatever I can for future use.
Linda Passafumi -- she was the first "stylist" that cut my hair at her parents salon. Her father was a stylist -- she was a really pretty girl who graduated high school with my older brother
but she wasn't like the college-bound type -- she smoked cigarettes and had a fast slick Italian boyfriend who drove like a painted up camaro
I do remember exactly feeling like I had entered some new world going into the salon uptown. She chewed gum and had hair with streaks of color and giant earrings. tight jeans and a tight shirt
yup.
Gosh -- what was it with hair and men and that control thing? I probably mentioned somewhere else that I remember countless dinner time discussions going rabid with my father freaking out over my brother Brian's long rockband hair.
I don't get it. There are such more important things to be concerned about..
Our Vice Principals always had military looking crew cuts.
Oh it is nice to have time to write a babble.
Happy Friday.
ok, I confess. I'm reading it while I am at work today instead of waiting until I get home. It's one of those days and I needed a respite. I could hear and smell the sounds of the salon as I read. It's amazing how first experiences stay with you. My aunt was a beautician at her home (double wide trailer, actually) so I never went to a salon until I was in high school and working so I could pay for it myself. Went to a fancy salon and a man cut my hair. I thought I had arrived. Anyway...love where you ended the story...perfecting stopping point!
ReplyDeleteI remember my first salon visit - everyone went there because of the beautiful Lebanese girl who did the cuts.
ReplyDeleteWe thought that we were so sophisticted ;-)
I wonder what the cut off age is for people whose first salon visit wasn't memorable? I wonder if there are barber shops any longer?
ReplyDeleteThere is the Barber of C'ville here in Centerville.
ReplyDeletereally.