Salon Day Sunday

Sunday I went to the salon to get my hair cut. Nothing extravagant. I go to a chain salon, which you know can be problematic if you also go to one. You know what I mean. Each time is an adventure with someone new, because the last person who cut your hair doesn’t work there anymore.

About three months ago however, I met a woman who does good work with my head. Then I made the mistake of not learning her schedule. The next time she wasn’t working and I got a disaster cut, so much so that I couldn’t complete my other errands. I headed home to wash it and try to style it back into something which resembled me.

I learned my lesson. Before I went this time, I called ahead to get her schedule, which is when I learned she works on Sundays. When I got there she already had someone in the chair, so I asked to wait. I was prepared to camp out like I was waiting for Springsteen tickets.

As I was sitting there with my magazine, I watched Judy work. My eyes drifted around the room while I chatted with other ladies there. It was a quiet Sunday before most of the customers would arrive, and it was a relaxed and friendly hen party. And it struck me. I was in a room with all these women, and I was the only white girl there. One African-American ran the cash register; another was getting her hair styled by a Korean woman. And an East Indian woman spoke on the phone in a language I did not know.

I smiled and enjoyed my surroundings, because that wouldn’t happen just anywhere.

I’ve always been comfortable in the company of women of color. I remember having a job during the summer between my first and second year of college. A woman people referred to only as “T” befriended me. She had this legitimate night job with me, cleaning the public areas of a resort hotel, and she sold drugs on the side. As we worked, she’d entertain me with stories about the last time her house was shot up. Strangely, she had a crush on one of the security guards at the hotel, which for some reason didn’t seem ironic at the time. At any rate, one day he’s talking to her and I walk up. He stops talking nervously and she tells him not to worry because I’m alright. Later, when he left, I asked her what she meant and she laughed at me and said, “I meant that you don’t see color. So, you’re alright.”

What she said wasn’t entirely true. I do see color. And I recognize that there are significant differences between me and women who aren’t white. It’s just that the differences don’t bother me. I rather like them.

And I loved being in the salon that morning. All these women were cheerful and talkative. And had it been a similar group of white women, I’d be evaluating myself next to them. Who had a better body, who had a better hair cut, who was more glossed up, could I wear that top, the list goes on and on. And there’s no reason that I wouldn’t compare myself to these women as well; I just don’t. The color of their skin gives them all something I could never have. With other white women, I could have shinier hair if I used a certain product. I could have a tighter belly if I did more exercises. I could be darker if I went to a tanning bed. But I could never have what these women have. And knowing this frees me somehow to just enjoy their company. So I did.

Just before it was time for Judy to do my hair, the East Indian woman asked if I needed a shampoo and I said yes. Judy instructed her to give me a good one, because she knew me and I was a good customer. She needn’t have bothered. The woman gave me one of the most glorious shampoos. She massaged my scalp with every finger. It’s possible that while my eyes were closed, she used her toes too. When I left the chair, I was more relaxed than I had been in ages. A hair cut, blow dry, two bottles of shampoo and twenty-five dollars later, I felt like I’d been to a spa day. It’s hard to explain.

Cutting my own hair is something I’d never do unless I was trapped through a long winter in a high mountain cabin. Even then I’d probably resort to hats. So somehow it is wonderful to me that these people would spend their day taking care of me. After I left I’m sure they went on with the rest of their day as if I hadn’t been there, not knowing that they’d so refreshed me that I was grinning from ear to ear and kinder to everyone I saw the rest of the day. Sunday it hit me profoundly just how nice it was to be treated to a lovely shampoo by a sweet East Indian lady and a haircut by a cheerful Korean woman who’s facing the prospect of her only son joining the military during war times. I could hear her worry as she told me about it. But she had enough generosity left over to take special care with my hair because she attended my parish (when I can, sweetie) and liked my “awesome singing voice” during mass. She called me a blessing.

Last Sunday, her generosity blessed me right back. Thanks Judy.

--Laura