This morning I had a haircut appointment. I pared my fingernails, covered my calloused feet in socks and walked down Elmwood, noting that it smelled of hotdogs and thinking that this wasn't a good sign. Either it was the heat and it would only get worse with the afternoon, or it was me.
Beauty salons make me distinctly uncomfortable. The people that run them are like chimney sweeps--wiry and dour, dressed in black and pushing brooms, skilled in an unfathomable art. They move like cats and talk like funeral directors and throw me into complete confusion. I stand like an ogre and fall over myself trying to apologize for my split ends, my frizzies, and my self-cuts to whatever dark sibyl that gets saddled with me. Today it was a gentle little man with a pinky ring. He was that not-quite-American type with a name that sounded like an arab nut tree. I contented myself with calling him "narwhal" and earned his general disapproval.
"What product do you use?"
Blank stare.
"What product do you buy?" (Is she deaf?)
"The cheapest one?" (Please like me!)
"What do you put in your hair?" (How many ways can I ask the same question?)
"Is shampoo a product?" (See! I'm eager to learn!)
"No."
Deflated. "Oh. Well, then 'no product' is my answer, sir."
And for some reason, I think I failed.
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