Another airport. Another adventure.

I sat across a computer charging bar from a young man I’ll call Bob Jr. he sat in the very center of the bar, perfectly positioned with his legs spread wide, leaving no room for anyone to sit on the 5 other stools. He was hunched over, jaw set, possibly drooling, intent on some sort of game he was playing on his phone. I cheerily asked twice (or thrice) if he could possibly move over a seat so my friend and I could use the charging station too. He grunted and mumbled something like ‘I donnnnnnn know’ and stayed right where he was.  We finally contacted a crane company to relocate the gent to the next seat; a distant 24 inches to his left. It seemed fairly distressing to him but once he hunkered back down and took root he seemed totally un-phased, I commended him for his adaptability. He quickly returned to his imitation of jabba the hut. He was an impressively light traveler. Just his phone, eye glasses, T-shirt, shorts and flip flops. No watch, no jacket, no tattoos. I wondered if he actually had a boarding pass (or a date on saturday nights).

It was apparently a rough morning for many. I know the planets are a mess right now, but everywhere I looked was a hair-do gone don’t. “Houston, we’ve got flat iron marks at 3 O’clock, do you copy? Face lift gone awry at 9 O’clock, Boobies escaping from bra at 6:30. XXL man with tomato seeds on his shirt at 1:30, whoa there – betcha can’t miss that plumber’s butt at high noon.” Honestly, it looked like I might be traveling with 137 people who were blood relatives if you get my drift

(shhh, if you listen closely you can hear the banjos).

This was not just felonious, or a simple difference in tastes (you say vase, I say vahz) – in pre-boarding I fully expected the alarm to sound and uniformed Beauty Patrol to come racing out with the cuffs. But it was the crack of dawn on a Saturday and apparently the B.P. was either not present or still sleeping. For a moment I felt alone in this debacle, but luckily I had my friend there to help me make it through.

Is this a sign of a sleep deprived nation? Or too many EMF’s piercing our brains? Maybe it’s all the mercury fillings? Or could it simply be just an epidemic of poor grooming? Perhaps it’s time we bring back the once de riguer charm school.

What I saw will undoubtedly be giving me nightmares. In the old days when i was a young jet-setter we got dressed up to get on a plane. Gloves, Mary Janes, dresses with strawberry’s on them and matching purses. Can’t you see it? We were freaking ADORABLE. Inside we were little monsters of course. By the time we got off the plane one of us would have blown chunks all over the front of our strawberry adorned dress. But we would score another gold wing pin to wear like a badge of courage.
Success focused from an early age I knew that more pins meant I was closer to the goal. At three years old, T.W.A. denied me a credit card that earned miles, so I had to settle for the gold wing pins to track my milage.

Okay, back to the point, which is that we have lost our manners, our ability to interact in person and our ability to get dressed in a fashionable way. I used to think that the weekly visit to the beauty parlor to sit under those dryers that would cook my mother’s brain was nothing short of barbaric. But after this last airport experience I think that maybe we need to re-embrace that custom. We’ve come a long way baby, but if you look back, ladies were looking fine everywhere they went. They were just plain well turned out. Heck, let’s bring back the girdle too. (and space food sticks and tang – YUM)

From a professional perspective, the women in those days were walking around with works of art on their heads day in and day out. There was no such thing as wash and wear. There was effort involved, there was time logged in, there was was pride, there was a keeping up with the joneses and a healthy sense of competition. I saw none of this that early morning in the airport.
I am guessing that if those folks had appointments with Monsieur Guy-Phillip at the Harem Coiffures the day before they would have been putting a better foot forward. There might be bow ties and flouncy gingham frocks, squeaky clean faces and bosoms neatly tucked away. All of which serve to accentuate the crowning glory; the chignon, page boy flip, or Italian top.
Because when everything shakes out, doesn’t it all comes back to the follicle?

Do you have a story about doing hair or having your hair done? 
If so, i want to hear from you for my Book Project. Please leave your comment and we’ll ‘Tawk”.
Simone

Thank you kindly for telling your friends about this blog. I am excited to see so many subscribers so quickly. If you have a pal who needs a chuckle, please pass it on.

While the rest of the world peacefully sleeps I rise and shine and give god my glory glory.
It’s SATURDAY yippee. The lucky people are snuggled down after a late night of mirth and merriment, they have sleepy heads as they snooze alone or cuddle with their beloveds.

(table for one)

(Maurice and his beloved Babbette.)

A day off for most. For those of us in the beauty world Saturday is  the ‘big’ day. The red one, the deuce, the monsta.

and for some it’s a day from hell……

There’s the Friday night hang over to contend with, not to mention the sleep deprivation. It’s our Friday…… just got to make it through this one last day, these last 10 clients. I’ll make it past the finish line even if I’m crawling.

It’s the day that the entire salon runs late and it’s LOUD LOUD LOUD, Blow dryers are blowing, cell phones are ringing, the house phone Is off the hook, dogs are barking (and farting) hair spray is spraying, laughter is in the air, people are In the shampoo bowls screaming above the sound of running water in their ears, so all within ear shot hear the details of their Friday night follies, assistants are sweeping, directing traffic and running back and forth with drinks and magazines,

We start the day with a huge stack of clean towels. The robes are hung up and ready. The wine is chilled, the espresso machine fired up, the lights are on, the music is just right.

We are in the mood. the mavens at the front desk are cheery and eager to serve. They deftly juggle all the phone lines working their magic trying to assure and accommodate all the last minute changes and ‘can-you-squeeze-me-in’s?’. Our day sheets are printed, our tickets are ready. Everyone is looking their Saturday best. It’s 3 minutes to opening.

We get in a huddle, we sing kumbaya, we recap the week, plan our attack and disseminate the plays, we know where the ‘weak spots’ will be and at what time, and what their names are, we are ready. WE ARE HOT, WE ARE FIRED UP, WHO’S THE BEST?, WHO’S THE CHAMP? WHO’S YOUR DADDY?, BRING IT ON BITCHES, 24, 68, go long…….BREAK!

The doors open and off we go to do arm chair therapy and spray and pray our way through another glorious day in beauty world.

For others, it’s a heavenly lair……. The wildest day, the busiest day, tension’s are high, energy is up. Women pour in for party up-do’s and make up applications, and manicures. In the dark ages when I was first coming out as a hairdresser, they would bring their gowns and shoes to the salon so they would be red carpet ready for the evening’s soiree.

It was the day of the week the prettiest of working girls came in. This would put the male stylists in full blown swoons. My boss, el jefe, Bob absolutely LOVED Saturday’s in the Salon. He could hardly contain himself, it was the one day of the week he was at work on time. He would greet everyone of the clients personally with a hug, a smile and a kiss and we would all be off to run the beauty gauntlet. The music matched the mood, happy, energetic, soothing and sexy. Sounds of humming along could be heard intermittently and here and there a hip would shake and a toe would tap. There’s no better place than the salon on days like this.

We were in-the-know for all the underground night clubs being birthed. So there would be lots of people coming in to say hello and fraternize, all of them wanting to get the latest scoop on where to see and be seen that night. We, the stylists were in the thick of it, everyone wanted us at their club, party or dinner. We were the social butterflies. There was so much to keep up with, no time to eat or rest. Our energy was high high high, we were ON, loving up our clients and lending an ear when necessary. Every few minutes a frumpasaurus turned vixen would sashay out ready to take on the world.

Pooped though we could be on Saturday, this was what we all lived for.

(above – a desperate beauty pro will do anything to snatch a few z’s – even dress as a client.)

The end result, the smiles, the cry’s of “oh my heaven,I’m gorgeous!”, the lovely new look we co-created. We forget our hang overs, our crashing blood sugar, the full bladder, the painful feet, the tiff we had at home, the dying parent, or the bad news we received yesterday.

Being in service to another in such a basic way is often just what the doctor ordered to ‘be here now’ and to heal the heart. We spend our days standing for long hours making people smile, adding a spring to their step, listening to their deepest secrets. It’s real. It’s vulnerable, it’s a caring bond. it’s what being human is all about. It’s a holy and beautiful experience.

And when the last client has settled their bill, re-booked their appointment, dressed and left the salon. We turn off the lights, turn off the music and turn back into pumpkins and head home to rest up to do it all again next week.

Because after all, everything gets back to the follicle.
——————————-

Do you have a story about doing hair or having your hair done? 
If so, i want to hear from you for my Book Project. Please leave your comment and we’ll ‘Tawk”.

Thank you kindly for telling your friends about this blog. I am excited to see so many subscribers so quickly. If you have a pal who needs a chuckle, please pass it on. J

Beauty Olympics

It’s taken awhile but I’ve finally recovered from my first Iron Man Triathalon.

I thought I was in good shape, I thought I had trained hard. I thought I was up for the task.
I’ve had 4 massages and some physical therapy and I am still sore.
Now I know first hand what It takes to sit on the side lines and ring cow bells for hours at a time. I’ve hired a coach who suggests that I work my way up to a 3 hour session of sitting and watching T.V. twice weekly. No more re-runs of Hong Kong Phooey, I’ll need to go big with the tractor pulls.

I still don’t really know why any adult would pay good money to push their body for so many hours when they don’t actually have to. It would be like paying to go to traffic school on a sunny week end day, just for the fun of it.

I have a client I’ll call Betty. She trains all year for endurance races, she’ll huff and puff and endure long hours of pain, pushing, and bladder control. ‘Queer’ i thought, but having strong voyeuristic tendencies I felt a deep longing to attend the event and lend my ‘support’. So I called in the Posse and off we went in our cowboy hats at the crack of dawn to see what all the stink was about.

Though these competitors may have been in better shape, it seemed to me that an Iron Man triathalon wasn’t a heck of a lot different than standing behind a chair all day doing hair.

Everyone races against themselves and dresses according to peer pressure.  Swim caps replaced the perm bag,  the cycling ‘kit’ replaced BLACK, the cleat replaced the 6 inch heel and the open water swim …..

replaced the shampoo bowl, it’s pretty obvious isn’t it? that the bike replaced processing lamps and the wet suit replaces the colur apron.Do you see the connection? I’ve done hair for 14 hours at a stretch for days in a row existing only on animal crackers and a few nips of Jack Daniels. Any competitive beauty olympian worth their salt knows It’s important to limit intake because if nature calls and there is a line for the loo, the entire day’s schedule begins to back up, and that slows our time down in ‘the transition’ from loo user to beautician/magician. The clock is ticking, and every second counts. Each day we take our ready positions on the block, wait for the gun to fire and try to beat the national average for blow outs, comb-outs, perms, relaxers, trims, up-do’s, hair colour and deep conditionings.

There are so many things that can de-rail us from our goal. We may not go as fast as a cyclist, but we sure as heck dress a lot better! There was so much shiny, sparkly stretchy material I thought I would hurl.

At every turn there was more SPANDEX. Didn’t these people live through the 80’s or ever take a jazzercize class? Had they ever even opened a fashion magazine? They were breaking every fashion rule there was. We even saw one person (hard to tell if it was a man or woman because you see, many of these types of athletes have very low body fat , know what I mean?) anywho he/she rode an all pink bike and wore a little pink number to match, and I do mean little.
I guess you can look like that when you are so obviously single.

The posse and I were given thorough instructions on how and when to use the Cow Bell

.

(above you will see a member of the posse double fisting the cow bells running uphill alongside the cyclists to egg them on) with The iron men and women were crawling past us. I don’t mean to complain but they certainly weren’t very chatty. They pretty much stuck to the monosyllable. I didn’t let that get me down and every now and again rang the cow bell and yelled out random words of encouragement; “NICE GRADUATED BOB”, “A+ on the mullet, brother!”, “‘nail colour and water bottle match your shoes #1328, well done”, “thanks for bringing DEVO back into the forefront of athletic style”, “Good work #16942, you’re almost to the top of the hill where there are much more flattering outfits waiting for you, you can do it!!!!”

I grew up a liberal in California, doing T.M. and sleeping in a water bed,  but frankly, I was offended by the overt desperation I witnessed. Rather than simply dressing in haute couture and feathered hair, these athletes just blatantly wrote all their numbers right on their arms and legs in big fat black marker for anyone to see!  phone numbers, weight, age, bra-size and I.Q. Hadn’t they heard of the more discreet business card, the post it or even on-line chat rooms? Honest to Pete, some people will do anything to get a date.

I was admittedly impressed by the men and women emerging from the open water swim with goggle marks on their faces.

This could slow many a fashionista down, but these folks just confidently forged on stripping off their wetsuits and perm bags swim caps while on the run to their bikes. I did feel just a twinge of professional concern. Maybe they didn’t know about the day-into-night looks or something as simple as water proof gel and mascara. I would think that any woman would move faster knowing that the fashion police was out in force and looking for offenders.

Expect it when you least expect it, right? Talk about speed dating!

Back to the concept of the beauty Olympics. This is the sort of stuff a stylist works with every day, bad fashion, mis-matched make-up, goggle marks or hair that looks like it just came out of the river. We do our best not to trip over the cord to the flat iron. We find a way to eat a hoagie in 2 bites or less while listening to voice mail and sitting on the toilet.  We make frog fur look full and lush, we apply make up on a bride’s acne riddled face to help her skin look smooth as a baby’s bottom. We gently soothe the savage beast when the hair gets cut ‘too short’ – oopsie. We correct the colour-gone-wrong-at-home with hope and encouraging remarks. We keep our calm while life as one knows it is falling apart. We deftly apply dark hair colour while wearing chanel in winter white and don’t get a drop of it on our ensemble. We can stand for 10 hours in 6 inch heels. Let’s face it, just keeping lipstick on and hair full for that amount of time is something to brag about.

Breakfast needs to make an exit? Lost the tip of a finger in that last set of layers? A pesky 3^rd degree burn from the hot tool?  None of this will take us down. We forge on wearing band aids and mole skin and pop ibuprofen and every day at closing time we raise a glass, check the stop watch and know that once again, we beat the odds, we turned back the clock and won the race in our daily beauty olympics.

Do you have a story about doing hair or having your hair done? 
If so, i want to hear from you for my Book Project. Please leave your comment and we’ll ‘Tawk”.
Thank you kindly for telling your friends about this blog. I am excited to see so many subscribers so quickly. If you have a pal who needs a chuckle, please pass it on. Simone