Hair Traffic Control

by Simone on January 27, 2010

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 viagra without a prescription 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? 
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