Beauty Parlor Nostalgia (part 2)

(Part 1)

I'd been eyeing Elida's Beauty Box, diagonally across the street from my apartment, for some time. It was a small shop with a simple pink awning with the store's name scrawled across it in cursive type. A large window occupied most of the front wall. It wasn't a terribly trendy looking place, but if the price was right, it would certainly be convenient.

A quick phone call revealed that I could get a haircut for ten bucks the following morning. Looking forward to my trim but also a bit nervous, I dredged out the picture I'd brought to Supercuts when I'd first switched to this cut at the beginning of the summer.

The woman in the picture still looked elegant, her short hair wisping and curling in all the right places. My hair had never really done that, but I assured myself it was only my lack of effort. I went to bed praising the moment my hair would no longer be in my eyes.

The next morning, a three minutes walk got me to Elida's right on time. I reckon I expected the interior to have that glossy beauty parlor look, so I was a bit startled when I entered. The room was narrow and rectangular and made me feel as though I'd entered a tribute to the 1950's. The wall opposite me had one long, horizontal mirror with a shelf above it containing flea market knickknacks. There were four barber's chairs bolted to the floor next to those familiar counters which flip up to reveal sinks. I started to lose my nerve.

Seated on a stool to my right was a grey-haired woman I assumed was Elida. She asked me something I didn't quite catch, so I nodded hoping that would be an appropriate response. Apparently it was since Elida said, "She'll be right with you," without further comment. I shifted my gaze to the other short wall with the hairdryers, the kind that hinge down over your head when you're getting a perm. Seated there was the only other customer, her hair all in rollers, a woman probably eighty years old. A nun. Next to her stood a brunette in her forties that I assumed was Elida's daughter. She escorted the nun to a chair to remove the curlers.

I had made an appointment at a little old ladies' hair shop. A nun's hair shop.

Not sure what to do, I sat down on the bench along the window wall and crossed my fingers. I clutched at the picture in my pocket.

"Sister, do you need me to call for someone to pick you up?" Elida asked.

The nun replied, "Yes," and fumbled through her purse producing two dimes.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Elida said as she walked toward the phone. That's when I noticed that the only phone in the joint was the pay phone bolted to the wall behind the counter with the cash register.

Dimes outstretched, the nun persisted, "If you do that for everyone you won't have any money left."

"We don't do it for everyone, Sister," Elida's daughter explained.

Apparently resigned, the nun resituated her dimes in her purse.

"Hello? I'm calling for Sister Helen. ... Sister Helen. She's down at the beauty parlor and needs a ride. ... Uh-huh ..."

Elida's daughter was nearly done removing the curlers. I began to wonder if she'd ever cut hair for someone under fifty years old.

"Who answered the phone?" Sister Helen inquired. Elida was still holding the receiver to her ear.

"I think it was Sister Theresa."

"Oh dear. Her hearing's not so good. The last time she answered when I called she wandered off to look for Sister Josephine and just left the phone off the hook."

"Maybe I should hang up and try again." Elida clicked the switch hook and produced another twenty cents. "Hello? Is Sister Josephine there? ... Oh she did? ... O.K. Thank you." Replacing the receiver she shared the news, "Sister Theresa said Sister Josephine is already on her way to pick you up."

"She should be here any minute then," the nun offered.

Now that her hair was done, Sister Helen got out of the chair and exchanged seats with me. My moment of dread had arrived: Elida's daughter asked me what I wanted done with my hair. Producing my picture, I waited hopefully. After considering it for about two seconds, she said, "So you just want a trim."

Startled by her tone, I stammered, "Yes." It was as though she had found my picture patronizing.

She looked at the picture again, then at me, and said, "You don't wear it like that, do you?" My confidence completely shot, I answered, "No." She returned the picture, and I squashed it into my pocket.

"I wonder what's taking her so long," Sister Helen commented. "When I was younger I could've walked back from here. I hope she's really on her way, and Sister Theresa understood correctly."

Where is this convent so close to my house? I wondered. I'd never seen any signs for it. As they continued to talk, it became apparent that almost all of the nuns go to Elida's to get their dos done.

A car pulled up and the nun rose.

"That's her. Thanks again."

"Thank you, Sister."

"See you next week."

As the door drifted shut behind her I silently wished that I would not be ushered into the conversation. For a few minutes the only sound was the snipping of scissors.

"Do young people lie?" Elida asked.

I froze. Being the youngest person in the room, I assumed the question was addressed to me, and I had no idea how to respond. When her daughter piped in, I exhaled in relief.

"Well if they say they don't, they're lying."

That wasn't exactly the response I'd had in mind, but the women chuckled in good humor. I smiled briefly and remained quiet.

They continued discussing other people's children whose parents were liars while I stared at their reflections averting my eyes when they looked at me. Inch long locks of my dark hair were sliding down the plastic cape to the floor. Finally, she was done. After a brief examination in the mirror I had her take another half inch off the back and called it good enough. It was a serviceable cut but not inspired like Judy's always were. I paid for the cut, and they encouraged me to return...

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