Beauty Parlor Nostalgia (part 3)

(Part 1, Part 2)

A couple of months passed after my nun-shop cut; I hadn't been back, but I hadn't gotten my hair cut anywhere else either. I'd been thinking about growing it long, but it was in a middle stage where it looked really shaggy and annoyed me a great deal.

I decided to tackle the yellow pages. Beauty salons covered several pages of fine print even in the smaller community yellow pages for my part of LA. I scanned through the addresses determined to find somewhere close to home other than the nun shop.

It leapt out at me: The Best Little Hairhouse in Atwater. I laughed. With a name like that, I figured the owner would have to have a sense of humor. I knew the shop was nearby because I favored the Atwater post office: it was never as busy as the one in Los Feliz, and the staff was nicer. All that remained was the price. A quick call confirmed that it was $10-15 depending on how complex the cut was, and no appointment was necessary.

What I found when I walked up to the door was a seedy little storefront I never would've considered on sight alone, but I was determined to get my hair cut, so I entered. An ancient man named Jerome relayed my desire to get a haircut to the back of the shop.

"It'll just be a few minutes," someone called out.

I sat on an old sofa looking at the wood paneling, not some fake veneer but a red wood that was very rough with lots of holes and knots and splinters waiting to happen. Aretha's "Respect" floated down from speakers above the door. The shop had a glass front with its name and a barber pole painted on it. On the wall above the door, there was a simplistic rendition of a city skyline. Above the wood paneling, the white and perforated wall surface met a high dropped ceiling of homosote.

A short Latin woman approached speaking with a Texan or New Mexican accent, "Hi, I'm Martha."

"Hi."

Pause.

Sometimes my social skills just fail me. I knew I was supposed to respond with my name, but I just didn't.

"What's your name?" Martha asked directly.

"Claire."

"Well, Claire, have a seat. What are we going to do today?"

In my usual confounding manner, I tried to explain, "I just want a trim of about an inch with the goal of growing it all to the same length, which is to say, though I said to trim it an inch, some parts could be left longer."

Usually giving convoluted directions makes me anxious, but this time I felt hesitant because Martha was wearing her hair pulled back under a baseball cap. My mom had said more than once that hairdressers always pay as much attention to their own hair as they do to their customers since it all reflects on them.

Oh well. I just wanted a haircut. Martha asked if I'd like it washed, and I said sure thinking I'd indulge myself. What I hadn't accounted for was a temperamental water heater. Scalding hot or freezing cold, there was no warm or cool inbetween. I tried to remain calm as Martha clanked at pipes below changing the temperature. Jerome stopped by to help, but it didn't make much difference. I settled for a near freezing wash in lieu of a potential scalding. Martha apologized and delved into typical salon chatter asking me what I did for a living and if I went to school.

Not in the mood for chitchat as always, I answered briefly, "I freelance in film and graduated last year."

Towards the front of the shop, a first grade teacher who seemed to be a regular told a Clinton joke, and everybody laughed. As we headed back to one of the barber chairs, Martha asked if I wanted some water.

I said, "No, thanks."

She stepped away for a moment and came back with two small styrofoam cups filled with water. She handed me one, so I said, "Thanks," and drank some. It tasted like chlorine-treated pool water. As I pondered what chemicals I was ingesting, I noticed there were no Barbasol cylinders on the counters. Do they not sanitize their tools between customers here? I became a little more disconcerted, but that far into the process, I just wanted to get my cut. At least I could see Martha's framed California state beauty parlor certificate hanging on the wall.

Without anything else to say, Martha referred back to the first grade teacher's joke, "That was funny, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

The inevitable talk of role-models and presidents and such came up. When Jerome's grandson walked in, I was glad for the reprieve. He was in his twenties and sat in the chair beside mine.

"You better not cut my buzzcut too long. It better be 3/4 of an inch," he cautioned Jerome.

"No respect, goddammit," Martha said under her breath. I found it awkward maneuvering my cup of water to prevent hair clippings from falling into it, so I set my water down on the counter in front of me.

With the razor cut done, Jerome checked his work with a ruler.

"Is that okay?" Jerome asked his grandson.

"Good enough, I'll see ya later, pops," he replied and then walked out the back door.

My cut was finally done, so I rose to bid The Best Little Hairhouse in Atwater farewell. Martha pushed my cup towards me. "Don't cha want to finish your water?"

Though my body wanted to shout, "No!" I thanked her and walked out with the cup. Heat waves rose from the pavement, and despite knowing better, I took another swig of water and then promptly spit it out on the sidewalk. Maybe it's time to go back to the nun shop.