(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.
08 December 2005
I must admit
I have no patience for decorating Christmas trees. Left to my own devices, I would likely string some colored lights inside and out, and then leave them up all year.
Don't get me wrong: I'm quite fond of all my Star Trek ornaments and even a slew of others that don't blink or have Spock wishing me happy holidays. It's the mom-induced precision that wears on me. Mirrored ornaments go inside by the trunk, large ornaments on the bottom, with progressively smaller ones up to the top. Gaps are not allowed even on the side facing the wall. Icicles, if we're using those tremendously irritating shiny metallic strips, must be separated out to 2 or 3 strips max per twig: no clumps allowed.
I am a perfectionist in many things, but this has never been one of them. The tree always looks great, and I appreciate that, but I have to psych myself up to stand around hanging things. Even as a kid, I wasn't that into it. By the time my brother and I were teenagers, we had ornament quotas or hanging times to fulfill. Now I impose them on myself to be polite.
Don't get me wrong: I'm quite fond of all my Star Trek ornaments and even a slew of others that don't blink or have Spock wishing me happy holidays. It's the mom-induced precision that wears on me. Mirrored ornaments go inside by the trunk, large ornaments on the bottom, with progressively smaller ones up to the top. Gaps are not allowed even on the side facing the wall. Icicles, if we're using those tremendously irritating shiny metallic strips, must be separated out to 2 or 3 strips max per twig: no clumps allowed.
I am a perfectionist in many things, but this has never been one of them. The tree always looks great, and I appreciate that, but I have to psych myself up to stand around hanging things. Even as a kid, I wasn't that into it. By the time my brother and I were teenagers, we had ornament quotas or hanging times to fulfill. Now I impose them on myself to be polite.
06 December 2005
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...
Last Part
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...
05 December 2005
Beauty Parlor Nostalgia (part 1)
In every person's life there comes that dreaded moment when he or she must find a new hair dresser. A few months ago, I finally disposed of my status quo bob exchanging it for a shorter short cut. For the first time in my life, I went to one of those haircut joints boasting ten dollar cuts without appointments.
I had felt guilty abandoning Miriam. I'd followed her across town when she started work at a new salon, but truthfully, I'd only done so because the new salon was closer to where I'd recently moved. In that nearby beauty parlor, Miriam had her own room with a counter that lifted to reveal a sink and a panel of different colored locks for women choosing hair color. Something about the room just felt wrong.
All the beauty parlors my mom had ever taken me to had had an open room full of hair dressers gossiping and chatting as they worked. That environment made me feel less silent as I listened to their ongoing gripes, vacations, and wedding plans. Even Supercuts retained some of that social atmosphere. Maybe I just didn't like Miriam with her sycophantic interest in my filmmaking, or maybe she just didn't give a great cut and I was worried about giving her more responsibility than a trim.
Whenever I'm stressed out about my hair, I reminisce about Judy. Judy was the best hairdresser I've ever had. When I stuttered uncertain "uhs" and "ums" at her in response to how I wanted my hair cut, she'd simply say, "Ah, I'm just going to do what I want to do." And she would. And somehow it'd be exactly what I had imagined. She had a knack for that. She was one of those rare hairdressers that really understood how to adjust a haircut to make it look good on a particular individual.
I went to Judy throughout high school and later I waited until I was home on breaks from Vassar to see her. She would admonish me for not using conditioner, and then she'd move on to the latest gossip, repairing what damage she could. Unlike my dentist, Judy never made me feel obliged to promise I would take better care of my hair. Her only goal was to make her customers look as good as possible when they left the shop. She sent me back to the world believing that I could make my hair look as good as she did if I wanted to.
Her genuine exuberance made her only failing more bearable. I don't think I can remember a time that she wasn't running late when I arrived. Once she gobbled down a few cookies while I sat in the chair since she hadn't had time for lunch. I told her to take her time figuring a starving hair dresser was not what my hair needed. My patience eventually paid off. When I decided last minute to go to the prom, she squeezed me into her schedule to style my hair. She made me look great, and I've always appreciated that.
Sometime during my undergraduate years she decided to become an accountant. Though I was devastated, I could only wish her the best of luck. She assured me that if I ever needed a hair stylist for a movie, she'd be happy to do it. For whatever reason, the offer didn't bother me the way it had when it had come from Miriam.
So off I went to Supercuts, carefully folded page torn from Great Hairstyles For Women firmly in hand. For all their boasting of no appointments, I still had to wait 40 minutes. To pass the time, I ignored everyone around me focusing my concentration on the price listing against the opposite wall. How much for women's hair, men's hair, long hair, children's hair, perms, hair coloring, a wash and cut, styling, etc. I'd never seen the business of haircutting so itemized until I moved to Tallahassee.
In the heat of northern Florida's swampland, I enjoyed my clipped locks. Even the humidity was made more bearable by the fact that it enhanced my curls. Every four weeks I dutifully made my pilgrimage to the Walmart shopping complex to get my hair supertrimmed.
At the end of August, I got my hair trimmed shorter than usual in preparation for my cross country move. Two months later, I considered getting my first haircut in Los Angeles. Unbearably shaggy, there was not much I could do but bite the bullet and try somewhere...
Next Part
I had felt guilty abandoning Miriam. I'd followed her across town when she started work at a new salon, but truthfully, I'd only done so because the new salon was closer to where I'd recently moved. In that nearby beauty parlor, Miriam had her own room with a counter that lifted to reveal a sink and a panel of different colored locks for women choosing hair color. Something about the room just felt wrong.
All the beauty parlors my mom had ever taken me to had had an open room full of hair dressers gossiping and chatting as they worked. That environment made me feel less silent as I listened to their ongoing gripes, vacations, and wedding plans. Even Supercuts retained some of that social atmosphere. Maybe I just didn't like Miriam with her sycophantic interest in my filmmaking, or maybe she just didn't give a great cut and I was worried about giving her more responsibility than a trim.
Whenever I'm stressed out about my hair, I reminisce about Judy. Judy was the best hairdresser I've ever had. When I stuttered uncertain "uhs" and "ums" at her in response to how I wanted my hair cut, she'd simply say, "Ah, I'm just going to do what I want to do." And she would. And somehow it'd be exactly what I had imagined. She had a knack for that. She was one of those rare hairdressers that really understood how to adjust a haircut to make it look good on a particular individual.
I went to Judy throughout high school and later I waited until I was home on breaks from Vassar to see her. She would admonish me for not using conditioner, and then she'd move on to the latest gossip, repairing what damage she could. Unlike my dentist, Judy never made me feel obliged to promise I would take better care of my hair. Her only goal was to make her customers look as good as possible when they left the shop. She sent me back to the world believing that I could make my hair look as good as she did if I wanted to.
Her genuine exuberance made her only failing more bearable. I don't think I can remember a time that she wasn't running late when I arrived. Once she gobbled down a few cookies while I sat in the chair since she hadn't had time for lunch. I told her to take her time figuring a starving hair dresser was not what my hair needed. My patience eventually paid off. When I decided last minute to go to the prom, she squeezed me into her schedule to style my hair. She made me look great, and I've always appreciated that.
Sometime during my undergraduate years she decided to become an accountant. Though I was devastated, I could only wish her the best of luck. She assured me that if I ever needed a hair stylist for a movie, she'd be happy to do it. For whatever reason, the offer didn't bother me the way it had when it had come from Miriam.
So off I went to Supercuts, carefully folded page torn from Great Hairstyles For Women firmly in hand. For all their boasting of no appointments, I still had to wait 40 minutes. To pass the time, I ignored everyone around me focusing my concentration on the price listing against the opposite wall. How much for women's hair, men's hair, long hair, children's hair, perms, hair coloring, a wash and cut, styling, etc. I'd never seen the business of haircutting so itemized until I moved to Tallahassee.
In the heat of northern Florida's swampland, I enjoyed my clipped locks. Even the humidity was made more bearable by the fact that it enhanced my curls. Every four weeks I dutifully made my pilgrimage to the Walmart shopping complex to get my hair supertrimmed.
At the end of August, I got my hair trimmed shorter than usual in preparation for my cross country move. Two months later, I considered getting my first haircut in Los Angeles. Unbearably shaggy, there was not much I could do but bite the bullet and try somewhere...
03 December 2005
Sitting on my desk for months
A card, on it a doctor pulls a rabbit out of his patient's knee. "Are you sure you want to fix your trick knee? This is pretty cool."
Inside:You're not getting older-
you're getting more interesting
to the medical profession.
Inside:
you're getting more interesting
to the medical profession.
02 December 2005
01 December 2005
This is a job for energy-conserving Claire!
I noticed a light on downstairs last night and went down to turn it off, but it was just a new blazing nightlight, the brightest nightlight ever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)