So Unglamorous

My hair salon is a sprawling, luxurious salon in the heart of Beverly Hills. I didn’t seek this out. This is where Richard, my hairdresser of fifteen years, happened to move about eight years ago. I do, however, enjoy the pampering and the atmosphere.

Of course, all this space and luxury come at a high price with expensive haircuts and a lot of tipping. No, I suppose you don’t have to tip the shampoo girl but come on? You know how great it feels when she takes an extra five minutes to just massage your neck muscles for you.

When I was working at Paramount Studios, I would often set up lunch appointments and drive over to get a haircut. Those were the days. I would leave my fancy car with the valet and stroll into the salon in my beautiful suit and expensive shoes. I’d go every six weeks like clockwork. It just wouldn’t do to have my hair growing out of its cut. God forbid!

Now I’m at home with the kids and can barely afford the time or the money to go there more than once every few months. I’m not so fancy now.

Richard recently began giving “recession haircuts” once every couple of months at half his normal fee. I guess I wasn’t his only client going less often. The deal is, we arrive with clean hair (no shampooing) and either blow-dry our own hair or just leave it wet after the cut. Of course I jumped on the deal and made an early afternoon appointment last Tuesday. Our babysitter (who is awesome) arrived on time but before I could make it out the door, my two-year-old’s peanut butter hands smeared my blouse. I quickly changed into a tee shirt from the top of the clean laundry stack (a short-sleeved Gap (red) tee shirt from four years ago) and headed out the door.

I was limping pretty badly after walking the three blocks to the salon from where I’d parked. I refuse to valet the dirty minivan. Besides, who can afford the eight-dollar valet fee? I limp into the salon and open my soda water for a cooling sip. Of course, it bubbles over from all the jostling and runs down the front of my shirt. Nice.

So now I’m holding the notebook I always carry in my purse “casually” up against my chest as I walk through the large, main floor to the changing rooms. I hang my old tee-shirt on the fancy hanger and notice that it actually has several small holes along the collar that I’m sure are there because the kids have a habit of pulling and biting the front of my tee shirts just for fun and/or attention. Honestly, I do recall noticing the holes before but didn’t think they were bad enough to take the shirt out of circulation. Well, they are that bad.

I go on to have a relaxing haircut, and Richard, God bless him, tells me how beautiful I am and what great hair I have. I don’t get that much lately – the kids don’t care about that stuff.

Thank goodness my tee shirt has dried by the time I’m done, but now I’m hyper-aware of the holes. I pay at the massive reception desk then make the mistake of leaving out the front door instead of the alley entrance. Now I have to walk past three blocks of upscale shops and restaurants with large, outdoor dining areas – at prime lunchtime. I’m not prepared for this. I bravely clutch my Tod’s handbag and hold out my Cartier watch like a shield as I limp past the Beverly Hills lunchtime crowds out enjoying the beautiful afternoon.

I remind myself that this is simply a tough day – a fluke. I can still be cool, I know I can.