Back in the early nineties I worked as a receptionist in a beauty salon with twelve hairdressers. My job was more than just making appointments for cuts, curls, and colors. I did sales and purchases of the various beauty products sold. I collected chair rental from the beauticians every Friday. I washed and folded towels and kept the overall appearances of the salon looking as good as the women who left after an hour or so of beautification. The most important job tasked to me was pampering the women who came in once or twice a week for what was termed a standing appointment.
A standing appointment meant a woman, usually an older woman from a generation gone by, coming in for a hairdo on the same day at the same time each week. To get your hair set was a big deal to the women who came in. It was more of a social gathering than anything. Some came twice a week and those, who perhaps had a smaller budget, came in once. They would get a deep cleaning, followed by rollers tightly secured to the scalp, thirty minutes or so blasted with extreme heat, and the final step, the comb-out. The comb-out always looked incredibly painful as the beautician grabbed clumps of hair and with a comb proceeded to violently backcomb or tease it all into what can only be described as a rat’s nest. With a can of Aqua Net, the beautician would spin the ladies around in the chair and just spray for a good minute to insure the newly coifed do would not be doing anything but staying perfectly in place until they met again.
Part of the weekly experience also included someone making sure these women were comfortable during this process, which for some could be a few hours. That job fell to me. I would make sure their coffee cups were always topped off. I knew who took cream and who did not. For those who did, I knew what shade their coffee needed to be. Some ladies liked a cold Coke from the vending machine and without being asked, I had it waiting for them by their dryer with their favorite magazine. For those that were there for a duration, I would take their lunch order and walk to the small bakery two doors down and get their lunch.
The women treated me well for all of this. At Christmas I was flooded with gifts and cash. Sometimes while taking their lunch order, they told me to get something for myself. One lady brought me small tokens throughout the year to show her appreciation. To say I loved that job is an understatement.
The salon kept umbrellas up by the front door for those rainy days to help the women out to their cars so as not to deflate their coif. My job required me to be at the ready as they approached the front door. With one hand holding the door open and the other pushing the release button on the umbrella, I would escort them out to their cars.
Mrs. McCandliss was a tough old broad. She never talked with the mightier-than-thou women while sitting in the smoking section waiting for her turn in the chair. She was hard to get to know and held her secrets close, divulging only what she deemed necessary. I liked her bravado. She was, in my eyes, a bad ass. I tried to win her over and learn more about her back story but she left me with nothing but my imagination. She always wore leopard skin leggings, before leggings were even a thing. Her chicken legs connected to her robust torso which she covered with bedazzled shirts that never made any sense.
One rainy Tuesday she was preparing to leave. I took it as fate. I would escort her out to her car in the pouring rain under the protection of the umbrella. This would be my chance to make gains in our relationship. She approached the front door while lighting her cigarette. With umbrella in hand, I opened the door. She just crossed the threshold as I pushed the button releasing the large umbrella. To my dismay, Mrs. McCandliss pushed past me and proceeded to walk into the rain towards her car. Not daunted; I quickly followed.
“Mrs. McCandliss, wait. You don’t want to ruin your hair, do you?” I exclaimed jumping over puddles.
In one long drag of her cigarette, she consumed half of her smoke. She flung the other half a good five feet into the air. The sizzle of it hitting the rain-soaked pavement caused me to stop in my tracks. Her leopard skin legs kept moving and without turning back she gave me what I had been chasing for all that time, a piece of her. One of her hidden secrets.
“Honey, only two things melt in the rain, and I ain’t made of either of ‘em.”
“What’s that Mrs. McCandliss?” I was so eager.
“Sugar and shit.”
My entire body deflated. Standing in the pouring rain my brain tried to register what just transpired. I walked back into the salon soaked. The mightier-than-thou women still in the salon all laughed. They saw it coming.
“I could have told you that.” Mrs. Baxter laughed as I slumped down at my desk.
The mightier-than-thou women finished laughing and quickly reassured me it was not me but her and her mean old stubbornness. Crushed and embarrassed I continued with the rest of my day. However, the following week came and with it came Mrs. McCandliss for her standing appointment. She offered no apologies or remorse for her behavior. To her it was just another day, business as usual. When I brought her some coffee while she sat under the hood of the dryer, she looked up to me and gave the tiniest hint of a smile as she thanked me for the first time for the coffee. I took it for what it was. An old woman who, for whatever reason, held her secrets close. Perhaps she was a private person. Perhaps her life had been hard and through the course of it, it harden her too. Whatever the reason, in my mind she still had my respect; she was still a bad ass.
Chris Writes 