Monday, February 13, 2006

Vague Entropy

Hair cut on Saturday at new strip mall place. Foolishly assume it will be Hair Cuttery rates. Quickly become disavowed of this notion upon sight of CRANBERRY HERB TEA decanter and smart chocolate biscuits in the waiting area.

Suck it up.

Thank God I put on make-up.

All umber Italianate décor. Stylist is named “Trixi.” Quell all smartass porn name thoughts/comments. Trixi looks like Phoebe Cates WITH a really large ass.

I fall under the sway of the new salon. Honestly, It’s like falling in love—all those tremulous, hopeful thoughts—will this be my new place? So convenient to home! So close to Trader Joe’s! Is this a find? Is it…SALON LOVE?

Trixi and I converse. It is effortless—the salon blind date voodoo pas de deux is going so well! I like her! I tell her I do! I say, “I am so glad I found you!”

And she says, “Well, you were lucky. We have a new receptionist and she doesn’t understand…[can’t hear this part, self-preservation deafness kicks in]…I don’t normally take appointments…such short notice…”


She asks what I want my hair to look like. I point to a picture of Joss Stone. Take it as a good sign she doesn't laugh.

She asks how I wear my hair and I say, “I like it tousled—scrunched, I DO NOT want it blown straight.”

She says, “I am going to blow it straight today so I can see the cut.”


Retreat into lily-livered salon spineless coma. OK. Blow it straight. WHATEVER.

She blows it straight. Another stylist comes up and stands over me, curiously inspecting my hair, they talk about me like I’m in surgery, under anesthesia.

“What color did you use?”

“Just a toner, 10 and 20 and then…”

The other stylist is so close to my head it looks like she’s going to pick lice off my scalp and eat it. Fellow mammal grooming techniques.

I look at my visage, framed by ridiculous Desperate Housewives straight ass cinnabar colored tresses. I specifically said: I DON’T WANT ANYTHING TASTEFUL! God it’s hard to get someone make you look cheap.

God it’s expensive to have someone not make you look cheap. Sticker shock reality—this place, cleverly disguised in a strip mall, is just as chere as a salon in Georgetown.

Come home. Nick takes one look at me, puts his arm up in front of his eyes, and says, “Scary!” MZA says, “Um, it looks good? Why do you always let them blow it straight?”


Nick says, “It looks like you’re trying to look younger than you are.”

O swift cruel dagger of guileless youth!

The next day, after our "nor'easter," I see my neighbor building a snowman with his progeny. He humors me with stolen across-the-fence banter and says, “The snow is really packing well.” I take the bait, foolish naïf that I am, and blubber enthusiastically, doped with the potential of neighborly bonhomie, “I didn’t think we would get so much!”

He shrugs, dismissively, and says, “We’ve gotten more than this before.”

Which, you know, causes my heart to sink. Everything’s just a little, shall we say, deflated, anticlimactic. Everyone is hurting my feelings and THEY DON'T EVEN REALIZE IT!

I need a balm for my soul in the form of cheerfully touted products. I decide that it is time for Trader Joe’s. Fresh affordable zinneas, heavily scented soap, unbleached flour, virtuous, organic, wholesomeness. Nick comes with me. Just so he can go to Starbucks for a de-caff vanilla confection.

We’ve been having the Mrs. Puff Existential Breakdown all morning. Grasping at straws of other potentialities. I even thought this morning, “Maybe California?”

I think that was because of Trader Joe's—like I was thinking that if we move to California everything will be this well-meaning, cleverly packaged friendly fare, that’s all good for you, in warm weather, and I won’t have to face all these vague disappointments.

In the feathery white bright snow.


Cynicism is another word for reality

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