A lock on time

Who is that woman? 

Her hair, frizzy and dry, was a tri-blend of color that needed … at the very least … a bit of attention. 

She looked vaguely familiar but I avoided making eye contact. It’s a small place. It would be awkward, if not painful, to stare directly into the mirror. 

If this had been a campground, I would have been the tent pole; with a full circle of fabric cascading around my neck, covering the place I inhabit almost entirely. I held my phone between my two hands, prayer style. I could still feel its warmth even if I couldn’t read the screen. Like the fire.

It might be nice to be small under the stars. Quiet-like. 

The young woman who had welcomed me motioned to a seat and then disappeared into a back room to collect materials. The place was abuzz with activity. Soft music played while scissor blades whisked against each other. Conversation floated above us in gentle waves. 

Before long, she selected strands of my hair, parted and stretched them, then painted and folded each piece between sheets of colorful foil. Layering upward, the woman peering back at me from the mirror looked like she was wearing the roof of a pagoda as a hat.

She is quick efficient and naturally personable. She takes her work so seriously that she uses her spare time to prepare.

“Oh, I didn't have much of an interest in the Barbie movie, myself, but I knew it would be something my clients might want to talk about, so I thought it would be good to see it.”

The women in chairs all around me talked about their families. Their pets. The best things to watch on Netflix. They upsold travels and downplayed travails. Keeping the conversation steady and effortless. 

With cordiality considered there seemed to be no unsafe subjects.

It occurred to me as I sat there in my tinfoil hat, waiting for science and artistry to transform the cantankerous keratinous filaments I had too long ignored, that the so-called journey had led me here kicking and screaming. 

Far far too long, this ritual of self had felt like just another chore. And a chore that could also be fraught with personal failure under the gaze of a professional. 

And although I stopped coloring (and trimming) my own hair long ago, I have not managed to keep these tresses any better managed. Nor have I ceased worrying that the state of its split ends and tangles shouldn't be justification for semi-public shaming, But I have accepted my age and the changes it has visited upon my hair and I have committed to increasing the number of visits I make to the professionals per annum. At least two times as we go around the sun. 

“How has it taken me so long to prioritize,” I wonder each time I leave the salon and sit in my car. My hair feels lighter. Younger. Full of possibilities. And if I squint I can almost recognize the girl in my rearview mirror.